Holy Data…



Those who visit my website know that I frequently respond to writing prompts from a terrific group I belong to called the Writer’s Workshop. Now and then, some prompts just strike a chord and are a great incentive to share my thoughts, feelings, and ravings.  This is one of those times.

The prompt I’m responding to focuses on the late Scott Adams, an American cartoonist, author and conservative commentator, best known for the Dilbert comic strip along with nonfiction works of business, self-improvement, commentary and satire.  Back in 1995, Scott Adams observed that “We live in a world where all data is wrong” and, for some odd reason, this started me thinking back to my parochial school education.

Stay with me here as I build a fairly long-winded response. 

For those who attended Catholic school years and years ago, there was nothing like early exposure to weaponized stationery to sharpen our attention spans.  Hey, all the public-school kids got gold stars while many of us in our rigid school uniforms received behavioral calibration via hardwood, courtesy of the nunnery in place. When your formative years involve someone in sensible black shoes enforcing reality with a heavy ruler, you come to learn quickly that drifting off into comforting illusions has consequences.  Painful, very specific, consequences.

Herein lies my strange throughline between all of the above and what Scott Adams shared about data. As parochial school students, we were trained, in a very analog and mildly terrifying way, to distrust the easy answer. We double-checked and remained present. In the meantime, the rest of the world grew up getting gently reassured that their guesses were “close enough” and in current times, they treat half-baked data like gospel because it comes with a chart and a pastel color scheme.

Are you with me so far? I mean, am I making sense?

What I personally received was the human version of error correction, far from subtle, not gentle, but effective. Most people got vibes.  So, in short, when someone ways, “the data proves it,” my particular brain doesn’t relax. It kind of leans in a little, like it’s waiting for that damn ruler to come crashing down on my head.  Where’s the flow, what’s missing, what’s being smoothed over to make the situation at hand look cleaner than it actually is?

Yes, this is an annoyingly useful instinct as it keeps me from being easily convinced, but it also means that I don’t get to enjoy the comforting fiction that everything is neatly measurable and under control.  I know that’s bullcrap and full of cracks; I notice the gaps and recognize when the numbers are doing a little too much storytelling. 

In the end, the downside is obvious. For the most part, I am one hell of a lot harder to fool, and I paid for this skill with significant ruler trauma. Now, I get to spend the balance of my life side-eyeing dashboards like they owe me an explanation. The views of Scott Adams definitely made a point as they focused on the idea that objective reality is harder to determine than most people assume. And, we all too well know that perceived facts are often distorted by media narratives.

Adams argued that people rarely see reality as it actually is, but rather through a filtered, subjective lens. Some, like myself, long ago met reality, head-on, as holy data made its point with a ruler.

From the Writer’s Workshop: Scott Adams observed “We live in a world where all data is wrong.” Discuss

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A roadmap to me…

March 31, 1976

Dear 80-Year-Old Me, here in 2026,

I’m writing this to you from 50 years in the past, a time when I was young, fairly vibrant and, frankly, damn terrified of how quickly time already seemed to be passing. 2026? Holy shit, it feels like I’m writing about science fiction and 80 years old? This seems like an impossible, far-away land.

In my mind, I can visualize you sitting in a comfortable chair, hopefully looking back on a life that feels full and well-lived. But, knowing you as I do, I think you question so much that you could have done better and grieve over what you haven’t accomplished. At some point, I hope you can say “What a ride it’s been”, but, I have a few questions, even requests for you:

1.Did you take enough risks? Be honest. I hope you didn’t spend these 50 years staying comfortable and did not wait to travel, to love, or to start that project you always talked about. If not, don’t wait! The “somedays” are growing shorter, go and do it now!.

2. Are you still moving, doing more than your best to stay one step ahead of everything? I hope you’re still walking, playing and staying active to keep your body going strong. Sometimes, you burn the proverbial candle at both ends, not always a positive, and you need to slow down and not allow others to take advantage of you.

3.Have you kept those you love close in your life? All the time working and being involved in other situations stops us from spending quality time with family and friends. The hearts and minds of the people who love us are everything. Don’t allow them to drift away.

4.Are you still curious and anxious to have new experiences? I hope your mind is sharp and you never stopped learning. Never stop being interested in the world, no matter how much it has changed. Never hesitate from sharing your wisdom with others who still have so much left to learn, regardless if they already think they know everything.

I know the future brought hardships and that you handled them when you could, with grace. But not always. I hope that you’ve learned to be more compassionate, less judgmental, and that you forgive me for the mistakes I am still making at this very moment. Aside from it all, I am trying my best to make you proud and it’s important that you aren’t too hard on yourself. If you are still laughing and finding joy in the smallest things like a good cup of coffee, a sunny morning and a kind word, then I know I’ve done my job correctly over these last 50 years.

Enjoy the ride that’s left along with a few more inevitable bumps along the roadmap ahead. For now, you made it.

With love and curiosity,

Your 30-year-old self (1976)

From the Writer’s Workshop: Write a letter to yourself, fifty years ago.

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Vita cum lingua mortua

Every high school has that one class. The one that makes you stare at the clock like it personally offended you. For me, in the Catholic high school I attended, the class I suffered through each week was Latin.

Yes, Latin. A language so dayum dead that it makes disco look lively.

While other classmates were learning Spanish so they could actually order food on vacation or French so they could pretend to be cultured in college, I was memorizing declensions for a civilization that collapsed before indoor plumbing was cool. “Puella ad puteum ambulavit” echoed through my teenage brain while I tried to figure out how any of this would help me survive algebra, let alone adulthood. Know what? It did not. Not a microscopic bit!

There is something deeply absurd about spending what feels like endless time conjugating verbs no one has spoken conversationally since togas were everyday wear. I never once found myself in a real-life emergency thinking, “If only I could translate Caesar’s account of the Gallic Wars, I’d know what to do.” Instead, I learned how to diagram sentences that felt like linguistic archaeology. You didn’t speak Latin, you excavated it.

The sales pitch from the Sisters of Charity who oversaw the class with absolute, and stern, authority was always the same: “It helps with vocabulary.”, “It’s the root of Romance languages.”, “It’s great for SAT scores.” Yeah, right, Sister Scholastica. I remember wanting to advise her that reading books helped with vocabulary and that reading a current book helped with Romance languages. And the SAT debacle? That test changed formats more times than a politician’s promise.

Did I mention suffering? Let me share that my class had the energy of a museum gift shop. Educational, technically impressive, and completely detached from the urgency of teenage life. While the world was sprinting toward boys, dances, hiking up the skirts on our school uniforms as soon as the bell rang, we were forcefully (and carefully) translating sentences about farmers praising the gods for good harvests. Want to know something else? Not once has any farmer asked me for help in Latin. Not one damn time!

And yet, here it comes, the part I despise admitting. Latin wasn’t entirely useless. It did teach discipline because Latin, itself, is structure. Endings matter and word order is absolute chaos unless you fully understand the system beneath it. Latin forces your brain to slow down and analyze; you learn that meaning hides in all the small details where one letter can change everything.

Latin also taught patience in that translations cannot be rushed. I recall sitting in a state of confusion, stumbling and wrestling with fragments of the language until they made sense. Sometimes it all flowed, other times, an exercise in futility. In a strange way, there is almost something powerful about that.

When it came to practical life skills, Latin was in between learning to file taxes and square dancing in gym class. Would I choose it again, knowing what I know at this point in my life? Hell no. Teenage me could have used financial literacy instead of memorizing irregular verbs from a language that retired (no died) centuries ago.

Adulthood has a way of softening your critical memories. The Latin translations are gone and I could not decline a noun if you paid me, so please don’t ask. I do remember the painful and quiet focus on those classes, how they dragged on and on and the strange satisfaction I felt when something finally clicked.

Yes, Latin may be very dead, but the thinking it encouraged isn’t. Was it the most useless class I took? Objectively, yes. Secretly, it did more than I realized at the time, all high school pissing and moaning aside, it wasn’t really about the subject at all.

I’ll just bet that somewhere, a toga flutters approvingly in the breeze of my memories. All these years later, this “useless” class pays a denarius or two in the form of my sarcasm. Amo, Amas, Amat!

From the Writer’s Workshop: What was the most useless class you took? Tell us about it.

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