My Back Story

My Back Story

“There is no financial information discussed at all and no analysis on the ability of the company to perform. …To be honest, I have more information on the typical $10k micro loan than I have on a $75 million request. This is a problem.”

–      from e-mail sent by Economic Development Corp. financial analyst Sean Esten to J. Michael Saul, the EDC’s deputy director, but hidden from the EDC board of directors.

MY BACK STORY ABOUT RHODE ISLAND’S DEBACLE OF A DEAL with Curt Schilling and his 38 Studios begins with a $10,000 small micro-business loan to a surfboard manufacturer, Kevin Cunningham, a Rhode Island School of Design graduate who saw in surfboard creation a highly functional form of art.

The R.I. Economic Development Corporation’s public relations firm, Duffy & Shanley, sent out a news release in early 2010 promoting the deal as an example of the state’s investment in small business entrepreneurs, hyped by the agency as an example of a smart investment in small businesses, the veritable economic engine of Rhode Island’s economy. (Why does a state agency with its own communications staff need to hire a public relations firm? That’s a good story for another day.)

My editor at the Providence Business News assigned me the surfboard story. (I had been hired the second week in January of 2010, filling in full-time for a staff writer who had taken a medical leave.)

I diligently began to research my story about Cunningham, an artisan who was creating his custom surfboards in a rented workspace on Allens Avenue, across the street from the garish pink Cheaters strip club. (I wondered out loud, jokingly, in the newsroom at that time: “Are strip clubs in Providence an economic engine?” The response in the newsroom was a stony silence.)

Digging into the story, I uncovered that there had been only two such loans made between 2008 and 2010, $10,000 for Cunningham and $30,000 for a day care business, for a total of $40,000, a paltry amount.

The reason: the state’s Micro-Business Emerging Growth Fund, set up in 2005 with $1 million as a separate allocation stream within the larger Small Business Loan Fund, now had only about $120,000 left to lend to startups, according to EDC officials. As a result, micro-loan applicants were being referred elsewhere, according to EDC Deputy Director J. Michael Saul.

In terms of available capital to lend out, things were even worse at the Small Business Loan Fund, which was also running out of money. It had only about $630,000 available for lending in the $13 million fund, given commitments and reserves needed to operate the fund, according to Saul.

Keith W. Stokes, the newly appointed EDC director (another candidate, who had been recruited from Arizona, suddenly withdrew after the accepting the job despite a starting salary of more than $400,000, citing personal reasons), had asked the Rhode Island congressional delegation to create a legislative earmark of $5 million to recapitalize the fund, according to Saul. Saul said the EDC hoped to see the money by Oct. 1, 2010 (the beginning of federal fiscal year 2011).

I think there is a much larger story here, I told my editors. They told me to pursue it; I began some old-fashioned “enterprise” reporting.

When I asked the EDC for details of the investments made for the last three years by the small business loan fund, after a delay of about three weeks, I was finally provided a basic list of companies which had received loans, the amount, along with prospective figures for the amount of jobs retained and jobs added as a result of the loans. The problem, as I soon discovered, is that a number of these businesses had gone belly up during that time period.

I asked for additional information, related to the companies that had gone out of business and defaulted on their loans. The EDC under Stokes refused, stonewalling. The newspaper had to make a formal public information request for the public documents before the information was forthcoming, one of the few times in the newspaper’s 25-year history it had to do so.

What emerged from the documents was the fact that the EDC had made a number of investments that had gone south into bankruptcy, but that the job statistics for these defunct businesses were still being included and tallied as part of the agency’s overall record.

Digging further, I found out that the agency’s statistics for new jobs created were taken directly from the companies’ own projections, and had never been updated since the initial loan had been granted. The agency had mailed out a questionnaire to the companies that received loans, but only about 50 percent had responded, and the information had yet to be compiled. It was sitting in a manila folder, according to an EDC financial analyst, Sean Esten.

[It was Esten’s critical comments in an e-mail to Saul, about the lack of financial documentation for the Schilling loan, saying that approval of an EDC $10,000 microloan had more financial documentation, that has become the critical piece of evidence in a lawsuit charging fraud against Schilling, Saul and Stokes, among others. Esten’s e-mail and comments were purposely withheld from the EDC board of directors, according to the lawsuit.]

The Slater Fund, a state investment fund for new technology start-ups in Rhode Island, had addressed the jobs data issue by changing the way it calculated jobs – on the basis of person hours per year – as a way to deal with frequently changing metrics with new entrepreneurial firms. But the EDC under Stokes had apparently refused to adopt a similar approach; Stokes even blocked Slater from issuing a report with its jobs analysis, according to one of the Slater Fund principals.

[For example, before its plunge into bankruptcy, the figure given by Schilling and his shills at the EDC is that his 38 Studios created some 300 jobs to date, out of a promised 450. Now, all the employees have been laid off. So, how many jobs were actually created? Using the Slater Fund formula, it can be calculated in person hours per year, an accurate measurement of the jobs created.]

But, let’s get back to the narrative. The prospects for getting a Congressional earmark to recapitalize the small business loan fund did not seem very promising, so, in early March, Stokes approached a number of state legislators and EDC board members about creating a state bond initiative for investments in small businesses, for the sum of $50 million, tantalizingly calling it the Jobs Creation Guaranty Program.

The mantra was that this was all about “jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs,” as EDC’s Saul told me during a two-hour interview the first week in March of 2010, hammering away with the pitch that small businesses were the major economic engine for the state, even going to a white board to lecture me patronizingly on small business loan funds worked.

What happened next was a classic bait-and-switch engineered by then-Gov. Donald Carcieri and Stokes, who turned the $50 million “Job Creation Guaranty Program” into a $125 million boondoggle, with $75 million earmarked to bring Schilling’s fantasy game company to Rhode Island.

Carcieri, attending a fund-raiser at Schilling’s palatial home, was told by Schilling that he was willing to move to Rhode Island with the proper investment incentive. Carcieri then put the idea into motion.

A plan of action was reportedly hatched at a meeting in March 2010 at 38 Studios offices in Maynard, Mass., attended by R.I. House Speaker Gordon Fox and then state Rep. Steven Costantino. Costantino suggested adding the $75 million sought by Schilling to the Jobs Creation Guaranty Program.

A lawsuit is now before Superior Court Michael A. Silverstein, charging Stokes and Saul and attorney Robert Stolzman with fraud, claiming that they purposely deceived the EDC Board of Directors about the terms of the deal giving $75 million to Schilling’s game company.

Back to my narrative. In mid-May, as my story moved forward at PBN, approaching publication, I was asked by the editor on Tuesday, May 18, to call Carcieri’s office to get a comment on the bond proposal0. What I got in response was an irate Amy Kempe, the governor’s spokeswoman, yelling at me on the phone, telling me I had gotten the story wrong and didn’t know what I was talking about.

“I thought we got this taken care of,” Kempe told me, alluding to an answer given to me by a R.I. House spokesman Larry Berman, denying that there was any such effort underway to float a proposal for a state bond initiative.

 I calmly informed Kempe that I had three EDC board members and two state senators confirming the story of a $50 million jobs program bond, and if she wanted to call them liars, I would be happy to quote her.

Changing her tune, Kempe told me: “You need to talk with Keith.” I replied that I had been trying to talk to him for two months.

Within 15 minutes, Stokes called me, once again, taking the initial same tack of denial as Kempe, until I told him he was contradicting information from legislators and his own board members. On a dime, Stokes changed his tune and said that the planned policy on the bond had changed. The exact details of how it was changing, however, were not explained.

What had happened, I believe, was that Stokes, going along with Carcieri’s push on behalf of Schilling, had changed the entire m.o. behind the program to include funding for Schilling’s enterprise.

I also believe the absurdly strong push back from Carcieri’s office and Stokes had been a result of their efforts to keep their support for the pending Schilling investment under wraps.

Further, the House leadership, under Rep. Gordon Fox and then House Finance Committee Chairman Steven Costantino, was well aware of what was going on. There appeared to have been some kind of coordinated collusion between the House spokesman, the EDC and the governor’s office to put out misleading and inaccurate information in answer to my questions.

Indeed, on May 19, one day after my interview with Stokes, Costantino moved the EDC loan guarantee program into a separate bill, with up to $125 million in economic development bonds to be paid for by Rhode Island taxpayers. The House passed the bill on May 25, and the Senate followed on June 11, enacting the Jobs Creation Guaranty Program 

However, the Schilling part of the program didn’t become fully apparent until three days after Carcieri signed the bill, when the EDC board of directors voted preliminary approval of the loan to Schilling.

Surprise, surprise, surprise, as Jim Nabors’ TV character, Gomer Pyle, used to say.

You may ask: How come I didn’t pursue the story, once the investment in 38 Studios became public? On May 20, my stint as a full-time reporter at Providence Business News came to an end, as the staff writer returned to work from her medical leave.

I was asked to continue as a freelance writer for the newspaper; I agreed, but my beat switched to health reporting. My two-part story, which ran on the front-page of consecutive issues, ran in June.

Alas, no one at the newspaper ever followed up on my story. At various times, when I asked to pursue the story, I was politely told no, it was the provenance of other reporters now.

[It’s not the first time in my career that I have experienced the fate of uncovering a great story, only to have it fade away. In Washington, D.C., in early 1984, I heard from one of my housemates that U.S. soldiers were secretly fighting, in combat, in Nicaragua, with casualties. He found this out because he taught a history course for recovering soldiers as an adjunct professor at Walter Reed Hospital, and some of his students told him they had been shot up fighting in Nicaragua. If this were true (and it was), it was a huge story, because it would violate U.S. law and contradict the statements of President Reagan. Because I was an editor with an environmental magazine, I gave the story to the husband of a colleague, a producer at ABC-TV News. He dug into it for all of a day, got the usual government denials, and said there was no story. The producer never talked to my housemate, I found out later. Two years later, however, when the Iran-Contra story broke, and American Eugene Hasenfus was shot down over Nicaragua, it was a huge story.]

In the end, sadly, no one else in the local news media pursued my stories focused on job creation and the small business loan fund: not The Providence Journal, not the local TV stations, Channels 6, 10, 11 and 12, not the local news radio operations, WPRO and public radio’s WRNI, not Patch nor GoLocal, online news ventures. Not Ted Nesi, not Ian Donnis, not Mike Stanton, not Buddy Cianci, no one. And, not PBN.

Now, they would have you believe that they are all over the story as the tragic (or is that comedic) 38 Studios story unravels.

How close did I come to unraveling the Schilling escapade? I’ll never know; given the way that Amy Kempe was screaming at me, it may have been very close.

What has been learned about job creation from this disastrous investment? And the need for better job creation metrics? Not much, if anything, I’m afraid.

Any regrets? Not really. I did a good piece of work; my stories were very well done.

Here are the links, if you want to read them.

  

http://pbn.com/Tracking-job-growth-challenges-EDC,50523?content_source=archive&search_filter=asinof&search_filter_mode=and&search_range_option=entire_site&sub_type=stories,packages

http://pbn.com/EDC-business-loans-run-the-gamut,50698?content_source=archive&search_filter=asinof&search_filter_mode=and&search_range_option=entire_site&sub_type=stories,packages

And the first micro-loan story:

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ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT

EDC loan funds running on empty

LOAN WOLF: Kevin Cunningham checks the line detail on a custom surfboard built at his Providence company, Spirare Surfboards. The startup was a recent recipient of an EDC micro-loan. PBN PHOTO/FRANK MULLIN

BY RICHARD ASINOF
PBN CONTRIBUTING WRITER

3/1/10

With the help of a $10,000 micro-business loan from the R.I. Economic Development Corporation, Kevin Cunningham hopes to carve out a niche in the $150 million national market for manufacturing surfboards.

In many ways Cunningham, a 2005 Rhode Island School of Design graduate in architecture, is a poster boy for the state’s newfound emphasis on small-business creation – and especially helping young entrepreneurs create businesses and jobs in green, sustainable industries here in Rhode Island.

Yet EDC Deputy Director J. Michael Saul says the state’s Small Business Loan Fund has only about $630,000 available for lending in the $13 million fund, given commitments and reserves needed to operate the fund.

Keith W. Stokes, the new EDC director, recently asked the Rhode Island congressional delegation to create a legislative earmark of $5 million to recapitalize the fund, according to Saul. “It’s a brand new request,” Saul said. The EDC would like to see the money by Oct. 1, 2010 (the beginning of federal fiscal year 2011).

U.S. Rep. James R. Langevin, D-R.I., is weighing the merits of EDC’s request. “Small businesses are the backbone of our state’s economy, and we must work together on solutions to ease their access to capital,” Langevin said.

Similarly, the state’s Micro-Business Emerging Growth Fund, set up in 2005 with $1 million as an allocation within the larger small-business loan fund, now has only about $120,000 left to lend to startups.

Since 2005, the state has closed 30 micro-business loans, totaling $880,000, according to Meaghan Wims of Duffy & Shanley, a public relations consultant working with the EDC.

But in the last two years only two micro-business loans have been made – $30,000 in July 2008 to A Family Tree, a child-care business in Warwick, to help with a down payment to buy a building and expand operations, and $10,000 last month for Cunningham’s environmentally friendly surfboard-manufacturing company.

Since the beginning of 2009, however, according to the EDC, the lack of resources has caused between 20 to 30 potential applicants to be referred to two new micro-business lending options – SEED, the Southeastern Economic Development Corp., which provides micro-loans via the U.S. Small Business Administration, and ACCION USA – because they “have better funding than we do,” said Sean Esten, the financial portfolio manager.

Even so, according to Saul, demand for micro-loans is not overwhelming. “These loans go to business startups, and most people are not starting businesses in a deep recession.” In fact, about one-quarter of the $840,000 loaned between 2005 and 2007 – $220,000 – have had to be charged off, because of business failure, he said.

For the last two EDC micro-loan recipients, at least, the funding is doing the one thing on which most state business and political leaders have agreed is crucial to turning the economy around – growing small businesses in Rhode Island.

From his cubbyhole in a woodworking shop in Conley’s Wharf on Allens Avenue in Providence, Cunningham designs and manufactures surfboards for his startup company, Spirare Surfboards, established in 2009. “I make functional art – art that is designed to get wet,” he said.

His “just-me operation” is still a night and weekends business, as he continues to work his day job as a construction manager in Framingham, Mass. His wooden surfboard designs, however, have attracted the attention of the Nike 6.0 surfing team members, Coco Ho and Carissa Moore, a surfer and documentary filmmaker who is planning to feature Spirare’s surfboards in an upcoming film, Cunningham said.

“It’s a pretty big deal,” Cunningham continued, “to get a professional-level surfer on your boards. … A cover shot in a surfer magazine, that’s going to create a huge influx of interest.”

He currently manufactures three environmentally friendly surfboard models: recycled foam, which retails starting at about $600; a wood and recycled foam composite, which runs between $800 and $1,200; and a wood honeycomb, which starts at $1,500.

The global market demand for environmentally friendly surfboards has soared since 2006, after Clark Foam, a California company that supplied about 80 percent of the foam for the world’s surfboards, suddenly shut down under pressure over environmental restrictions for its use of the chemical TDI, or toluene diisocyanate, according to Cunningham. The firm’s abrupt demise created a big hole in the marketplace.

When he applied for loan support from the EDC, Cunningham said, coming from an art school, he had never done a business plan before. He says the EDC staff was helpful in preparing the financials. His three-year, $10,000 loan is at 6.25 percent.

Ironically, Cunningham also received help from a $5,000 fellowship in 2008 from the Rhode Island State Council on the Arts, from a program that Gov. Donald L. Carcieri now seeks to end in his latest proposed budget.

A Family Tree, which opened its doors in April 2008, now runs three child-care centers in Warwick, serving about 220 students in before- and after-school and preschool programs, according to co-owner Erica Saccoccio. It currently employs 18 people – having added five new full-time positions when the business opened its third center in October 2009.

Within its first two months of operation, her child-care business had reached its capacity for enrollment, and Saccoccio saw that she would need to expand. At a course run by the Center for Women & Enterprise, Saccoccio learned about the micro-business loan program – and applied for $30,000 – about half of the down payment she needed to purchase a new building.

“Without the loan, we would not have been able to expand,” Saccoccio said.

Until there is new money in the Small Business Loan Fund, there will be a crimp in lending to small businesses, according to Esten.

Saul called the recapitalization critical to the state’s efforts to grow small businesses. “The most critical component to start or expand a small business in Rhode Island which will create jobs is capital,” he said.

“Right now,” Saul added, “we are in what I would call a tight capital market.” •

Everything is not illuminated – nor heard

The prophetic image from the March 1984 issue of Environmental Action Magazine, drawn by La Mouche (the late Peters Day),  for a story, "The Endless Summer," by Francesca Lyman.

PROVIDENCE – A few months ago, I heard Dr. Douglas Eby, a physician with the Alaska Native Medical Center, tell an audience at Brown University’s Warren Alpert School of Medicine that one of the keys to his health center’s success in improving outcomes and lowering costs was the explicit direction given to providers: learn to listen in 10 different ways when talking with patients.

He urged his colleagues to break free of the diagnosis-treatment treadmill, and its wrong-headed focus on treating illness instead of promoting wellness. Eby argued the focus of health care needed to be on what he called “messy human relationships.”

In conversations that followed his talk, I found that Eby’s message had not necessarily been “heard” by many in the audience – filled with the top echelon of doctors, hospital executives and health care officials in Rhode Island.

Why didn’t Eby’s message resonate with those higher up on the health care totem pole?

Because, many were accustomed to seeing themselves as being the smartest people in the room, skilled at making snap decisions. These are not people who easily share in decision-making, nor do they respond well to being told they are wrong. The truth is, they often don’t listen very well.

The dynamic they have been trained to believe in is that they are the ones who talk, and the patients listen. To paraphrase Stan Lee, creator of the comic book superhero Spiderman: with great power comes great arrogance.

At a fundamental level – both from an economic and philosophic approach, it can be argued, as does Dr. Michael Fine, the director of the R.I. Department of Health, that we don’t have a health care system, but a health care market, which operates as a “wealth extraction” system.  If you are a member of the luxury class on life’s cruise ship, not much time is spent conversing with the rest of us traveling in steerage – until the ship’s engine breaks down, or a Norovirus strikes.

Yet the inability to “listen” by those in power – and the difficulty in “being heard” by those who are not – has been driven home like a wave crashing down on our disappearing coast line in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.

ARE YOU NOW OR EVER BEEN a believer in “climate change” and “global warming?”

The evidence is not hard to discern: sea levels are rising 60 percent faster than expected; the first decade of the 21^st century was the warmest on record, nine of the 10 hottest years on record have occurred since 2001; the polar ice cap shrank to a record low in 2012; the concentration of greenhouse gases hit new record levels; and the incidence of extreme weather events is increasing around the globe.

Still, there are those who would disparage those who warn of the threat from climate change as un-American, socialistic and downright communistic, with tactics that are reminiscent of Sen. Joe McCarthy

The economics of Hurricane Sandy make the environmental evidence harder to discount. The relief bill to be paid by the federal government [you can read that taxpayers] for the cost of clean up is $50.5 billion.

The question is: why are we still burning coal to produce steam to turn turbines to make electricity? Emissions from burning coal are one of the major causes of climate change and global warming. There is little doubt about the cause and effect. The diagnosis is as urgent and plaintive as a Carolina wren’s call to greet the morning sun. Do we hear it? Are we listening? What prevents us from rising out of our proverbial bed and taking action?

If you ask many of the so-called “smartest people in the room,” they will tell you it is because coal is abundant, less expensive, and an American fuel source. But the math only works if you don’t include externalities in your economic cost equation – the very real health, environmental and economic consequences of burning coal. Imagine if the relief costs of Hurricane Sandy and Hurricane Irene were made an actual, transparent and understandable part of your electric, home insurance and health insurance bills.

These same “incontrovertible” arguments have been made for years about nuclear power – it’s “cheaper” than other forms of power production for electric utilities. Once again, the arguments only hold true in a world where external costs – waste disposal, the limited lifespan of the plant and its decommissioning, the environmental and health hazards of the nuclear fuel production cycle, etc., are never part of the economic calculation of “cheap.” 

Not to mention the trillions in government subsidies [once again, read that costs that consumers, as taxpayers, already shell out] for research, fuel production, and insurance protection. Most of our aging nuclear plants, built in the 1960s and 1970s, will be forced to close in the next decade as their piping and shells become too brittle to operate. These relics of the second half of the 20^th century will not be replaced by other new nuclear plants, because the cost is too high – and because utilities have not yet figured out a way to transfer such costs to consumers.

There are even those so-called “smartest” energy experts that call the nuclear option a “green” technology, because it doesn’t, they claim, have carbon emissions associated with it. Conveniently left out of that equation is the high carbon emission “costs” of the power required to enrich uranium for fuel.

The big question on cost these days, if you listen to the “smartest people” on TV, appears to be whether the low cost of natural gas-fired power plants, the “cheapest” fuel during the current fracking boom, has undercut the cost assumptions for nuclear power.

There is also the ongoing meltdown of nuclear reactors at Fukushima and its economic consequences, which conveniently also get left out of the economic calculation of “cheap.”

Back to coal and carbon emissions – and the health and economic costs.

In Rhode Island, the greatest single cause in the improvement of public health and the reduction of mortality in the last 25 years is the ban on indoor smoking, according to health officials. Cigarette smoking is harmful to your health – as is second-hand smoke. The tobacco industry has been held liable for the medical costs resulting from smoking tobacco – that addictive, nicotine delivery system.

Imagine if the same standards were applied to the public health and climate change consequences of coal-burning power plants.

We can talk about high rates of asthma and respiratory disease, the growing risk of autism, and mercury poisoning. There’s a good reason, for instance, why most states in the Northeast recommend that pregnant women not eat fish – because of the high mercury content in fish due in large part to coal-burning emissions. The mercury in fish is transmitted directly from the expectant mother to the fetus, resulting in serious permanent harm to the baby’s mental and physical development – and increased health costs.

Children with autism are two to three times more likely than other children to have been exposed to car exhaust, smog and other air pollutants during their earliest days, according to a new study.

The ideologues in Congress can still attempt to dismiss climate change as a hoax, but it’s much harder to dismiss the $50.5 billion in costs.

An image from the May 1985 issue of Environmental Action,
by artist Steven Hannock, as part of the Visions issue.

A FEW DAYS before the arrival of Hurricane Sandy, and the horrific devastation it caused along the entire Northeast coastline, a former colleague, Kathleen Hughes, who worked with me as an editor of Environmental Action magazine in 1984, befriended me on Facebook. It’s one of the ways that people reach out and “talk” with each other these days.

Kathy, who with her husband now produces TV documentaries for Bill Moyers, among others, had reached out, she explained, because in the lead up reporting on the storm, she recalled our cutting-edge reporting on the consequences of climate change, and wondered why it had disappeared in large part from the public conversation.

It’s a good question, Kathy; you’ve always asked good questions. Let me try and answer it.

Together, along with a third colleague, Francesca Lyman, we had done some of the best national reporting on climate change and global warming – long before Al Gore, Bill McKibben and others found religion in the cause.

The magazine cover of the March 1984 issue featured the story, “The Endless Summer: It’s time to do more than think about the greenhouse effect,” written by Francesca. http://www.solaripedia.com/files/1105.pdf

With it was a prophetic illustration by La Mouche [the late Peters Day] of a taxi driver, poling his cab in gondolier fashion through the flooded streets of New York City. Twenty-eight years later, art turned into reality.

An equally powerful image was published in the magazine’s May 1985 issue, a painting by Steven Hannock (an artist whose landscapes are displayed in The Metropolitan Museum of Art), showing the Hudson River engulfing Manhattan as a result of climate change.

After Hurricane Sandy, climate change is now hopefully front and center again in our political conversation, and that is good news. But I think it’s important to understand why it had faded from our public and political discourse.

Listening is a skill that we’re in danger of losing in a world of digital distraction and information overload, according to Seth S. Horowitz, a neuroscientist formerly at Brown University, in a recent New York Times op-ed. “The richness of life doesn’t lie in the loudness and the beat, but in the timbres and the variations that you can discern if you simply pay attention,” Horowitz wrote.

The reality is that we don’t have conversations any more, we post and we tweet. The give and take of a conversation – one where both participants are listening, not just “seeing” the words – is absent from our lives. We turn on our iPods and play our favorites over and over again. If we don’t hear new things, our cognitive ability to recognize, respond and learn atrophies, according to Horowitz.

To a large degree, it’s also very much about the ability of powerful corporate interests – the oil and natural gas industries, the electric utility industry – to control the conversation and messaging in Congress and the news media – and in our homes.

OUR WORLD IS OFTEN REDUCED to episodes in a reality show, a race though exotic destinations, rewarding those who scheme best to survive. Remember that it’s not CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN and FOX; it’s Viacom, Comcast, Disney, Time-Warner and Rupert Murdoch, pushing their business and political agendas on us and selling us on debilitating dreams that we, too, can achieve fame, fortune and success from happenstance. Step right up, everyone’s a winner, bargains galore.

While New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg deserves some credit for endorsing his choice for president in 2012 because of climate change, his conversion will seem much more real when Bloomberg News dedicates an hour of business programming to climate change issues, and not just stock market analysis.

Imagine those talking heads on Bloomberg, or CNBC, the alleged “smartest people in the room” when it comes to business trends, calculating the cost of future insurance charges to homeowners based upon storm recent damages, with one of those crisp graphics on screen that measures and plots the financial consequences as a ratio to emissions from coal-burning utilities?  Hmmm.

On the Congressional front, it might be helpful if elected politicians, every time they appeared in a committee hearing to ask questions of witnesses, wore NASCAR-like jackets with the logos of all their contributors from the energy and utility industries, so we could see their true colors emerge – not red, not blue, but dollar-bill green.

And, what a great retribution fantasy (or TV reality show) come true it would be if Republican Sen. James Inhofe from Oklahoma was to be trapped in a future storm, with situations similar to the residents or Hoboken, N.J., or Staten Island during Sandy, and had to survive the hardships of residents, with flooded streets awash in sewage, no electricity, no drinkable water, their homes destroyed. Do you think he might sing a different tune?

More than the need of politicians needing to stand in someone else’s soggy shoes, the storm’s aftermath has revealed something more basic about what’s missing from our public conversation: the ability to talk and listen to each other, and for citizens to be heard. Why was it seen as so surprising – and not common stance – for President Obama and Gov. Christie to walk and talk with each as they inspected the damages from Sandy?

For the most part, the news media doesn’t help; they only exacerbate the problem.

Our local daily newspaper, The Providence Journal, is behind an online pay wall now, like so many others. Unless you pay, you are limited to news in 125-word sound bites online. However, the feedback mavens who offer comments on stories don’t have to pay to give voice to their opinions. Day in and day out, these folks are free to dish out their vitriol, with the newspaper’s apparent blessing. It’s not about promoting dialogue; it’s about pandering to diatribe, a newspaper’s desperate attempt to build up its falling circulation by the appearance of dialogue.

The newspaper recently put on its dunce cap known as “PolitiFact R.I.” to analyze a statement by a coastal geologist who said that sea levels in Rhode Island “had risen maybe about 10 inches” since 1930, based upon gauge readings. It gave the statement a “mostly true” ruling, with data showing the growth was 8.7 inches, according to the research done by an intrepid Providence Journal reporter.

Talk about missing the forest for the trees. Does it really matter to know that there is a difference between “maybe about 10 inches” and 8.7 inches? Instead of putting energy and resources into researching what the rise in sea levels will mean for Rhode Island, we are instead subjected to mind-numbing analysis that leads nowhere, absolutely nowhere.

These days, when I read the newspaper, I often find myself singing that Pete Seeger tune: “But every time I read the papers/them old feelings come on/We’re waist deep in the Big Muddy/And the big fool says to push on.”

Here’s what some of the readers, not behind the pay wall, had to say about that particular PolitiFact finding:

“PolitiFact is nothing more than a left-wing organization anyway. They can always find the ‘facts’ they are looking for to prove the liberal side correct,” wrote Phil Johnson.

“You have got to be kidding me, this is a joke and this women should go back to school or at least read the memo, the term has changed because they know its all false data, it’s now called global climate change, which on its face is also a joke, climates do change just look outside,” wrote Marie Rossi.

The Providence Journal’s problem is not just poor decision-making about how to deploy its journalistic resources. The newspaper reported its new electronic edition had a total of 4,224 subscribers, but its average weekly circulation decreased from 90,085 to 83,733, a drop of 6,352, in the six-month period ending Sept. 30, 2012. And, the newspaper’s total advertising fell 13 percent in the last three months ending on Sept. 30, compared to the previous year.

The solipsistic circle – or, more aptly, noose – grows tighter and tighter.

Let’s not forget the corporate control of talk radio, where conservative ideologues rail against climate change as a hoax. Did you know that Clear Channel Communications, the home of Rush Limbaugh, is now owned by Bain Capital, the former home of Mitt Romney?

The local leader in talk, WPRO, a Cumulus Media, Inc., station, provides a steady diet of right-wing conservative commentators. After 24/7 of constantly bashing President Obama and all the Democratic candidates in 2012, the commentators awoke the day after the election, and, in disbelief, called it a “nightmare.” What none of them could admit was how little impact any of their own on-air voices – including a former mayor of Providence who is a convicted felon – had on influencing the election outcomes.

In the last four years, has there ever been a guest on WPRO to talk about the impending dangers and economic consequences of climate change? I believe the answer is no.

The end result is that we consume blips of news, followed by commentary that is closer to rants than it is to reason. In the news biz, everything is not illuminated – nor heard.

EARLY ON SATURDAY MORNINGS, I often meet up with a regular group of men (and some women) in their 50s and 60s at the local coffee shop, mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers. I call it the “geezer” club, a self-deprecating label that most of the others are uncomfortable with. The weekend before, our entire town lost power for more than 48 hours, in the midst of a winter storm that brought two feet of snow and crippling cold weather in its aftermath. Everyone had their own Eeyore story of “miserable, miserable” to share.

We talk, we listen, we share (even photos on our iPads) – and we’re not afraid to disagree – about sports teams and politics.

Most of the members are dyed-in-the-wool conservative Republicans, unlike me. They, like me, were all old enough to recall the 1978 blizzard, and two or three wondered out loud: We didn’t lose power in 1978. Why did we lose power during the last couple of storms?

I sensed an opening here, and launched into a critique of the utility industry, and National Grid, the British company that has a monopolistic grip on our region. I voiced my suspicions, admittedly unproven and untested, that the cause of the blackout – the loss of two major transmission lines – may have been due to the lack of proper maintenance during the summer months.

Most were surprised to learn that National Grid was a foreign company. Really? I didn’t know that. None, however, were surprised by the possibility of a lack of maintenance.

I then plunged into my vision of a potential solution: a system of photovoltaic electric panels, solar hot water panels, and a rain barrel system, to be installed on most homes in Rhode Island, at a cost of about $15,000, with the caveat that the cost, with interest, be paid back when the home was sold. The grid wouldn’t fade away, but it would be supplanted by a smart grid system where consumers could make their own decisions about energy use, instead of being tethered to a dinosaur of an infrastructure.

Such a system would save homeowners about $3,000 to $4,000 a year in avoided costs. Further, it would create a need for a veritable army of skilled workers to install the systems. It would serve to cut peak demand for electricity, the price-setting mechanism for the grid, saving the region millions of dollars.

How would it be funded? Initially, through a state bond, which would be replenished by the income realized from repayment of the initial systems when homes are sold. “It’s a much better use of money than the more than $125 million that the investment in Curt Schilling’s bankrupt 38 Studios will end up costing the state,” I argued.

The conservatives dug in their heels: The payback’s too long. I responded: But you’re willing to dish out money for increased insurance costs, with no payback? And the business losses each time a new, more powerful storm hits?

As expected, one fellow geezer got angry – in a friendly way – with me, pushing back, saying that climate change was a hoax, and that installing photovoltaic was way too expensive, and a waste of taxpayer money.

Another asked me a more hopeful question: “Where do you get your information, Richard?” I offered him some suggestions.

He, like so many others, often seems captive of the ideological news stream from The Wall Street Journal and Fox News and CNBC and Bloomberg News.

The bottom line: If we don’t talk about it with among our friends, family and neighbors, and share what we know, who will? 

Most of the so-called expert commentators on TV, on radio and in print, live in cocoons that are far removed from the realities of everyday life. They are never the ones who lack health insurance, whose homes are foreclosed on, who lost their job because an actuary says that anyone over the age of 50 is a health insurance risk and will cost the company too much money.

Only when tragedies occur – and we get “stuck in the mud somewhere in the swamps of Jersey” – does reality intrude. And, with luck, we have to learn how to listen to each other again, and to talk with people, not at them.

This is the best answer I have, Kathy, as to why people didn’t want to listen to what we were reporting on back in 1984 – and, for the most part, not today, either. As you know, good reporting is still what it takes to change things. Asking good questions. Being persistent. It’s a willingness to talk about climate change at the dinner table, and at the “geezer club” on Saturday mornings.

If I look at how public opinion is shifting in regard to food – the push back against the dangers of high fructose corn syrup, the sugar delivery system in our soft drinks and its relationship to diabetes and obesity, the use of toxic chemicals and endocrine disruptors in pesticides, the growing movement against genetically modified organisms in our food – I take heart.

And, like you, Francesca is still posing tough questions. Her recent piece, “Are we ready for the next super storm?” appeared in the winter 2013 issue of The SE Journal, published by the Society of Environmental Journalists.

Yes, Kathy, good reporting is still what it takes.

Postscript: For positive solutions, read my earlier post, “Dancing in the dark, tethered to a dinosaur”

Another Postscript: Last week, another major storm hit Rhode Island – inexplicably named Nemo, as if meteorologists had suddenly become fans of Jules Verne and Captain Nemo in his “20,000 Leagues under the Sea.” More likely, my son pointed out to me, they were probable fans of the 2003 animated film, “Finding Nemo.”

My neighborhood was without power for 48 hours – and I had no heat, no hot water, no electricity during that time when temperatures fell below 10 degrees outside. I survived, thanks in part to my neighbors, who let me have a warming session in front of their wood stove, brought me a thermos of hot soup, lent me wood to burn in my fireplace. It was miserable, and I am still “grouchy” from the experience.

In the daily newspaper – and on talk radio – there was a lot of noise about the Lt. Governor having been on vacation in Europe during the storm, a way to distract us and out anger from where it could be directed: finding out the cause of the power outage, the breakdown of high transmission lines.

Yes, Kathy. I believe good reporting is what it still takes.

Tethered to a dinosaur, dancing in the dark

PROVIDENCE – The night before I am to drive my 21-year-old son to college in Ohio for his senior year, we are sitting on the back porch as an azure sky deepens into evening. Flames from a wood fire in my old Weber grill dance underneath a pot filled with hot water for washing up. A now blackened stainless steel kettle burbles with water for tea.

Candlelight illumines the dining room behind us, and the sky is lit up with natural starlight, undimmed by ambient light. An impromptu orchestra of crickets and cicadas perform amidst a landscape of broken tree limbs that inundate my backyard.

I take this opportunity to ruminate out loud: Why are we still tethered to the dinosaur of a centralized electric grid, a remnant of the 20^th century industrial world, when everything else had gone wireless and mobile?

For the second day in a row, thanks to Hurricane Irene, we, along with some 274,800 fellow Rhode Islanders who are National Grid customers, have no power, and no Internet. More than half of the utility’s 480,000 customers – about 96 percent of all electricity users in the state – are dancing in the dark with us. That number is down from the initial 344,000 customers reported to have lost power the day before.

Rhode Island, because of its small size with only about 1 million residents, has only about 200,000 single-family homes. How much would it cost to invest in attaching solar photovoltaic panels, solar hot water panels, and rain barrels on 100,000 single family homes in Rhode Island – at the rate of 20,000 homes a year for a five-year period? More to the point, perhaps, how does that compare the cost of damages to homes and businesses and insurance claims from the storm?

For each home, the total cost would be roughly about $15,000, or $1.5 billion in total. It could be done as a zero interest loan to the homeowner, who would pay the $15,000 back when that home is sold, creating a revolving fund. Homeowners whose property exceeds $700,000 in value would be responsible for the 50 percent of the cost.

The homeowner would reap enormous cost benefits: elimination of electricity costs at about $1,200 a year; fuel oil costs would be cut by at least 50 percent, around $1,000 a year, for the 172,000 Rhode Island households that heat their homes and hot water with oil; and water use bills would also decrease, as all outside water use would hopefully come from the rain barrels, saving about $300 a year. That’s $2,500 a year in savings per home, or $50 million across the state each year, which consumers can pump back into the economy. Payback in avoided costs would be around six years.

Even better, it would create an army of new job opportunities. Rhode Island would become a test bed for the next generation of smart energy technologies. It would create the need for hundreds if not thousands of new technicians to install the devices, as well as spark any number of new companies and innovative apps to run and control the systems.

Besides, if you look at the total cost in damages to local homes and businesses and insurance claims from Irene, it’s a much better way to invest that money, building the future, than repairing the past.

Over the next 72 hours and 1,400 miles of turnpike between Oberlin and Providence and back again, as my son and I confronted a world torn upside down by Irene, we were often guided by an iPhone. At each critical intersection in our travel, the new wireless world trumped the old infrastructure.

We discovered that Rhode Island had fared much better than our compatriots in Vermont, upstate New York, Connecticut, western Massachusetts and New Jersey.

About 60 miles of the New York State Thruway was shut down due to flooding in the aftermath of Irene, so we were forced to shunpike it through rural towns along Route 20 that, judging from the number of Victorian homes in disrepair, had last been prosperous around the same time when the Erie Canal was still a thriving conduit.

What should have taken an hour to travel became a stop-and-go scenic detour that took three hours. As a result, tired and hungry, we decided that it was worth finding some place in Rochester to eat that was healthier and more appealing than Roy Rogers at a rest stop. My son quickly used the iPhone to check out restaurants, compare menus, check the hours, and create directions – and off we went to Magnolia’s, a delightful café.

The next day, while my son drove, I conducted business for my day job, the health care reporter for weekly The Providence Business News. I was able to arrange the scheduling of a photo session for a story I was writing about a doctor and nurse who, because of electronic health records and direct interconnection with the local hospital’s emergency room, were able to coordinate seamless care for a patient who had suffered a stroke. I conducted an interview with the doctor and nurse from a highway rest stop. In addition, I was able to file my weekly online vertical, with a little help from my son’s laptop. I wrote the vertical on his computer, he e-mailed the story to me, and I was able to send it along to the editor.

If these things sound very normal and ordinary, they should. What’s not normal is that the mobility of our world has not yet translated into a similar freedom from the electric grid.

Redux: An October snowstorm left hundreds of thousands in Connecticut, New Jersey and Massachusetts without electricity, due to downed power lines. A utility company in hard-hit Western Massachusetts blamed it on a “historic Nort’easter [that] caused pervasive damage,” as if God was the one who had created the grid. In their blanket of ads, the utility asked for continued patience, saying: “We understand the difficulties the conditions caused you and families.” I’m not sure that customers will ever truly believe the utility really feels their pain.

An old friend from high school posted on Facebook on Nov. 1: “No current events to report in my Montclair neighborhood….because there's no current. Four days (and counting) without electricity or heat. At night when I walk Leon [his dog], it's like a ghost town; dark and abandoned, with lawns and sidewalks littered with hundreds of fallen tree limbs.”

What’s blocking the adoption of a system of distributed generation – as solar panels on homes are known in the energy biz – teamed up with next generation smart technology, so we can make good choices about how we use electricity? It’s the tenacious grip that utility companies have on the grid, our lives, and our wallets. Their hold is much more difficult to remove than the fallen trees and limbs on downed power lines.

What’s the solution: It’s us. We can shiver in the dark and then commiserate together on Facebook, or we can demand that our government and our leaders invest in building a 21^st century energy infrastructure.

Here’s the value proposition: The price of electricity is determined by peak demand in the summer. Rhode Island’s electric grid is managed by what’s known as ISO-New England, based in Holyoke, Mass. For every 1,000 megawatts shaved off peak demand, the region will realize about $600 million in electricity savings a year. ISO-New England expects to generate some 3,200 megawatts – about 10 percent of its peak capacity – from the demand-side management of the equation in 2014.

Rhode Island has the opportunity not only to invest in distributed generation, but also demand-side management, as the new technology tools to manage the use of electricity – smart grid apps – are overlaid upon the existing mobile, digital and wireless infrastructure. Consumers will be able to make choices – online – about time-of-day electricity usage tied to smart energy appliances. Batteries with enhanced storage capacity will augment renewable systems such as wind turbines and solar panels.

Rhode Island has the opportunity to be the innovative, cutting-edge test bed for the global energy market of renewable, distributed generation combined with next generation smart grid technology applications.

We can work it out

The headline is a typo, I believe, one of those wonderful Freudian slips, where the copy editor uses “Intuits” instead of the Native American Inuit. The story was a small filler from The Boston Globe, circa 1999, but I’ve kept it in my files, along with the daily local weather forecast, in the best New England vernacular, on the front page of the local daily, which said: “Wicked hot today.” Who can argue with the Inuit tribal members? Who would want to argue with them?

“Our world is the story of men and women, women and men, arguing and agreeing, agreeing and arguing, joining together and falling apart, the true emotional physics, trying hard not to succumb to entropy of the heart.”

EVERYONE ARGUES. It’s our basic human condition.

Since the beginning, recorded history is the story of arguments, large and small.

Philosophers, historians and clinicians may argue and disagree with this premise, but I believe the art of argument defines our human dynamic.

All too often, it is more about dichotomy than dialectic, conflict rather than resolution. Yes or no, not thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Mostly, it comes down to this: “I’m right; you’re wrong,” when we disagree. If push comes to shove, we fight about it.

Rarely, will anyone admit, “I’m wrong; you’re right.” The amount of time we spend arguing about meaningless things – disagreeing about memories, she-said, he-said conflicts, seems directly proportional to our own inability to admit we’re wrong and the other person is right. We shout, we get angry, we stamp our feet (or we try to hide these emotions, repress them, but they still seep out, in our behaviors).

Sadly, it’s often about control and authority, and about certainty, which never really exists. Everything is relative, except in an argument.

Simple truths escape us, for the sake of argument: the Earth is round; the Earth revolves around the sun, we evolved; our climate is changing.

Law is the law, argues the judge in W. H. Auden’s poem, “Law, Like Love.” Law is my priestly words, the priest argues. Law is the sun, argues the gardener. Auden’s answer to them: “Like love we don’t/know where or/why/Like love we can’t/compel or fly/Like love we often/weep/Like love we seldom keep.”

Our world is the story of men and women, women and men, arguing and agreeing, agreeing and arguing, joining together and falling apart, the true emotional physics, trying hard not to succumb to entropy of the heart.

I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT AN ARGUMENT I LOST. The story is not about the argument, per se, but about my own reasons for remembering it.

But first, I feel a need to set the stage, to create a context for what happened.

Let me begin with this scene: Imagine a cramped faculty office in a dismal 1950s brick building at a large university. I am a scruffy, long-haired, bearded writer, my clothes probably have a distinct aroma of wood smoke clinging to them, a sweet-and-sour natural aftershave, because I was living in an old house that we heated with a woodstove. Underneath a parka I am wearing an infrequently worn sports jacket over a button-down flannel shirt. Fashion has never been my plate. It is late January 1978, a bitterly cold day, with temperatures hovering around minus 10 degrees. I am being interviewed for a job by a stern-looking, aging woman professor, her gray hair tied back in a bun. I was applying to be an adjunct instructor, teaching “rhetoric” at the University of Massachusetts. She has handed me a copy of the standard syllabus, and instructs me that a critical section of the curriculum is debating. Do I have any questions?

I ask: “At what point, when you teach debating, does the student say, “Gee, you’re making a good point, better than mine. I’m wrong; you’re right.”

The chair of the Rhetoric Department stares at me as if I were a brother from another planet. As Raymond Chandler might have written the exchange:

“Huh?” she answered, her eyes widening in disbelief, as her body, which had been slouched behind her desk, suddenly became upright.

“I bet you learned that dialogue from reading The New Yorker.”

“Huh?” she repeated.

I didn’t really say that, I just thought it, conjuring up a similar passage of Chandler’s, as his character, detective Philip Marlowe, responds with a similar retort to a thug’s “huh?”

I asked my question again. The Rhetoric Department chair frowned, the lines deepening in her forehead, and she answered, with one of those tight smiles that’s not a smile, enunciating each word for emphasis: “Because…it’s…not…part…of…the…curriculum.”

I answered back: “Then all you’re doing is teaching young students how to use words as tricks to persuade, not to think.”

But, I wanted the job, and they were desperate for people to teach freshmen Rhetoric, so I agreed to teach debating, and I was hired to teach two Rhetoric classes, which were mandatory for freshmen.

My syllabus included a section on debating; I used the question, “Resolved: A woman is justified in killing her attacker if she is being raped.” The required reading for the section was a selection from Susan Brownmiller’s Against Our Will.

I think it proved to be a true learning experience for many of the young men and women in my classes, to have to go in front of the class and argue one of the two sides of the resolution. I did not let them choose sides by themselves; they had to pick which side, pro or con, by picking paper slips out of a shoebox. I’d like to believe that it helped them to think more critically.

BUT I'M DIGRESSING HERE. I really want to talk about an argument I lost. I am feeling a bit vulnerable about it, about going there along a direct path. So, please, bear with me.

Let me provide some additional context. I come from a family of arguers. At our dinner table, it was always no holds barred. Being the youngest, it was tough to compete with two older sisters, bright and articulate, who could talk much faster than I could, and who would always interrupt me to say: “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It wasn’t until I was 15 that I was able to contradict both parents and both sisters over breakfast. I left the table, gathered my evidence – a newspaper editorial, two magazine article, three books – and placed them loudly on the table. “Now, may I begin…”

My family laughed. I had come of age in my family tradition of arguing.

In high school, I often argued against the wisdom of authority. These were arguments that you could almost never win, and I recognized that. But I still persevered.

In college, argument was an intellectual art form, an academic mission, often carried out to inane degrees. I remember once, as a student member of Hampshire’s College’s School of Language and Communications, arguing for hours with faculty members, most of them linguists by trade, who wanted to drop “communications” from the name of the school, “because language implied communication,” making the name redundant. I don’t remember much of the actual argument, but as I recall, I said something like: “If you really think language implies communication, why don’t you just call the school the “tower of b-a-b-b-l-e,” spelling it out for them (pun intended).

Sometimes, in college, arguing could become a lens of human cruelty, as a kind of a sarcastic enforcement of the rules of class, wealth or coolness. Here, once again, I had been well schooled by my older sisters, with an ability to go for the jugular, if provoked and attacked verbally. I could be brutal, but I never enjoyed it. It was a self-defense mechanism. I found little pleasure in reducing people to tears and humiliation, even if I felt that they had brought it on themselves by attacking me first.

I was not always “tactful” when arguing, particularly when encountering smug arrogance or intellectual bullying. I was tenacious as a black Labrador clamping down on a stolen T-bone steak. I was fearless, often taking on formidable opponents, and sometimes prevailing.

Once, I was at the home of a family friend, where Eleanor Flexner, author of “A Century of Struggle,” was a guest. As I recall, her book had just been re-issued in paperback, and the gathering was a small luncheon in honor of that event. At the time, I was taking graduate writing classes at the University of Massachusetts in its MFA program. Flexner’s book is considered to be a groundbreaking history of the women’s rights movement in America. Flexner herself was a committed Marxist and had a reputation for being cantankerous and strident.

In the course of conversation, I was asked who I was and what I did. I told her. Flexner then dismissed me, with an off-hand remark, much as if she was swatting away a bothersome gnat, saying with that writing couldn’t be taught, it was an innate gift of genes possessed by good writers, like herself. You either could write, or you couldn’t, and clearly, if I was a student in a writing program, I couldn’t write.

I protested, saying that writers evolved, and learning to write was a process of learning to listen, to be able to capture the rhythms of language. She interrupted me, mocking what I had said. The others in the room laughed, and I felt as if I had been transported back at the family dinner table. I turned to Flexner, and asked, pointedly: “Are you toying with me? Is that the way you have fun? You’re not even listening to what I have to say.” Then we really got into it, much to the chagrin of the guests, who kept trying to interrupt and distract us.

Later that evening, out on a date with a woman friend from college, I retold the story, to her jaw-dropping amazement and disbelief. “You argued with Eleanor Flexner?” Not only that, I told her, but Flexner ended up admitting that what I had to say actually did make sense to her.

I have had some formidable opponents – shouting matches with Alan Dershowitz, who once threw me out of his office, and a screaming, curse-filled exchange with the writer Jimmy Breslin, whom I had caught being lazy, trying to pass off a recycled column written two years earlier as something new, while working in Washington, D.C. Breslin was unhappy, to say the least, when I brought it to his attention. And, I went nose-to-nose with the editor of The New York Times Magazine, even as one of the magazine editors was kicking me under the table, trying to get me to stop.

Once, the writer Marge Piercy and I got into it at a Christmas party on the Cape. I was on the verge of putting together a television production company, with the hope that the burgeoning cable TV industry would provide a new market for creative work, similarly to what had happened with the alternative newspaper industry. Piercy said that I was being short-sighted, that the industry would soon be co-opted by corporate behemoths, and they would own the airwaves. It was an illusion of opportunity, she claimed.

She was right, in part. But so was I; my own company didn’t succeed, but there was also another small production company, Florentine Films, starting up in Northampton, Mass., that was a success. You may have heard of the founders, Ken Burns and Buddy Squires.

THESE DAYS, I'VE MELLOWED. I don’t like to argue as much. I’ve learned to sidestep aggressiveness and belligerence in others, much as if it were a cold, icy puddle in winter. I don’t rise to the bait so easily; it doesn’t mean my beliefs are any less sincere or less strongly held. I’m more than willing to listen to folks who want to tell me that chocolate is the best flavor ever in ice cream. For them, it may be true. As long as they don’t impinge on my ability to order vanilla, there is no reason to argue.

In today’s world, with the Internet, we have often created separate, parallel universes of argument that are based upon faith, not fact, well-named as echo chambers, in which we can hear our own beliefs magnified and reinforced. It is, perhaps, a return to the bicameral mind, when tribal societies conjured up internal voices as guides and gods, as the brain further evolves. [Yes, let’s keep the subtext transparent here; this a reference to Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind.]

Misinformation has gone viral; we might as well be trying to read animal entrails to discern the truth. Hucksters rule. When Tom Waits sang, “Step right up, everyone’s a winner, bargains galore!” did he ever imagine that Glenn Beck would answer the call?

Perhaps it’s a sign of my own vulnerability – my own uncertainty – about the argument that I lost, that I am avoiding going directly there. But, being able to show my vulnerability is a sign of my own maturity and confidence. One more digression.

THIS IS THE STORY ABOUT AN ARGUMENT THAT I WON through persistence – and probably saved my father’s life. The situation may sound more like a badly written TV soap opera. On Monday, April 1, 1980, my mother and father were in a terrible accident on the Tappan Zee Bridge, my mother killed instantly when a van hurdled the barrier and struck my parents’ car head on. My father was badly injured, but survived.

He talked his way out of the hospital the next day, and that Friday, the first funeral service was held in New Jersey. The actual burial was to be held Sunday in Springfield, Mass., and on Saturday, I drove up with my father to his sister’s home in Longmeadow, Mass., where about 50 of my parents’ closest friends had gathered. Just outside of Hartford, my father started to groan and moan and lurch in his seat. We stopped at a Howard Johnson’s, and I accompanied him to the men’s room. The pain kept getting worse; he asked me to take him back to the car, telling me: “I don’t want to die in a Howard Johnson’s.”

My father, however, wouldn’t let me drive faster than the speed limit, insisting that I maintain 55 mph as he continued to groan in pain.

The scene gets more comic – and tragic. We arrived at my aunt and uncle’s home, my father in the front seat, moaning in great pain. I had to go in and gather my two sisters, tell them the situation, and ask people to leave, because my father wasn’t feeling well. In the midst of this, my girl friend arrived, with her dog, which promptly split, taking off to explore the new neighborhood.

We went to a nearby home, belonging to family friends who were away. Somehow my father rallied, so we drove back to my aunt and uncle’s house, just as my girlfriend’s dog came trotting back. After a half-hour of conversation, my father was stricken again. He turned white as a sheet and started to have trouble breathing.

I urged him to call a doctor, but he refused. A doctor who lived down the street showed up with a bottle of Pepto Bismol, saying that it would cure him of whatever ailed him.

My sisters, as usual, ignored what I had to say. One called her shrink, to ask what they should do. The other said that everyone should go to bed, and my father would be better in the morning.

Like a Greek chorus, I kept saying, again and again: “Let’s call a doctor right away.”

No one listened, and I, falling into the familiar pattern of younger brother, deferred to my older sisters. So, we all went to bed. At about 2 a.m., one of my sisters woke me, worried. My father’s conditioning was worsening, he was gasping for breath. What should we do?

This time, I acted. I called our old family doctor, who had once saved my life when I was 10, during a severe allergic reaction. My body had been covered with hives, and he arrived late at night, giving me two injections of adrenalin. I learned years later, he had then said to my mother, “If he turns blue, he may have a hive under his windpipe, so call an ambulance.” So, she stayed up the entire night, watching to see if I turned blue.

I called Dr. Blake, waking him up, saying it was an emergency. I told him the symptoms. He immediately diagnosed what was wrong with my father, a ruptured spleen, called ahead to the hospital, to clear him for admittance, and we were off to the races. My father, in between groans, gave me permission to speed.

At the hospital, we had to deal with an emergency room taken over by the results of a gang fight. A young gang member had been hit over the head with a baseball bat, and his fellow gang members kept coming in, asking: “Is Tony all right?” To which the same answer was given: “No, he’s all fucked up.”

While we were trying to get my father admitted, a woman doctor in the next room was trying to get Tony into a wheelchair, so he could be admitted, too. “I ain’t sitting in no wheelchair. I can’t have anyone see me in a wheelchair.” Fine, the doctor answered him. “We’ll throw a sheet over you and pretend you’re a ghost.” And that’s the way she wheeled out of the emergency room, with a sheet over his head.

It was four a.m. when they finally admitted my father. The next day, as we buried my mother, my father underwent emergency surgery to have his spleen removed. There’s even more to this story, but the point I’m trying to make, I think, is that it was an argument I won, and it saved my father’s life. Winning and losing arguments can have important consequences.

ARGUING MATTERS. Just ask a lawyer for his or her opinion. It’s not that I like conflict, or strife, or arguing. But when you disagree, it’s helpful to know why. It’s not about being difficult, it’s about caring enough – and sometimes caring too much.

It’s an argument I lost that I really want to talk about.

It took place in 1973, with a young freshman; she was 17, I was a senior, all of 21. We were involved, so to speak, dancing around a push-and-pull relationship. I had even been invited to meet her parents, going to her home for Rosh Hashanah. The next weekend, my parents took us out for dinner.

The argument was about birth control. The young woman, let’s call her Wendy, was going to have an IUD put in by the school’s health service, which used the Dalkon Shield as the “menu du jour” for birth control. You could also get fitted for a diaphragm, but the health service recommended the IUD. The ob-gyn was actually named Dr. Clapp.

I told Wendy that I thought it was mistake, not about the IUD as birth control, but the kind of IUD, the Dalkon Shield. I had heard the Dalkon Shield was very dangerous, causing serious pelvic inflammation. I had read news stories about a U.S. Army doctor, who had testified about the problems his patients had encountered. The device would later be voluntarily withdrawn from the market.

I made a copy of the article and gave it Wendy. She told me, flat out, that it was none of my business, it was her body, not mine, and I was being, in the vernacular of the day, a controlling, sexist pig.

I persisted, and she asked me to leave her alone, not to call her, and said she wanted to stop seeing me. I cried, and told her how much I cared for her (whatever that meant), and I was concerned for her, and didn’t want to see her do something dangerous to herself. As a parting gift, I gave her the three volumes of published diaries of Anais Nin.

A few days later, after a class, a professor came up to me and said that a young woman, a freshman, had come up to him that day, wanting to talk about Anais Nin. Knowing that Nin was an author that I very much liked, he suggested that I meet her and talk with her. Her name was Wendy, he said. I laughed somewhat nervously, telling the professor thanks, that yes, I would call her.

Later that night, I called her, and I told her the story of what had happened, saying it seemed more than coincidence. Two days later, when she had the IUD inserted, I called her to ask how she was doing. She said it had been a bit painful, but she was OK. Afterwards, we never really spoke very much.

As the years went by, I occasionally ran into Wendy – once, at a no-nukes rally in 1978 at the site of the Seabrook, N.H., nuclear power plant. I was standing backstage when Wendy came up and gave me a hug. She was running an alternative school in Poland Spring, Maine, using her parents’ former summer home as a base camp. She invited me to come for a visit, which I did about two weeks later. By coincidence, a video crew making a documentary was there, people I knew and had worked with in Western Massachusetts. It was a platonic visit.

In 1980, I actually ran into her father at a funeral of an old family friend of my parents. He spoke at length with me, which surprised me, since when I had gone with Wendy to her home when she was a freshman, he had taken the opportunity to grill me for more than an hour about what my intentions were for his daughter and what I intended to do with my life. Afterwards, he told her that I was someone who had both feet firmly planted in midair – which I took as a compliment, though it wasn’t intended as such.

I had, at times, shared this story of the argument with other women who were my girlfriends, when we, as a new couple, had reached that stage of being together when we talked about other relationships and what had gone wrong, as a way of shedding the past and moving more deeply into the relationship.

When I retold the story of the argument, my girlfriends all agreed with Wendy, saying it was none of my damn business, and I was wrong to intrude. The story was a non-starter for continuing the current nascent relationship. On some things, I guess, I’m a slow learner, but I finally got it. I stopped telling the story, dropping it from my personal history.

Fast forward to 1999. I’m married, with a son. One Sunday I’m reading the magazine story in The Boston Globe, written by a husband, about how he and his wife had adopted a child from Kenya and sweated out the adoption, worried that the young girl was HIV positive. Their other child, a son, had also been adopted. The wife in the story was Wendy.

I couldn’t help but wonder: was the reason she couldn’t have children herself related to the IUD, the Dalkon Shield? My wife said sharply: None of your business.

I let the matter drop; I had learned my lesson. In a relationship, you need to choose your arguments well.

Now, more than three decades later, I still wonder sometimes about the argument Wendy and I had, the one I lost. Does it matter? Wendy appears to be happily married, she has adopted two children, she appears to have a very fulfilling life. Maybe it had nothing to do with the Dalkon Shield; maybe the problem was her husband’s, not hers.

If we were to meet, would I ever have the courage to ask her? Was it problems with the Dalkon Shield that prevented you from having children? I suppose it’s none of my business, really. Perhaps I should just let it go.

Still, I wonder if there was a way I might have prevailed in the argument.

Should I have tritely tried to sing the Beatles tune, “We can work it out?”

Should I, perhaps, have said something more pointed, employing the technique that therapists call the double-bind, such as: “Good choice, Wendy. Now, if you become sterile as a result of infection from the Dalkon Shield, you’ll never have to worry about birth control again.”

As I write this, I am trying to work out for myself why this argument should matter so much, that it lingers in my unconscious, almost 40 years later.

On one level, I can agree that Wendy was right – it was her body, it was her decision, and it was not my right to intervene with that decision.

To try and get her to change her mind was perceived by her – and by other women with whom I shared the story of this argument – as a young male’s insensitive attempt to control a woman’s choice.

No doubt, it seemed very close to arguments about abortion, and a woman’s right to choose, which I supported then and support now.

It is a woman’s choice; I wasn’t against birth control, I wasn’t against IUDs; I was against the Dalkon Shield, which I believed to be dangerous. And, it was very dangerous.

Perhaps what this is really about is my need to let go of the argument and its memory. The reality is: good people will do bad things to hurt themselves, and you can’t prevent them from hurting themselves – or others. Letting go in such a losing argument is a matter of survival, and a sign of your own strength. There is hardly ever a good reason to plunge off a cliff, or to careen into a snow bank off a highway in the midst of a blizzard to prove you are a good driver.

I began to write this dialogue with myself as I was about to descend on New Jersey to attend my 40^th high school reunion. It started out entitled, “What we talk about when we talk about high school,” a play on the Raymond Carver book about love, or more aptly, Carver’s intense, often perverse view of love.

The title of the dialogue became, more aptly, “We can work it out,” in homage to the Beatles and our generation.

After the reunion, I had an epiphany driving back. Just as the Quebec province license plate reads, “Je me souviens,” or “I remember,” the New Jersey license plate, instead of “The Garden State,” should perhaps read, “J’oublie,” or, “I forget.” Fittingly, the title of Nora Ephron’s new book, after all, is: “I Remember Nothing.” Which, of course, isn’t true.

It would be easier to say, I forget. The argument, won or lost, makes no difference. Like a long-forgotten photo of a former lover stuffed behind a metal file cabinet. Just let go of it. I forget; I don’t remember.

The problem is, I do remember. And, I still think it matters. We are responsible for everything we do, for everything we observe, and for all our arguments we make, won or lost. And, “in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”