First of all, congrats over to the team at Mint.com for going live and winning the Techcrunch40 prize. As a die hard Quicken user, I think it’s great that companies are pushing in this space. I can’t say I save money or time by using Quicken, but it lets me feel in control. (And I could always tell when I wasn’t feeling in control of my finances, because I would avoid Quicken.) I wish Mint much luck.
But I’m also left with a slightly nostalgic feeling — and even a bit of jealousy — because I tried to create a similar venture back in late 1999. I was coming off of another startup (which I got wistful for when I first heard about Entise Systems and Azul Systems), all my friends were starting web companies, and I thought that what the world needed was a web-version of Quicken. At the time, everyone I talked to thought it was a crazy idea. People wouldn’t trust some web company with access to all their accounts. I was too late and the market was going to be owned by Yodlee or MyCFO. Only obsessives used Quicken and they were already satisfied.
I built a small prototype that could import my Quicken data. And I managed to disable my Bank of America and American Express accounts a few times while building screen scrapers for them. More importantly, though, I learned a few lessons about startups (don’t try to do it as one person — you need moral support and someone to bounce ideas off of) and about myself (I’m good at technology but not at sales). And, after working on it for a few months, I realized I wasn’t actually interested in building and selling the product, only in using it. So, I closed it down and took a job at a startup some friends had founded, which then disappeared with most of the rest of Web 1.0.
I wonder if it’s still a crazy idea. I hope not. Mint, with their scraping and auto-categorization, seems to have done a nice job. I suspect I’m going to hold off on using Mint.com, because this is one kind of data I actually like to have sitting on my hard drive and not out in the cloud. At least for now.
I read today’s NY Times article on Silicon Valley millionaires who don’t feel rich with a mix of amusement and annoyance. With a few exceptions, it doesn’t feel like the Silicon Valley I know — perhaps it’s just that, when I’m in the valley, I tend to hang out with hard core engineers. I’m astounded by the folks who consented to be interviewed and gave such idiotic-sounding quotes.
There’s one thing that the article does get right, other than the high cost of living in the bay area, which is that it does feel like everyone I know who made money in Silicon Valley credits luck as the first factor in their success. I think that’s right.
But the main thing that I’ve noticed among people who are still working after having made a lot of money is that money does not seem to be the reason they’re working. First, the typical Silicon Valley engineer, regardless of where they’re from, seems to have grown up with a middle class work ethic; absent work, they don’t know what to do. Second, people who work in tech usually have a sense of progress which is very tied to technology; when engineers think about making a contribution to the world, it’s often in terms of new technology — clean energy, a new programming language, organizing the world’s information, etc. Finally, most of us do like our work, at some deep level; how many Silicon Valley engineers do you know who wouldn’t putter around with technology in their spare time?
What in this changes when someone makes money? From what I can see, very little.
And what’s the alternative? Managing one’s estate? I think most engineers don’t want to become full-time financial advisers to themselves. Philanthropy? I’ve heard a lot of admiration of Warren Buffet’s approach, keeping working and giving away money to someone who knows how to give it away well. Playing golf or flying planes? There’s some of that, but it’s hard to get a true sense of accomplishment from most hobbies. I don’t think Silicon Valley should aspire to recreate the English upper classes of the 19th century, which seems to be the vision the Times article had for the wealthy.
As an aside, I know a good number of people who’ve gotten off of the treadmill and are retired. Some are happy, some are not, mostly the same as they were before retiring.
Senator David Vitter, caught in the DC madam brouhaha, said, according to the Washington Post, “This was a very serious sin in my past for which I am, of course, completely responsible. Several years ago, I asked for and received forgiveness from God and my wife.” Now, I’m not a believer, but how does one know that one has received forgiveness from the almighty? Isn’t there a certain lack of humility in such a statement?
We celebrated our twelfth wedding anniversary last night with dinner at Ame. It was our first visit and we did it up: we shared a tasting menu, several other dishes, and a flight of wine and sake. That was right as a way to explore the restaurant, but I look forward to going back and just having the hamachi tataki and, especially, the black cod. If you’ve never had marinated black cod, it’s just a sublime dish, and this is a perfect rendition of it: soft and warm and lucious, with no one part overpowering the others. (To think that this is the same fish as the sable we got from the deli when I was growing up; also delicious, but very different.)
The dining experience is a bit of a contrast: the look is fashionable and stark, but the service was casual, friendly, well-informed, and helpful, offering tastes of this and that as we went along. I think some softer edges in the design would have fit the restaurant better. We’ve been to Terra, Ame’s older sibling, a couple of times. Ame’s food is at least as good and doesn’t require a two hour drive. I wonder if the more modern design of Ame was meant as a contrast to the rustic, homey Terra? In any case, we’re definitely going back.
We saw Children of Men tonight. It is unrelentingly bleak and one of the best movies I’ve seen in a long time. The handheld, jerky cinematography starts off distracting and then became essential to the storytelling. Terrific performances from everyone, especially Clive Owen, Julianne Moore, and Michael Caine.
(I’ve read most of P. D. James’s novels, but I hadn’t read this one; I’ve heard the movie diverged quite a bit from it. After Oryx and Crake, I wasn’t ready for another near future world without children. Now I’m probably going to give it a try, probably as an audiobook.)
What a beautiful, brutal film.
I first moved to San Francisco twenty years ago. It was a different city then, and I was a different person, but it’s been a great place to live. It’s felt like home since just after I got here.
It was my sophomore year of college and I had been told to take some time away, grow up, and figure out if I really wanted to be in school. I had never been west of the Mississippi. On April 22, 1986, I took a People Express flight from Newark to San Francisco, paying $99 on the plane. I stayed at the Embarcadero YMCA, where I paid $20 per night. The desk clerk told me I had a room on the fifth floor and asked if I minded something facing the street; I thought it was fine, not realizing until I got to the room that there was an elevated freeway about a car’s length from my window.
That, of course, encapsulates a few of the changes to San Francisco. The Embarcadero Freeway is blessedly no more, a casualty of the Loma Prieta earthquake and San Francisco doing some sensible urban planning. The YMCA hotel is now the Harbor Court, which runs $220 per night, according to Trip Advisor.
I’ve had a bunch of different lives here: single, part of a couple with Susan, and as a parent; working for CalPirg or in Silicon Valley or as a consultant; renting and as a homeowner. Every life change has made me see new parts of San Franciso. In my early time here, AIDS and homelessness drove the tone of the city, which had a “we’re in this together” feel in those days. During the boom, geeks like me were (almost) the cool kids, though I never made it to cool kid. Now, as a parent, the awful state of the public schools, the frothy housing market, and the consequent flight of the middle class leave me depressed; at the same time, the physical plant of the city is better than ever: the new De Young Museum, the ballpark (which I voted against, but now approve of), Octavia Boulevard, the Ferry Building, and the soon-to-open Third Street Muni Line are all good things.
San Francisco feels more divided to me than it has before. There used to be some cohesion to being the most liberal big city in America, but now it feels like the infighting in local politics is dominating all the big issues. It almost feels like the city, after a long time as a forward-thinking place, has just fallen off the map.
I’ve lived and traveled elsewhere since I first arrived — back to finish school, some time in the UK — but I’ve been here for a total of about fifteen years of the last twenty and expect to call it home for as long as I can see.
Appropriately for tax season, I recently finished reading David Cay Johnston’s Perfectly Legal. The book describes the current state of the U.S. tax system; the description is of a no-longer progressive, mostly flat system which systematically offers loopholes to the richest while hunting for cheaters among the poorest.
Johnston covers taxes for The New York Times. I’ve read Johnston’s articles for years and I had expected the book to have the Times’s grand, objective style. It doesn’t; it’s an angry, muckraking book about what he rightly sees as an injust transformation. The message of the book, ultimately, is that the tax code is promoting income inequality.
Johnston blames the current situation on the power of the “political donor class,” the rich few who make the bulk of political donations in this country. That’s undoubtedly true, but I think it’s only part of the story. I think that the rise of an anti-tax ideology as the key pillar of the dominant political party in this country — and the attribution of Republican success to the party’s opposition to taxes — has meant that, regardless of how it happened, taxation doesn’t need explicit opposition from the political donor class anymore.
His chapters on the lack of enforcement of the tax code among the rich and the tax-deniers were, I thought, the most interesting and informative. He also goes into great and informative detail Alternative Minimum Tax; the AMT has been discussed a lot, but Johnston makes clear how far from its original purposes it is today.
The book does has flaws. The biggest is probably that it’s very repetitive. On the other hand, for a book on taxes, it’s not in the least dry — this is a book which should make you angry.
The question, of course, is how to do anything about it. As a political donor, it makes me want to give money to candidates who’ll fix the system, even if that runs counter to a narrowly-constructed version of my self-interest. But nobody’s even running on a “collect the taxes we’re owed” or “make the tax system more progressive” ticket — as Johnston points out, people run away from those ideas today. I don’t think the American political mainstream includes the notion that taxes can be done well; ultimately, I don’t think the country can survive that for very long.
About five years ago, I bought life insurance for the first time. We’d bought our house in the previous year and our son was about to be born, so it seemed like a prudent thing to do. I shopped around and got a good deal from Western Southern Life on a five-year term policy. For the next five years, they debited $19.50 a month from my checking account and, in case I died, a significant portion of our mortgage would be paid off; I thought we were both happy with this arrangement.
For reasons not related to my satisfaction with the company, I was planning on letting the policy expire. Then, earlier this week, I got a letter from Western Southern saying “The recent change in your Pre-Authorized Check payments will become effective with the next withdrawal from (my bank account).” Hmm, what’s this about? No “Would you like to renew?” note. No “Here are some policy options for you” call. Just “We’re changing your billing.” (Admittedly, we recently moved, and perhaps some mail was lost in the forwarding process? I don’t think that’s been happening, but how do I know for sure?)
But the stupid part is how much they changed: the monthly premium went up to $244.50. (More than twelve-and-a-half times more.) When I called to not-so-politely decline this coverage, I was told that, as I hadn’t called to change my policy, they just put me on one of their “standard rate” policies.
So, this company, which I’d had a good feeling about before, just became a swamp of leaches and con-artists in my mind, luring customers in with good deals and waiting for them not to notice the increased debits. How many people fall for this trick? For how long?
Why would a company that’s trying to build long-time relationships with customers do this? Don’t they see that this gives them a sleazy, fly-by-night reputation? Don’t they see that anyone they do this to will never work with them again?
We just saw Inside Man and I’m pleased to say, it’s a great, entertaining, and exciting movie. I’m reminded how much I like Spike Lee’s movies, from the early, funny ones (She’s Gotta Have It) and the overtly political ones (Do The Right Thing or Jungle Fever) to his later, harder-to-categorize ones (Malcom X or the truly terrific Summer of Sam). I haven’t seen everything of his, and some of what I have seen hasn’t been as good as I had hoped it would be, but there’s no question that he’s both a genius and an incredible movie-maker.
Inside Man is, first and foremost, a caper movie. And like the best caper movies, it combines suspense, great tradecraft, and a stylized look. On top of that, it captures the look and feel — and attitude — of New York (and real New Yorkers) in a way that only Spike Lee movies do; this movie was not filmed in Toronto.
Just go see it.
I finally read Vannevar Bush’s essay As We May Think for the first time this week. For something written in 1945, it’s amazing; for that matter, if it had been written in 1975, it would have been just as amazing for its uncanny predictive power. He outlines something very close to the modern digital era. If you haven’t read it, you should.
Of course, it’s off on many details, comically so in some cases. His discussion of “dry photography” and the process of distributing books in microfilm form remind me of the pneumatic tubes of Brazil. With transistors still two years out, I guess “thermionic tubes” were the right technology to talk about; that they’re now used only by die-hard audiofiles might surprise him.
Where Bush falls short about technology is in not predicting the pervasiveness and connectedness that we have. Yes, scientists and researchers use modern day “Memexes,” but so do people looking for people, movies, restaurants, travel, trivia, porn, and a million other topics. The information in our memexes is distributed among a wider array of machines, all connected, giving a much larger field of information available to everyone. We also use the internet for forms of communication — blogs might have been predictable but eBay probably wasn’t — that I don’t think Bush envisioned.
Bush was better on technology than social trends. He didn’t foresee shifts in gender roles; these days, scientists type for themselves and “a whole roomful of girls armed with simple key board punches” are not transcribing the thoughts of great men. He predicted that books would be the unit of transfer, where the web “page” model is much finer grained. That almost all of us are still typing, rather than speaking for human- or machine-transcription, is an artifact of something else that I think is hard to predict: when we’ll adapt machines to our behavior and when we’ll adapt our behavior to what machines do easily.
But all that’s incidental to the astounding accomplishments of prediction in this essay. Search engines are trying to deliver on the potential of the Memex and he described information retrieval better than most people can today. The combination is digital photography and “radio” (or, as we think of it, “wireless”) is probably ahead of where he predicted and book digitization is almost there. His description of browsing and navigation make an interface of windows, scrollbars, and a pointing device (though not a “lever”) seem almost obvious.
(Props to The Atlantic for being true to the spirit of the essay by making it easily accessible.)