April 15, 2019--Post Privacy

On Sunday, the New York Times devoted all of the Sunday Review to the effective end of privacy. Here is my take, written some months ago--

More than usual people are concerned about privacy. This the result of the news that Facebook did not prevent the sharing of very personal information about 87 million of us. In fact, they sold it to Cambridge Analytica, which, in turn may or may not have used that data in shady ways to support Donald Trump's run for the presidency.

What did people addicted to Facebook (me included) think they were doing with all the data about our intimate selves we so casually handed over to them? 

Facebook makes billions every month but doesn't charge users to use their "platform." What was Facebook's business model that yielded so much money? If we had paused for a minute to think about how Instagram's and Google's and Snapchat's and YouTube's and Twitter's business models make a fortune but do not charge users we would have realized they made their money by selling us out to marketers and political consultants. 

So all the outrage directed toward Facebook sounds a little self-serving and inauthentic. My bet is that hardly anyone will as a result stop using Facebook or the others.

And, it seems to me, that very few people care profoundly about this. I want my Facebook; I don't want to pay to use it; and I don't care very much, perhaps not at all, about losing my privacy.

After all, don't the social network platforms depend upon us eagerly wanting to surrender our privacy? Aren't they ultimately narcissistic-enabling vehicles for us to let it all, or much of it, hang out for "friends" and friends of friends and friends of friends' friends? Isn't the dream of much of this to have one's postings widely shared, go viral? How else can that happen unless we put it all out there to be probed and passed around?

Years ago I had early glimpses of how people were moving to sacrifice privacy for the sake of convenience, expediency, and fun. Though at the time I really didn't get it.

About two decades ago I was "online at Citibank" (not on-line, but on-line) waiting to deposit a check. This in the days before there were ATMs. Ahead of me were two women who were talking at full volume. One was worried about her daughter, "I'm afraid she's becoming addicted to cocaine," she said loud enough for everyone on line to hear. "I don't know what to do with her. I can't afford to pay for a recovery program. I suppose I just have to hope for the best."  

Her friend put an arm around her and, changing the subject, began to talk, equally audibly, about her boyfriend, "He punched me the other day. We were having an argument and he got violent. Slapped my face hard enough that I think he loosened a couple of my molars." She opened her mouth wide and showed her friend the two teeth that were effected. Her friend leaned closer to examine her molars.

Thankfully, they soon got to the head of the line and were summoned by one of the tellers. The memory is still vivid for me.

A few years later, walking home on Broadway, there was a young woman who appeared to be talking to herself in a very loud voice. Another crazy person, I thought. So young to be talking to herself, I thought. But as I moved quickly to pass her, I realized she was speaking to someone on her cell phone, talking into the wire attached to the phone on which there was a small microphone. Again, without needing to strain to pay attention I could hear every word she said. They were talking about meeting that evening at a local restaurant. All very benign, but evidence that the culture was shifting. I realized we would soon have no need for those phone booths with accordion doors that were still common on urban streets.

Some time after that I was in Washington for a meeting with Alaska Senator Ted ("Uncle Ted") Stevens. He was the chairman of the all-powerful Appropriations Committee and I was, I confess, seeking his support for a $20 million earmark for a promising public school reform project that, to lubricate the process of seeking his help, we were more than willing to bring to his state.

He was about to be term-limited out of the chairmanship so the timing was urgent. 

We spoke about the project (which he later arranged to be funded) and then told me that as a consolation for losing the Appropriations chair, he was to become the hear of the Senate Commerce Committee. He wasn't, to tell the truth, happy about this. It was a much less powerful position.

"One thing I'm concerned about," he said, "is the responsibility for protecting internet security. Really, privacy. And to be honest with you, I'm 82 years old, and don't know anything about the internet or, for the matter, computers."

"So, what are you going to do?" I asked.

"I'll tell you what I already did," he said, smiling, "I asked my youngest staffers to do a little looking around and see what they could learn about me on the internet. You know, when and where I was born, where I live, who I'm married to. Things of that sort. I told them to get back to me in a week or so and they said no problem."

"I think I know where this is going," I said.

"Well, later in the day, the same day, they appeared in my doorway holding stacks and stakes of paper. 'What's all that?' I asked them. They told me it was what they had already come up with on the internet. You wouldn't believe what they found in just a few hours."

"I would," I whispered. He was on a roll and I didn't want to interrupt him.

"You know I have six kids. Well, not only did they find out everything about Cathy-Ann and me but also about them. Where they were born, how old they are, where they went to school, what they studied, and what they did after college. Also, where they live, and if they owned a house how much they paid for it. They even knew about their student loans and the mortgages on their properties."

He shrugged his shoulders, "And that's just the tip of the iceberg. It's enough to say that everything's out there to be found by anyone who knows how to do that. And my staffers told me how easy that is. From what they explained to me I understood why it only took a couple of hours to gather all that information."

"This is terrible," I said, "And so as the about-to-be chair of the Commerce Committee what are you thinking about doing?"

He stared off into space, "Probably nothing."

"Nothing?" I was incredulous. Remember, it was years ago. For most of us knowing about the power of the internet was rather new.

"It's too late," he said, "No one in Congress cares anything about this. They think it's good for business. No one gives a rat's ass about privacy. As I said, it's all over."

This was 2005 and from an 82-year-old senator from Alaska who never turned on a computer. He was still able to see the future.

"It's over. It's all over," he said as I thanked him and turned to leave.

April 13, 2018--Post-Privacy

More than usual people are concerned about privacy. This the result of the news that Facebook did not prevent the sharing of very personal information about 87 million of us. In fact, they sold it to Cambridge Analytica, which, in turn may or may not have used that data in shady ways to support Donald Trump's run for the presidency.

What did people addicted to Facebook (me included) think they were doing with all the data about our intimate selves we so casually handed over to them? 

Facebook makes billions every month but doesn't charge users to use their "platform." What was Facebook's business model that yielded so much money? If we had paused for a minute to think about how Instagram's and Google's and Snapchat's and YouTube's and Twitter's business models make a fortune but do not charge users we would have realized they made their money by selling us out to marketers and political consultants. 

So all the outrage directed toward Facebook sounds a little self-serving and inauthentic. My bet is that hardly anyone will as a result stop using Facebook or the others.

And, it seems to me, that very few people care profoundly about this. I want my Facebook; I don't want to pay to use it; and I don't care very much, perhaps not at all, about losing my privacy.

After all, don't the social network platforms depend upon us eagerly wanting to surrender our privacy? Aren't they ultimately narcissistic-enabling vehicles for us to let it all, or much of it, hang out for "friends" and friends of friends and friends of friends' friends? Isn't the dream of much of this to have one's postings widely shared, go viral? How else can that happen unless we put it all out there to be passed around?

Years ago I had early glimpses of how people were moving to sacrifice privacy for the sake of convenience and expediency. Though at the time I really didn't get it.

About two decades ago I was online at Citibank (not on-line) waiting to deposit a check. This in the day before there were ATMs. Ahead of me were two women who were talking at full volume. One was worried about her daughter, "I'm afraid she's becoming addicted to cocaine," she said loud enough for everyone on line to hear. "I don't know what to do with her. I can't afford to pay for a recovery program. I suppose I just have to hope for the best."  

Her friend put an arm around her and, changing the subject, began to talk, equally audibly, about her boyfriend, "He punched me the other day. We were having an argument and he got violent. Slapped my face hard enough that I think he loosened a couple of my molars." She opened her mouth wide and showed her friend the two teeth. Her friend leaned closer to examine her teeth.

Thankfully, they soon got to the head of the line and were summoned by one of the tellers. The memory is still vivid for me.

A few years later, walking home on Broadway, there was a young woman who appeared to be talking to herself in a very loud voice. Another crazy person, I thought. So young to be talking to herself, I thought. But as I moved quickly to pass her, I realized she was speaking to someone on her cell phone, talking into the wire attached to the phone on which there was a small microphone. Again, without needing to strain to pay attention I could hear every word she said. They were talking about meeting that evening at a local restaurant. All very benign, but evidence that the culture was shifting. I realized we would soon have no need for the phone booths with accordion doors that were still common on urban streets.

Some time after that I was in Washington for a meeting with Alaska Senator Ted ("Uncle Ted") Stevens. He was the chair of the all-powerful Appropriations Committee and I was, I confess, seeking his support for a $20.0 million earmark for a promising public school reform project that, to lubricate the process of seeking his help, we were more than willing to bring to his state.

He was about to be term-limited out of the chairmanship so the timing was urgent. 

We spoke about the project (which he later arranged to be funded) and then he told me that as a consolation for losing the Appropriations chair, he was to become the chair of the Senate Commerce Committee. He wasn't, to tell the truth, happy about this. It was a much less powerful position.

"One thing I'm concerned about," he said, "is the responsibility for protecting internet security. Really, privacy. And to be honest with you, I'm 82 years old, and don't know anything about the internet or, for the matter, computers."

"So, what are you going to do?" I asked.

"I'll tell you what I already did," he said, smiling, "I asked my youngest staffers to do a little looking around and see what they could learn about me on the internet. You know, when and where I was born, where I live, who I'm married to. Things of that sort. I told them to get back to me in a week or so and they said no problem."

"I think I know where this is going," I said.

"Well, later in the day, the same day, they appeared in my doorway holding stacks and stakes of paper. 'What's all that?' I asked them. They told me it was what they had already come up with on the internet. You wouldn't believe what they found in just a few hours."

"I would," I whispered. He was on a roll and I didn't want to interrupt him.

"You know I have six kids. Well, not only did they find out everything about Cathy-Ann and me but also about them. Where they were born, how old they are, where they went to school, what they studied, and what they did after college. Also, where they live, and if they owned a house how much they paid for it. They even knew about their student loans and any mortgages on their properties."

He shrugged his shoulders, "And that's just the tip of the iceberg. It's enough to say that everything's out there to be found by anyone who knows how to do that. And my staffers told me how easy that is. From what they explained to me I understood why it only took a couple of hours to gather all that information."

"This is terrible," I said, "And so as the about-to-be chair of the Commerce Committee what are you thinking about doing?"

He stared off into space, "Probably nothing."

"Nothing?" I was incredulous. Remember, it was years ago. For most of us knowing about the power of the internet was rather new.

"It's too late," he said, "No one in Congress cares anything about this. They think it's good for business. No one gives a rat's ass about privacy. As I said, it's all over."

This was 2005 and from an 82-year-old senator from Alaska who never turned on a computer. He was still able to see the future.

"It's over. It's all over," he said as I thanked him and turned to leave.

Senater (Uncle Ted) Stevens

April 10, 2018--Up Next, Google

Though Google is more diversified than Facebook (they have a significant cloud business, are deeply involved in self-driving vehicles, smartphones, YouTube, and Blogger, which I use), by far most of their income derives from their original and still core business--as an Internet search engine.

For the latter, users have access to it for "free." Not unlike Facebook.

I put free in quotation marks because as with Facebook there is a hidden cost associated with using Google's search software. 

In exchange for information (I just used Google to search for the other ventures in which they are invested) they charge no fees but get paid by the reams of personal data we so willingly and unthinkably give them access to. 

They in turn sell that data, that big data, to advertisers and others who in turn design and pass along to us unsolicited, tightly personalized, targeted ads.

In this way, for this enormous, global, lucrative segment of their business Google is not so different than Facebook. 

And thus it would be no surprise to find them before long in the same humiliating circumstance as Facebook. Snared or hoisted with  their own petard. 

(Google, as I just did, to find where Shakespeare makes reference to being hoisted with one's own petard.)

Expect that Trump (as his people did with Cambridge Analytica), or, who knows, Hillary or Bernie, had one of their marketing intermediaries purchase demographic and psychographic data from Google that was for good or ill useful in their campaigns.

Most of us haven't been paying attention to what else was going on with our favorite social media or e-commerce sites as we searched and shopped. But now the genie is out of the bottle, Mark Zuckerberg is about to appear before Congress, and most of us would be reluctant to stop using Facebook or Google or Amazon.  

I do not see myself giving up these any time soon much less back shopping in the mall or looking up anything in the Encyclopedia Britannica. I'm addicted. 

August 15, 2017--Inner Ear: An Audiological Tale (Part 1 of 2)

Dr. Gary Schwartzberg had my hearing aids hooked up to his computer. By doing so he could see if the adjustments he made during my last visit were still functioning properly.

"Looking good," I think he said. Without them in place I resumed lip reading.

"I'm happy to hear that," I said.

"And I can see that since you were here you used them on average 13 hours and six minutes a day." He said that loud enough so that I could hear the details.

"Really?" I said, "That's calculated by and stored in my devices?" I used "devices" since I know that's his preferred way to refer to my hearing aids.

"That's just the beginning of what I can see."

Feeling a little like my devices were a form of Big Brother, concerned about my privacy, I asked, "OK, I can handle it. What other kinds of surveillance is going on?"

"I can see from this that 76 percent of the time you were in quiet environments. Probably reading, writing, hanging out with Rona." Rona smiled at him. "And it looks as if you averaged less than an hour a day watching TV."

"The Trump news all day is driving me crazy."

"I understand that," he said, "I can tell how little you're watching by how often you activated the gizmo I gave you that blue-tooths the TV sound right to your devices. It doesn't look as if you listened to much music either by the looks of this," he was squinting at the screen, "I can also see you were out walking every day. Which I know is a good thing for you." He smiled at me.

"How does the machine know that?"

"You told me you live by the water and I programmed these to reduce the over-amplified sound of the wind and surf. Pretty impressive, right?"  He tipped back in his chair, rocking back and forth, quite proud of himself.

"One more thing," he was grinning, "It looks as if your breakfasts on average lasted almost 90 minutes a day. Probably because you were spending so much time arguing with Jack." He winked.

"You can see that?" I was incredulous, "You know what this sounds like?"

"1984?"

"Since you mentioned it, yes, 1984. To tell you the truth, this is not my favorite thing. I'm not a privacy junkie--in fact, since computing and big-data, I've basically given up on privacy. What we used to think of it no longer exists. I'm living with that. Not that I have an alternative unless I decide to live off the grid."

"Too late for that," Rona said, "Might as well try to make the best of it."

"So, are you telling me," I swiveled my chair so I could look directly at Gary," that these aids or devices, whatever, are like smart phones and computers--everything is stored forever in versions of hard drives?"

"They're not all the same. I think, yes, computers keep your emails forever even if you delete them. Ask Hillary Clinton about that. But for these," he tapped my hearing aids which he was about to reinsert in my ears, "the kind of information they capture and I told you about, is by comparison quite benign. I don't know what to tell you. If you're so uncomfortable about this diagnostic use of the chip capacity in your very high-tech hearing aids, we can move back to something simpler and . . ."

"I can complete the thought for you--'simpler but much less effective.'"

He was happy to hear that I wanted to keep the ones I've grown accustomed to and which have literally changed my life.

"One thing I can assure you is that the specifics of what you're hearing are not captured and retained. I mean . . ." He began to mumble. I could hear that quite well with the devices back in my ears. "I mean, maybe. If only . . . I don't know."

"Don't know what?" I was concerned about him sounding so confused.

He looked away and then uncharacteristically got up from his chair. "I'll be right back," he said, vanishing.

"I wonder what's going on," Rona said, looking concerned. "I mean, he never . . . I mean, he seemed confused. That's not like him."

"I agree," I said. "I wonder if anything I said upset him." We looked at each other and shrugged.

With that he was back.

He sat down, wheeled closer to us, and, lowering his voice, said, "There was this incident."

"Incident?" Rona and I said simultaneously as if in chorus.

"A couple of years ago. With this woman. A client of mine. A wonderful, much older lady. And she was a lady. Very elegant. Very self-confident. I really enjoyed working with her." He paused and again broke off eye contact.

"And?" I said.

"She had the same kind of devices you have. An earlier iteration of them. This was about three, four years ago. So much with technology changes over that amount of time. But they were pretty much like yours--Starkey Muses."

"That's it? That's what has you behaving so weird?" I was confused.

"There's more. Much more. Though she's no longer around." Gary sounded ominous.

"She's no longer around?"

"Like I told you she's quite old. I mean, she was . . ."

"She's dead?"

"Passed."

"And? That's it? I suspect that with your clientele being on the older side--like me," I tired to lighten things up--"this is not an infrequent occurrence. It's happening to me all the time. It feels like half the people I know are . . .  You know. One of these days Rona's going to need to call you to cancel my adjustment appointment. I mean, all my appointments, if you get my drift."

"I get it," he said, "But you'll be around for a long time. How old was you mother when she . . . ?" He trailed off.

"107."

"A good number," he said, sounding distracted, "As I was saying, my client . . . " Again he looked away. At the ceiling this time.

"She passed? She died? However you prefer to put it."

"I know I'm stammering," Gary said, "But what happened was so strange. Even weird."

"Just tell us what happened," Rona said empathetically.

He took a deep breath. "OK. You asked for it. Here goes."

"It's about time," I said, "If you don't get to it soon my hearing aid batteries will die. Sorry. I didn't mean to put it that way.

He smiled. I was glad to see some of the tension had abated.

Gary's story--

Let's call her Mrs. Caldwell. When she first came to see me, and subsequently, she was alone. Almost the first words out of her mouth were to tell me that though she was 87 she didn't think she needed hearing aids. As you know, this is not unusual. She told me she was here because her niece, who was her closest surviving family member, wanted her to be tested.

From the way she carried herself, walked, spoke, and dressed she felt much younger than 87. She was full of energy, as vital a person as I've ever encountered. I knew from just a brief time with her, when she came in for her diagnostic hearing test, that if she chose to become a client, I would enjoy working with her.

The test showed her hearing loses to be modest but were likely, over the next year or so, to worsen; and so my recommendation was for her to get ahead of the curve and not wait until they were absolutely necessary. I was happy that she, without hesitation, said she wanted to proceed and quickly decided on the Starkey Muse type. Like yours.

As you know it takes a few weeks for the devices to arrive and then over two to three months there are the required monthly adjustments. As I had anticipated, she was not only a pleasure to work with but also, getting to know about her life, among the most interesting people I have been fortunate to encounter.

I learned that she was born in England and her father, who was a surgeon and served in the First World War, was also a member of Parliament. Her parents sent her abroad, to America, where there were more educational opportunities for women. After secondary school, which she attended in Boston, she was admitted to and attended Mount Holyoke College, where she was a premed.

She next went to medical school, back in Boston, and though she aspired to be a surgeon in the family tradition--her brother was a neurosurgeon who was killed in the Korean War--it was difficult for woman at that time to be accepted for a surgical residency. So she became a psychiatrist instead and built a successful practice in Cambridge where her husband-to-be at Harvard was a professor of romance languages. By then Mrs. Caldwell considered herself to be an American and in the 1950s became a citizen.

They opted not to have children and, she felt, were a loving and successful couple. They had numerous friends and a rich social life. They were fortunate never to have economic worries and traveled to all seven continents, all the while managed to avoid most of the stress that is normal in major careers and in most relationships. She described them as having a life, as she put it,"Almost too good to be true."

Her husband died suddenly two years before I began working with her. She said he lived to his mid-80s and never spent a day in a hospital. That was true for her as well, she revealed, almost feeling guilty about her good fortune.

I interrupted--"So far nothing sounds weird. She is clearly amazing and blessed, but when does the weirdness begin?"

Gary continued--

Be patient. It is about to be revealed.

Final part tomorrow . . .

Harvard 1950

April 10, 2015--Ready for Your Closeup?

Though I hate the proliferation of surveillance cameras that make me feel that wherever I am under scrutiny--on the street, in my car, going through a red light, in my Manhattan apartment elevator, getting coffee at a 7-Eleven--I am having some second thoughts about being tracked and continuously videotaped.

All our traditional notions of privacy have been obliterated by these cameras, urban crowding, social networks, big data mining (check out the explosion of ads targeted to you on Facebook), and a youth culture that thrives on self-promotion and exhibitionism.

Then of course there are all the people whose smartphones are also video cameras, the hackers and, more than anything else, the various domestic surveillance programs of federal agencies such as the CIA, FBI, and especially the NSA. Pretty much everything that someone wants to know about you--from the sources and amounts of your income to your medical records to your shopping and reading habits--are readily available. Thus, though some may hate knowing this--and for whom the only alternative is to live in the North Woods off the grid--by now there is virtually nothing one can do to retain any shred of privacy.

And then there are the benefits that are less discussed--how these images and data enhance legitimate efforts by the police and justice system to keep us safe.

In the news in the last day or two are glaring examples.

First, in Boston, at the conclusion of the trial of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, with his brother one of the Boston Marathon bombers, we were reminded of how large a part surveillance cameras on the street where they placed their pressure-cooker bombs contributed to their being tracked down and apprehended in only days, which thwarted their plans to explode more bombs in New York City. Without the images of them walking calmly in lockstep toward the bomb site it would have likely taken many days or weeks to apprehend them.

And also a few days ago, in North Charleston, SC, a white policeman, Micahel Slager, was caught on a smartphone camera when he gunned down and murdered a black man, Walter Scott, who from the images it was clear was posing no threat to the officer. Without the video it is likely that it would have been easier than it will be at the eventual trial to cover up the truth of what occurred.

So how to think about this is complicated.

September 22, 2014--Willy, Ben, Me: Ray Price

Willy said, "If they didn't have the pictures there would be no issue."

"Of what?" Ben asked. "What are you talking about?"

"About that football player who punched his girlfriend."

"She was his fiancée and is now his wife," I said.

"What difference does that make?" Willy said.

"What's your point?" Ben asked, sounding annoyed, but smiling, "My coffee's getting cold."

"It's a simple one. How do they put it about pictures being worth a thousand words? Well, in this case, they're worth lots more than that. If it weren't for the film he might not even have been suspended. Or maybe at most for just those two games. As he originally was."

"It is a terrible thing he did, Ray Price."

"You'll get no argument from me. But what really has me upset are all those cameras."

"All those cameras?" Ben was puzzled.

"You like the idea that you go into the supermarket--Hannifords--and they have cameras all over the store?"

"That's to cut down on thefts," I said.

"And at the gas station too," he pressed on, ignoring me. "And where you live probably on every street corner." He was referring to the fact that we live part of the year in New York City.

"To tell you the truth," I said, "I've given up on having any privacy whatsoever. Store cameras, street cameras, and, as with Ray Price, elevator cameras. They even put them in ours in New York. And, of course, it's even worse with the ability to read your emails and listen in on your phone conversations. And I'm not only talking about the government. All those hackers too."

I winked at both Willy and Ben who are quite conservative and frequently rail about getting the government off our backs and out of our lives. Many times I half agree with them.

"Those street cameras down in Boston helped the police track down the marathon bombers before they could go to New York and do more harm. How do you feel about that?" Willy asked.

"I guess I feel OK about that," I said. "But it surprises me to hear you saying this, considering you're both pretty conservative and I would think wouldn't want to have your privacy invaded like that."

"But it's only pictures," Ben said."I wouldn't be OK with this if the pictures also had sound so they could listen in on my conversations."

"That also surprises me," I said. "You're all right with the pictures but only if there's no sound? I don't get the distinction."

"Freedom of speech. First Amendment," he said, thinking that was enough to say to make his point and convince me that the videos without sound are not a problem.

"What about the right to privacy? Though," I quickly added since they know the Constitution, "that's not specifically stated in the Bill of Rights."

"Maybe, but about the pictures," Willy said, "and about that football player, my point, beyond the privacy business--which I also have concerns about--is how having pictures of something can make us do things very different than if something happens out of sight and is not on film."

"Say more," I said.

"Well, take those two Americans who recently were beheaded. The fact that the ISIS people videotaped it and put it on the Internet caused us--Obama really--to change his policy. Whatever one thinks about him or those ISIS people," he spat, "we know Obama didn't want to get directly involved there. And I agree with him about that. But because of the pictures he had no choice."

"You're comparing what happened to those two reporters being beheaded to Ray Price?" I said, "Come on Willy, get serious."

"I'm not comparing what they did but the fact is that there wouldn't be the same reaction, the big brouhaha, if what they did wasn't captured on film. With no pictures Price would have gotten his slap on the wrist and the terrorists' story would have been in the news for just a few days, of course after speeches condemning them and so forth. But there wouldn't be this crisis with Congress and the public clamoring for us to go after them. Including into Syria and, who knows, with American boys on the ground before too long."

"We've seen that before," Ben said, taking a deep breath. "And we know where that got us."

With that depressing thought we lapsed into silence and turned back to paying attention to our coffee.

January 9, 2014--The 2040 Diner

We had just placed our order at one of our favorite on-the-road places, the 2040 Diner in Fredericksburg, Virginia--eggs and grits for Rona, and the $7.95 county ham special for me--when the owner plopped an overflowing plate of eggs and sides on the counter and himself on a stool.

"That looks good," Rona said, sipping her tea.

He turned in our direction, not responding, looking annoyed by her interrupting what must be a daily ritual.

I thought, "Here we go. We're already in trouble."

"Is that lemon you're squeezing on your eggs?" Rona asked, ignoring his ignoring us.

Without turning he nodded and grunted something indecipherable.

"I've never seen that before."

I mouthed to Rona to "Cool it."

But she persisted, "I never tried that. I love lemon and maybe I'd also like it on eggs."

"Very Grek," he said with a thick accent, squeezing another half lemon all over everything on his plate.

"Grek?" Rona said.

"Grek," he turned fully in our direction, "Grek, Greek. Dot's me. Grek."

"The lemon is very Mediterranean," Rona smiled at him.

At that, with effort, he lifted himself off the stool and lumbered in our direction, hunched over with his arms dangling at his side.

"Lemon we have with everything in Grek." His accent thickened as he neared us.

I was beginning to feel nervous. We were the only customers. 8:30 is often a quiet time in diners that cater mainly to locals--late for those headed to work, too early for older folks, and too off the tourist route for travelers. Usually, exactly our favorite kind of place.

But at the 2040 I was beginning to feel threatened. The two waitresses, who looked as if they had worked there for decades, watched, smiling, which partially reassured me.

"You Brooklyn?" he asked.

"What?" I finally joined in, thinking that might ease the situation. He stood pressing his huge stomach against our table, still with his arms dangling and swinging simian-like.

"Brooklyn? From dare?"

"Yes," Rona chirped, the caffeine in her tea taking hold. "Both of us." She included me in her sweeping gesture.

He glared at me and pointed, laboriously hoisting one of his thick arms. "Him too?"

"Yes, he and me. We were both born there. Are you also from Brooklyn?"

"Grek," he said.

"So how did you know we--"

"Sound just like your mayor. Bloom. Both you and him." He dismissed me with a wave of his massive hand.

"Bloomberg," I said, taking a chance by correcting him.

"No gut."

"He's not our mayor anymore," Rona informed him. "As of January 1st we have a new one. De Blasio."

"De who?"

"Bill De Blasio."

"What kind of name dat?"

"I'm not sure," Rona said. "Maybe Italian?" I nodded.

"Where does he stand on guns?" His accent miraculously gone. "Not like Bloomberg I hope."

"I assume--" I cut myself off, stunned by the change in the way he spoke and not clear where this might be headed.

"He doesn't understand us." What happened to all the Grek business, I wondered. He sounded like someone more from Virginia than Athens.

"In what way?" Rona asked, eating away at her eggs and grits as if not noticing. I was feeling substantially relieved and took to enjoying the wonderful country ham.

"He should come here and talk to people. Real people. Then he would see."

"I think he's not--"

"He is," he corrected me before I could finish.

"Is what?" I was feeling bolder with him backed off from us. But I was still thinking about his disappearing accent.

"Take my son, for example," the taller of the two waitresses said.

"Your son?" Rona said.

"Yes. He has a gun. Most of his friends do."

"I assume," I stammered, "To me it depends on how old he is. I mean from my perspective. But what do I know about these things. I'm just like Bloomberg. From New York. The city. Brooklyn."

"Exactly," she said, having wandered over to us.

"I mean, if I may ask, how old is he? You don't have to tell me, of course."

"I know that." She smiled a bit condescendingly in my direction. I deserved that, I acknowledged. "If you must know, he's eight."

"Eight?" Rona could not hide her surprise. 

"I know what you're thinking but you don't know my boy. Or his grandfather."

"Who is?" Rona ventured.

"He works for Homeland Security."

"Really? What does he--"

"He teaches marksmanship. Trains their best people to become snipers."

"Really? That's amazing," I said.

"To tell you--"

She interrupted Rona. "I think I know what you're thinking. That this is a terrible thing to do and--"

"Not really. I mean I know--"

"That in the real world," she completed Rona's thought, "as awful as it is, it's necessary. Don't you think? I don't need to spell out all the situations where we need them. Snipers. There's no other way to describe them. That's what they do. So we should call them what they are. And are proud to be. To help keep us safe. You remember those Somali pirates?" We both nodded. "Well, my father teaches Navy Seals too."

There was no need to say more. "His grandfather taught him, my son, all about guns. Starting at six."

"Not to--"

"No not to become a sniper," she and Rona laughed together. "But how to handle and respect them. Guns."

"To tell you the truth," Rona said. "This is not something or a world that I know anything about. I guess I'm OK with people having guns. I mean--"

"Among other things, it's in the Constitution," the owner rejoined the discussion. "The Second Amendment says--"

"We coud debate that all day," I said, "The history and meaning of it."

"You mean about the 'well regulated militia' part?" He said, now directly to me.

"That and other things," I said. "But at the moment I'm just enjoying your eggs and wonderful ham. Every year when we're here I can't wait to have some."

"Let's just agree," he offered,  "that things are often more complicated than they seem."

I couldn't disagree about that.

"Like, for example," the waitress said, "how few people from where you're from could learn from my father how to defend us."

"Fair enough," Rona said, "But there are many ways to do that. Not everyone has to . . . . There are other things that need to be done. And people from Brooklyn and other places are helping as well. In their own ways. About things they know how to do."

"One thing, for sure we all agree about," he said, "is that there are some bad guys out there and we have to figure out ways to keep people safe. There are probably other things we could agree about. Like privacy, for example. On the other hand," he caught himself, "considering where you're from, maybe not."

"It might surprise you," I said, finishing my ham, "but for a New York liberal I'm no so liberal about privacy and some of the things the N.S.A. does."

"And it might surprise you that I voted for Obama. Twice. And she did to,"he pointed toward the waitress who was refilling the coffee pot.

"Just once," she winked. "The second time, I didn't vote at all. A plague on all their houses," she said.

"While I'm holding this can I heat up your cup?"

"I'd love some," I said.

June 21, 2013--Privacy v. Secrecy

Ironically, as Americans feel their constitutional right to privacy increasingly impeached by government surveillance programs, the government is losing its ability to maintain secrecy.

And for the same reasons.

Because of the availability of "big data" and the ability to access it--massive computer networks' ability to sweep in trillions of gigabytes of information; information available from telephone and medical records; Internet searches; on-line purchases; and what individuals in giddy ways reveal about their own interests, "likes,"and networks of friends, with all of this information available, it makes it both relatively easy and irresistible for our government to snoop along the digital trail we are all, knowingly or not, blazing.

With the fear and threat of terrorism as the justification, the federal government, as we now know, using unimaginable computer capacities and the ocean of information surrounding and emanating from virtually all of us, has been using the power Congress granted it to do virtually whatever it deems necessary to keep us safe, very much including, with a secret court's permission, listening in on cell phone calls, reading e- and physical mail, assuming anyone any longer drops important letters in mailboxes.

To do this clandestine work effectively, it needs to be done secretly. But the big data and computer systems the government mines and uses to keep track of potential threats and conspiracies can be turned against that very effort and, as we now also know, is equally as impeachable as the right to privacy.

A relatively inconsequential clerk working for government contractor, Booze Allen, with a few keystrokes on his computer in Hawaii, in seconds downloaded thousands of documents that exposed the range of government surveillance programs and the ways in which they operate.

And then he released much of this classified information to the public, thus ending the secrecy necessary for these anti-terrorist programs to thrive.

So along with our privacy, equally jettisoned is the government's ability to keep things secret.

It doesn't get much more ironic than this. And scary.