I've been thinking about Elon Musk again, but it’s not like it used to be. Thinking about Elon used to be fun! It meant mockery, high schadenfreude, childlike pleasure that the richest man in the world had purchased a rifle, polished it to a gleam, took aim at his foot and then pulled the trigger again, and again, and again.
But you know what I realized? I don’t want to think about Musk anymore. He just can't help himself, and he makes me sad. But not just him, because we’re right beside Musk, celebrating every tweet, getting high off his impulsivity. Why can’t we refuse him our attention? Poor Elon, poor us.
It reminds me of something that happened at an all-boys school I taught at. It was close to summer break, in late May. By then the boys and I had a simple arrangement: I would try to teach algebra while they tried not to learn it. It wasn’t always easy to hold up my end, but a deal was a deal and I was doing my best.
