Dopamine

The problem with intelligence is it hurts to think.

Moros

1 Day Later - Horm - Pub Patio

I’m having lunch with my friend Moros when three large men in suits accost us to angrily yell about the possibility of hyperinflation in the United States. I pause to assess this personally unique experience, but Moros doesn’t miss a beat - jumping up to spit his own mad economic predictions.

“Production is down and everyone’s borrowing like crazy. Hyperinflation has already started! You just can’t see it in everyday spending because people can’t go anywhere! Look at house prices - you’ll see inflation there! You fucking idiot!”

“Production is just down temporarily! It’s a pandemic, not a world war! The factories haven’t been blown up! Everybody knows this! It’s why the stock market is doing great! You fucking moron!”

“Stocks are only up because hedge funds are borrowing massive piles of money to buy them! They know it’s overvalued, they just don’t care!”

“Why would they buy stocks they think are overvalued?”

“Because, if the economy collapses, they get to keep the stock and don’t have to pay back the loans! They are betting on us being fucked!”

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you!”

They’re shouting in each other's faces, poking and shoving. Basically violating every covid protocol. I surreptitiously slip my mask over my pint. Don’t wanna catch any fourth wave.

I don’t know a lot about hyperinflation, but apparently it can never happen in the United States, or it’s already started and there’s no way to stop it. Either way, I’m not sure why we’re arguing about it.

Eventually a masked waitress tells them to drink, shut up, or fuck off. Our three assailants get a couple pitchers and grumble over to the other side of the patio.

Moros glares at them, then sits and drinks somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem. I assume they work for the opposition?” Moros is a political consultant. Another big man in a suit.

“Sometimes. It varies from moment to moment.” He sighs. “We have an annual meeting next week where we can’t talk about politics. We always lose our shit before it happens.”

That’s weird. “Why do political consultants have an annual meeting where they can’t talk politics?”

“It’s Mom’s birthday. Those are my brothers.”

“Jesus.” I swear. “Four political consultants in one family?”

“Five. Mom’s one too. That’s why we won’t go to her birthday unless she agrees to no politics.”

“Damn.” I take a long, slow, drink. Give that revelation a moment to breathe. Eventually I have to come up for air. “So, is this how you and your brothers settle your differences?”

Moros shakes his head. “We’ve never settled a difference. I don’t know why we do this. Maybe we’re expressing an emotion? If I wanted to get along with my brothers I’d have to invent a new persona. Possibly from scratch.”

“Understood.” I drink. “Actually, I don’t understand. Who’s getting the new persona? You? Your brothers?”

“We’d all need a new one. It’s not a big deal. People make new personas all the time. Humans have a strong instinct to be accepted by their social group. To the point that even imagining rejection causes sensations indistinguishable from physical pain. To avoid these feelings, we preemptively create a new persona everytime we join a new group. Quiet Guy Who Quietly Agrees With Everything is a popular first choice. Eventually, you may graduate to Loud Guy Who Loudly Reiterates The Group’s Stated Preferences. It’s a magical metamorphosis

“Our personalities are easily changed. It’s one of the four great truths we must hide from ourselves. Historically, this truth is exploited by leaders of big groups. They can change the group’s stated values willy-nilly, and most members will thoughtlessly change their opinions so they don’t get weird rejection pain. It’s a classic move.

“In modern politics, making big groups is too slow. It’s faster to needlessly politicize random groups, and pick up de facto followers that way. It’s most of what I do at work. F-150 drivers are conservative. Comic geeks are progressive. Country music locks on right. Alt-rock swings left. Garth Brooks is Chris Gaines, which kinda fucks the system, but we’ll pin him down eventually. Do you know if gymnasts are left or right?”

“I do not.”

“Neither do they. But they will soon.”

I drink. Nod. “That seems Machiavellian.”

“Thanks.” He shrugs, smiles deprecatingly. “It’s not actually that hard.”

I clutch my brow. “I thought you got supporters with reasoned arguments.”

“Yeesh.” Moros winces. “Only when we’re desperate. Reason is a form of communication. You can only access it by talking to someone else. Or by pretending to talk to someone else. Although, that doesn’t work so great. Because your pretend people are shoddy simulations, who echo your own bullshit back at you.

“Anyway, setting up a dialogue with an electorate is a logistical impossibility. Either they already agree with us, or they’re actively ignoring us. It’s not malicious - modern life is an assault on our attention. You’re gonna miss a lot of stuff.

“Ultimately, we’re asked to make too many decisions. So we make them without research, discussion, or thought. We follow our groups and hope somebody knows what’s going on.”

“Well, shit.” I swear. “I was hoping if I came up with an awesome plan, people would want to hear it.”

“Probably not.” Moros drinks bitterly, scowling at his brothers. “I mean, maybe. If there’s lots of money on the line. Lots of money tends to sharpen people’s interest. Is there lots of money in your awesome plan?”

“Probably not.” I sigh. “Definitely not for the people in charge.”

“Pity.” says Moros. “Oh well, I’m in anyway.”

“Really! You want to help destroy the economy?”

“Absolutely not. That’s why I’m joining your team - to sabotage it from the inside.”

I’m aghast. “What the fuck, dude?”

“I like eating and having a place to live. The economy’s the shit. Your plan to destroy it is a bit petulant.”

“Petulant!” I exclaim petulantly.

Moros winces and shrugs defensively. “We just had a pandemic and nobody starved to death. Economic stability’s not all bad. When money can’t buy stuff, shit gets violent in a hurry. Like World War Two violent. Are you sure you want that? Trade financial inequality for mass death? Or - maybe - are you bored, and feeling bad about yourself, and overreacting a bit?”

I’m stung. That’s a harsh appraisal of my plans, motives, and character. Moros has shrunken around his beer. Turtling in anticipation of angry retaliation.

And it’s tempting. Moros is not without fault. He’s built himself a comfortable life doing questionable deeds for our ruling class. I’m aware of several convenient hypocrisies I could hurl at him.

I sigh. Take a drink. Blasting Moros may be a mistake. He really does like me. This could be The Boogerface Paradox.

Who tells you when you have a booger on your face? You’d think everyone would, because it’s gross, distracting, and easily remedied. But telling you would cause a brief awkward moment, and most people would rather make a smooth exit from your life. It takes someone who really wants you around to point out the booger on your face.

Well, your personality is a booger on your face. You do lots of abrasive shit, and most people would rather make a smooth exit than call you on it. Paradoxically, the people who love you most, and very much want you around, end up the most critical of your behavior. Because they’re invested in you, and no one else really gives a shit.

My plan is very unlikely to succeed. Moros could safely agree with my insanity without worrying about the economy actually collapsing. If he’s actively trying to discourage me, he’s worried about me, not the economy. It’s highly probable that he’s serving valid criticism. Or thinks he is.

Time for some probing questions.

“It’s time for some probing questions.” I say.

“Hit me.”

“Why do you want to help me if you like the economy?”

“Are you aware that we’ve never found aliens?”

“Yes.”

“Some people find that weird. Nefarious. A sign that something’s gone bad.”

“Agreed.”

“They’re wrong. The silent cosmos is a sign that things have gone right. That intelligence solves the problem that creates it.”

I nod. “Okay. I don’t understand.”

“Look, you don’t have to be intelligent to survive nature. Lots of dummies do it. Redwoods live 2,000 years and they’re fucking stupid. No, you need intelligence to survive humans. Sneaky psycho monkeys who’ll eat your food, family, and face. We got smart because we had to deal with each other. You need a vigilant social alert system, to intuit the links between those around you. Because no matter how tough you are, two small monkeys always beat one big monkey.

“Opportunistic cooperation. The evolutionary condition that favors intelligence mutations. Powerful humans aren’t strong, alert, or fast - they’re good at making alliances. From there you get hierarchies, society, culture, corporations, nations, until finally you’re wearing scratchy pants at an awkward work function.

“Our pathological social vigilance is the original cold war. A nervous peace that allows us to exist. Turns out, social anxiety is the apex of civilization. No one appreciates it for the achievement it is. We should take a second to enjoy it, because we’ve definitely peaked. Shit’s about to get weird.

“Because the industrial revolution, chemical fertilizer, and antibiotics severed the link between power and land. It’s now possible to be wealthy without owning any farms or crushing a single peasant’s revolt. Weird.

“When we lost that link between land and power, we also lost a lot of the reasons we fight. Why invade a country for its natural resources, when we’re drowning in food, and booze, and stuff?

“Then the digital revolution made all human contact superfluous. Forget fighting, we don’t even talk anymore. We have less friends, less acquaintances and less contact with strangers.

“And why not? People are stressful. For a million years we evolved to be hyper vigilant of our place in the group. To the point that we feel pain even thinking about rejection. But now the group doesn’t need to exist. They don’t need our land or our labor. We don’t need their approval to stay fed and safe.

“Obviously this isn’t true, yet. But we have extended periods where we don’t need human contact and nobody bothers us. These needless times are getting more common.

“And you have a plan to accelerate this trend by getting rid of jobs. Severing the link that binds us to most of the people we know. In theory, we’ll all join art collectives and collaborate at citizen science projects, but that’s bullshit.

“Because being around people hurts, and if there’s no benefit to it, we’ll stop. The same distress intolerance that makes us eat until we die, will push us into isolation. We’ll live alone, with digital lovers, and social media algorithms optimized to reinforce our personal delusions.

“But there are systemic intellectual consequences to this isolation. Because the personas we make to interact with others, are, in aggregate, our personality. And as we cut people out of our life, we’re also cutting out chunks of our personalities. Until there’s nothing left, and we’re little more than beasts.

“This is the Great Filter. The answer to Fermi’s Paradox. We can’t find intelligent life in the cosmos because they eventually solve the problem that made them intelligent. An inevitable turn inwards. Space isn’t home to ancient godlike civilizations, it’s littered with mechanized habitats servicing solitary retrogrades slathered in dorito dust and masturbating to heritage pornography.”

Moros knocks back his beer. Hails us another round. What the hell? That was a weird rant. Is he blaming me for the downfall of the human race?

“Okay. Uh. So you want us to keep our connections so this doesn’t happen?”

“What? No. I desperately need an automatic robo-dorito-porno habitat. I’m tired. I’m just worried you’re gonna fuck it up. We’ll need a functioning economy to make this shit happen. If you destroy it we’ll have to build a new one. It’s faster to Frankenstein our current economy and limp to the finish line.”

I thank our server, pour us a round, and shake my head. “I see your point, but how do we fix the housing crisis? Cause we can’t run basic income if rent goes up 20% a year. Corporate landlords will suck it all up. And if basic income won’t work in this economy, how the hell do we stop working?”

Moros shrugs awkwardly. “70% of Canadians own their own homes. For most of them, that house is their net worth. This housing crisis is the closest thing they’ve had to a raise in 40 years. It’s making up for decades of stagnant wages.

“I realize you want to help the poorest 70% of people - not the richest 70% - but there’s a lot of overlap here. Like 40%, right? We’re talking about the entire middle class doubling their life savings. That’s gotta be some kind of win.

“Ultimately, how does fucking over 70% of families make sense? Ethically or practically? How do we even do it, without kneecapping democracy?”

I scowl. “How do we keep homeownership at 70% if prices keep rising? The 30% who can’t afford to buy aren’t poor strangers, they’re our kids. They gotta move sometime. The votes to tip over the housing market are coming from your own basement.”

Moros smiles. Shoots snappy finger guns. “I’m glad you asked. Because politicians see the housing crisis as a supply and demand problem. So they try to reduce prices by boosting supply, or killing demand. Fucking amateurs. That’ll never work. Because most people want prices to go up, and everybody wants another house.”

Moros stands. Points into the distance like a demented visionary. “The key is to increase supply, and demand!!”

He sits back down, but he’s caught the attention of the patio. Possibly because of his unorthodox economic views. Maybe because he’s drunk and spraying spittle in a pandemic. Either way, the crowd is his to lose.

“Okay.” I say. “How is that supposed to work?”

Moros coughs gently, takes a boozy professorial air. “For decades Canadian politicians aggressively tried to get to 100% homeownership. They made it easier and easier to buy a house, until they eventually eliminated interest rates and downpayments. Anybody could buy a house. Then the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis hit! Even though the crisis barely hit Canada, they panicked and pulled back. Now you need like $40 grand down to buy a house. No problem if you’re a homeowner. Impossible if you’re a renter.

“This is the crux of the housing crisis. A government that tried to lower house prices and failed. Homeowners who don’t want house prices to fall. And renters who can’t save enough to buy because rent is higher than mortgage payments.

“But what if the government hadn’t lost their nerve? Kept trying for 100% homeownership? Could we get every family in their own house? Let’s try bitches!

“Step One - Increase Supply!

Eliminate foreign owners - If you don’t live here, fuck off. You can’t vote anyway.

Eliminate corporate landlords - Houses are for people. Also, you can’t vote either.

Tax incentives to condofy rentals - Not sure if condofy’s a word, but let’s do it anyway.

Crushing taxes for vacant property - 10% of Canadian homes are empty. It’s a massive, invisible, empty city that could house millions of bi-sexual triads.

No Cost Moves - It costs $50 grand in taxes and real estate fees to move. What the fuck?

“The $50 grand cost to switch homes is the number one cause of our low housing supply. If it costs $100 large for two families to switch homes, it’s no wonder grandma is living alone in a four bedroom home, while young families are crammed in small apartments.

“Step Two - Raise Demand!

Rock bottom interest rates - We’re already there.

Zero down payments - Like before.

No stress test - Fuck it, let’s sell anyone a house.

“By increasing demand, we keep prices up, which keeps homeowners savings intact and keeps them onside. Yeeting down payments lets renters into the game, which quells their rebellious anger. Then, once everybody owns a home, we can initiate basic income and do your plan.”

Moros deflates. “There’s a federal election going on in Canada right now. The wedge issue is housing costs, and every party’s plan to fix it empirically won’t work. And here I am with the goddamn answer, but no one’s listening. I feel like Cassandra. Doomed to know the future, too drunk to make it happen.”

There’s a moment of silence on the patio for this raw confession. One of Moros’ brothers wipes away a tear.

“Okay buddy, let’s give it a go.” I say, with no idea how to make it happen.

We have a few more drinks as night settles in. Moros is looking good. Filling in his suit nicely. I let him know.

“Thanks, I’ve been working out. I have a very strong penis.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“I’m a vigorous lover.”

“Stop.” I say. “You had me at strong penis.”

We stumble to his house. Make love.

While laying in our afterglow, I get a call. Fuck! It’s my wife.

“Hello?”

“Hey babe.” says Hybris. “Are you with Moros?”

“Why would I be with Moros?”

“Because you said you were going drinking with Moros.”

“Right. I’m with Moros.”

“Cool. Good cover. Get the info you need from him. I got my homework back. We’re building a trust factory.”