Remote Work

I'm like some kind of contemporary superhero. Death-defying. Call me SuperJew. Impervious to termination.

Not in the crime fighting sense, which always made me wonder - why do all the classic superheroes, freaks of nature who possess inhuman powers, use them to fight crime? Why not just enjoy the everyday benefits? 

Here's what I mean.

Maybe you've heard this story. I read it in a novel, so don't give me credit. 

The setting is a concentration camp during WW2. Imagine Auschwitz. Gas chambers. Public gallows. Ovens with massive smokestacks.

A train arrives. A selektion on the ramp is made, and a man is sent left - straight to the 'showers'. He is stripped naked and along with women, children, and other men, herded into the gas chambers for immediate extermination. The Zyklon B pill is dropped in. 

Fifteen minutes later the doors are open and a Sonderkommando team gets to work dragging lifeless bodies out, loading them onto wagons and rolling them over to the ovens for incineration.

Lo and behold the aforementioned man, an utterly ordinary-looking man - he could be a regular bookkeeper, or a banker, or a journalist - walks out of the gas chamber as if he had been casually taking a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park.

This has never happened before. The growing pile of corpses proves the gas worked perfectly. The SS guards stand there in shock. 

Except for one who immediately grasps the gravity of the situation, and in fear of accusations of incompetence extracts his pistol from its black leather holster and fires a bullet from behind the prisoner directly into his skull at close range.

Nothing happens.

The man does not drop to the ground. He flinches, and then rubs the back of his head as if he had bumped it on the door frame.  

Panic sets in.

The man is grabbed by the arm and rushed off to the camp Commandant's office. 

The Commandant is told what happened. 

The Commandant does not hesitate. Being a skeptic, he slides the pistol out of his holster and fires a bullet into the chest of the Jew seated in front of him. The chair jumps, but otherwise the Jew seems to feel nothing. He yawns because it has been a long, exhausting day.    

After some interrogation, the Commandant learns that the newly-arrived prisoner was a well-known journalist before the war. He wrote for one of the popular daily newspapers. In fact, before the Commandant was a Nazi, he worked as structural engineer for a company that built bridges and was an avid reader of this Jewish journalist's stories. 

Now both men arrive at simultaneous realizations.

First, the journalist-Jew realized what was in store for him at this terrible place: An eternity of torture and suffering.

Second, the Commandant realized that this one Jew, who appeared to be impervious to death, will spoil the Führer's ultimate plan to exterminate all the Jews of Europe. He decides that the only thing to do is to keep this man a secret.   

The Commandant says to the journalist-Jew that he must stay and work in his home as a servant for the duration of the war. 

The journalist accepts but makes one request. He asks if every evening he may tell the Commandant a story. If the story pleases him, the Commandant will attempt to kill the storyteller. This is a no-brainer for the Commandant. He gets a delightful story and a chance to kill this SuperJew.  

I am the storyteller. The SuperJew. Okay, I'm exaggerating.  

It's not The Final Solution, and my eternal life of drudgery isn't exactly working in the home of a Nazi.  

But like the imprisoned journalist-Jew who wants to die but can't, I have a superpower that is both my salvation and my purgatory. 

I can't be killed in an HR sense. As in become unemployed. Terminated from my current employment position; Vice-President Actuarial at the Insurance brokerage fim of Caine Fitzpatrick (hereinafter CF). At lease until AI inevitably comes for my job. And trust me, I've tried. Over and over again.

It all started when I sold my family's insurance brokerage company. 

Rothstein & Sons Insurance was founded by my grandfather eighty years ago. My father eventually took over the firm, and after him, twenty years ago I took over.

I got my Actuary Degree, and worked hard to build-up the firm. I expanded our clientele fourfold over ten years, which naturally made us acquisition bait. Eventually the big fish swallow the small fish.

I was happy about it. Always thinking of my exit strategy. Cash in and enjoy the proceeds while I still had my health and could enjoy myself.

I'm 62. It's been two years now and I still can't get out.

We agreed on a price, they gave me a position with a fancy important-sounding title, an office and an expense account to ensure a smooth transition. 

After about a year I slowed down the pace of work. These days I do almost nothing. Barely even go to the office anymore. Make a few calls. Spend most of it looking after personal investments. Day trade stocks. 

I started dropping hints to my 'boss' - a nice enough guy named Cleeve Sidwell 15 years my junior - that it was time to give me the boot. To drive the point home I started answering his message with monosyllables without being rude. Yes and no slowly became maybe.

Also started ignoring most of the emails that came my way from the six agents who report directly to me. Cut them loose.

Told my 'assistant' Linda that she didn't have to work so hard, and to take afternoons off whenever she wanted. She's got young kids. All this did was endear me to the employees I oversee. 

CF has 4,000 employees in 23 countries. My little division doesn't really exist for them. I won't quit because I want a severance offer. There's still three years left on my contract. 

The only question is how long it will take for them to notice. I work hard at trying to get noticed in the worst possible way.   

Months passed. I ignored messages, skipped afternoons, and barely showed up at work. People just assumed I was working remotely. Remote work, what a joke.

Making myself scarce wasn't working so I tried the opposite tactic.   

One time I told Cleeve that we needed to talk. I barged into his office like a madman. Took the phone out of his hand - he was midsentence. Slammed a bunch of papers on his desk like he was being served a lawsuit. 

I said, "Cleeve, do you have any idea how much money I'm costing this company?! Do you?! I cost this company over 100 grand a year! It's here in these spreadsheets. I'm keeping track. Column one is the revenue my clients bring in. Column two is my salary, my expense account, the cost of renting my office, my assistant's salary, yadda yadda yadda. Look at all of that red ink!

It was a rounding error on their balance sheet.

He just laughed. "You're such a jokester." 

Big companies are like cruise ships. They have their own language, customs, and sense of belonging, everyone in the same boat. The captain sits somewhere unseen above deck steering a massive structure that can't easily change course.

The harder I try to get canned, the more they ignore me. I'm like a passenger who jumps overboard, waves his arms and screams Help! and no one notices. 

Except I can't even do that. 

The only thing I haven't tried yet is stripping down to my boxers, climbing up on the desk and singing I Will Survive at the top of my lungs.

Then the day finally arrived. 

Cleeve called me up and said, "We need to talk. How about we get some lunch together on the company's tab at Walter's?" 

I was more than happy to oblige. In fact I was giddy, certain that he was finally going to cut me loose and wanted to do it over cocktails, to ease the shock. 

A few days later we met. I was looking upbeat, bouncing on the balls of my feet, while Cleeve looked preoccupied, anchored firmly to the ground. 

We were shown a quiet table in the far corner of the resto. No doubt Cleeve's secretary arranged this particular table so there was no chance we'd cause a scene. 

"How are you?" Cleeve said, sitting across from me, his face long.

"I'm great," smiling broadly.

"Health? The wife and kids?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Good, good."

There were more inane pleasantries for five minutes. We reviewed menus, ordered something expensive and doubles.     

Waiting for our meals to arrive, Cleeve reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a piece of paper and pen.  

"I have something I need to talk with you about," he said.    

I am thinking, finally, someone read the spreadsheets. The memo has gone up the chain. The upper echelons have commanded that it's time to trim the fat, and he's seen the obvious. I'm the fat. 

"Yes, yes," I said, anxious for the news. 

He's going to make me an offer. Write down a figure to buy me out. It'll be on the low side, but I won't care. I'll be so happy just to get out. Even so, I'll protest. Not too much. Just enough so Cleeve feels gratified to have done a tough job. 

He wrote out a number. High five figures. Slid the paper across the table.

It was quite a bit more than I thought it would be. 

He said, "Look, I know it wasn't what you were expecting."  

I didn't say anything. Stared down at the paper, biting my upper lip, trying desperately to suppress a triumphant laugh.

"It's all we can offer."

"But are you sure I can't get a bit more." 

"We haven't had a great year. Didn't quite hit our revenue projections." 

"Well," I said. "I guess this is it then."

"Yes," he said, looking disappointed. 

"I understand. I've really enjoyed working for CF. It's been a great experience."

"Next year," Cleeve said, "with any luck, we'll have a better year. I'm sure we will." He grinned reassuringly.

"Next year?" I said.

"Yeah, the annual bonuses are tied to a formula that's locked in."

"Bonuses?" I'm feeling dizzy, and not just from the second round of doubles. 

I failed again. 

I was quiet for the balance of our meal. Felt like I'd tried everything and was now resigned to working for CF forever. His phrase 'locked in' echoed in my mind.

These days I'm still being as unproductive and absent as I can be. 

The summers are easier because at least there's golf.

I expect that someone from HR will soon be sending me time-management and mindfulness webinars and asking if I want to increase my remote work hours.

And I've started practicing my Gloria Gaynor imitation. 

The Saad Truth About Self-Promotion

Ordinarily I wouldn’t pay much attention to Gad Saad. But his announcement this week illustrates something larger about life lived through social media.

If you haven't heard about him, there's very little reason that you would. Saad is an undistinguished marketing professor specializing in something called Behavioral Sciences and Darwinian Consumption at Concordia University in Montreal. On Rate My Professor Saad scores a barely passing grade average of 2.7 out of 5 from 96 student ratings.

He may not excel in academia, but he certainly does in marketing himself, particularly online. 

He has a popular podcast and YouTube channel called The Saad Truth. His online career really took off when he started appearing on Joe Rogan's podcast in 2015. He's made almost annual appearances since, most recently just last week. Saad has built a significant online following with 1.3 million followers on X and over 360,000 subscribers on YouTube.

He's published a number of books, veering away from academic audiences and toward a popular conservative-oriented readership. His most recent book "Suicidal Empathy: Dying to Be Kind" has really taken off, thanks to recommendations by Rogan and Elon Musk, and television appearances on Fox News. 

The book is essentially an anti-woke screed, arguing that we in the west are too kind, empathetic and tolerant for our own good. That message has been Saad's ticket to fortune and fame over the last decade. One that's been wholeheartedly embraced by right-wing broadcast media and the online manosphere. 

Saad made mainstream headlines this week by announcing that Canada has become too woke and antisemitic for him. He is taking a position at the University of Mississippi, and will apply for permanent residency and eventually U.S. citizenship.  

Saad, who is Jewish, says he has not felt safe at Concordia for a while. It is true that since October 7th 2023 especially, the university - which is decidedly more progressive and diverse than its crosstown rival McGill (my alma mater) - has been a hotbed of pro-Palestine political activity.

I guess Saad is unaware that on January 10, 2026 the venerable Beth Israel congregation in Jackson Mississippi was firebombed. The assailant allegedly used an axe to break into the synagogue, douse the lobby and library with gasoline, and set it ablaze. Fortunately no one was hurt. They sure do have a tradition of embracing their ethnic minorities down in Ole Miss.  

So if you've been keeping score, Saad and Jordan Petersen have left Canada for refuge in the US, and two well known highly respected Yale University scholars, Jason Stanley and Timothy Snyder, have taken up residency in Toronto. As we hockey fans say, we got the better of that trade. 

I think it's pretty clear that Stanley and Snyder made their moves on the basis of principle, arguably taking a step down in prestige by coming to the University of Toronto. For Saad the move is academically-speaking lateral at worst, and a big step up self-marketing and money-wise. 

Antisemitism is inarguably on the rise, not just in Canada, but in the United States, Australia, Europe and everywhere else. Saying you are moving to the US to escape antisemitism is on the face of it absurd. So take Saad's talk of feeling unsafe in this woke country with a giant bushel of salt.   

But there's a bigger point. This is what happens when your online existence eclipses your real-world one. And it doesn't matter if the bubble you live in leans right or left. Your worldview gets warped either way. If you're Jewish you think armed Pro-Palestine activists or neo-Nazis plotting to kill you lurk around every corner. 

I've seen it over and over again with friends and acquaintances. Their paranoia and fear is directly proportionate to the amount of time they spend on social media. 

The Saad truth, as Gad would put it, isn't that he can't distinguish Montreal from Mississippi. Mississippi, in fact, has the most permissive gun laws, open and concealed carry, in the U.S. It's that life lived primarily through algorithmic outrage eventually makes everywhere look like a war zone.  

The bottom line is that Gad's big announcement is really just a Saad and cynical ploy for self-promotion.  

My Grandfather's Legacy

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Grandpa told me

you can take any piece of shit

frame it, hang it

in a Worth Avenue gallery

or a Palm Beach home,

and people will call it art.

He said this long

before symbols on a screen

were mistaken for reality.

Grandpa got rich

in the last century

making dresses

for women

the way Henry Ford

made Model-Ts.

He understood

about machines;

the parts uniform,

interchangeable—

said we end up spending 

our lives maintaining machines

and eventually forget

what they're for.

The Message of Blue

It seems that the ancient Greeks didn't see blue. Odd thing to say when you consider that the most distinctive feature of the Greek Islands is their beautiful white-washed houses with bright blue roofs.

This idea that the ancient Greeks didn't see the colour blue was posited in the mid-1800s by the British scholar and politician William Gladstone. Gladstone literally thought the ancient Greeks were colour blind when he noticed that Homer’s epic poems (The Iliad and The Odyssey) heavily featured references to black, white, and red but never used the word "blue", famously describing the sea as "wine-dark." 

What we call blue was likely understood by the ancient Greeks as a variation of black, sort of the way the colour we call pink is actually a variation of red.   

Blue is, in fact, the rarest colour in nature. Think of how rare blue fruit or blue animals are. Actually the animals we unmistakably see as blue, like the common blue jay, don't carry blue pigment in their feathers. The blue we perceive is created by shifts in the angle of light as it bounces off the structure of the feather. It's an optical illusion. That's why when you see blue the tint tends to shift as you move.

With the exception of the ancient Egyptians who did have a word for blue, references to blue in the cultural record around the world are chronologically the last to appear. Some cultures still don't have a word for blue. 

The Indian guru Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj often spoke of our mind working like a movie projector on a white screen. Reality, he said, is a projection of the Self. Yes, there is a physical world. But what we actually see is selective, a function of what we devote our attention to. We order, construct and prioritize it perceptually, and there is a feedback loop. Our brains get wired and trained by both the stimuli of the physical world and enhanced, or de-prioritized, by what we learn to notice. 

The message of blue is pretty clear. What we so confidently think of as reality is, at least in part, a cultural agreement about what we think deserves to be seen.

The Greeks could obviously perceive the wavelengths we call blue. Their eyes worked perfectly well. But perception is not just biological, it is linguistic and cultural. We don't simply see the world. We learn how to divide it up. Language carves reality at its joints, telling us which distinctions matter and which can be safely ignored.

Once a culture isolates a colour concept and gives it a name, people begin noticing it everywhere. Before that, the distinction can remain strangely blurry, folded into other categories. Blue lingered for centuries at the edge of human attention, hiding in plain sight in oceans, skies, shadows and distance.

That should make us a little humble about our own certainty.

If an entire civilization could sail across the Aegean beneath endless blue skies without fully abstracting "blue" into consciousness the way we do now, what are we currently failing to see? What emotional states, social assumptions, political myths, or dimensions of experience remain invisible simply because we have not yet developed the language or framework to perceive them clearly?

Attention is not neutral. It is a spotlight. And whatever falls outside its beam can remain effectively invisible, even when it is staring us directly in the face.

The universe doesn't give a damn

The universe doesn't give a damn. That's why we're here. To give a damn.

It's a simple, powerful philosophy of life.

No God necessary. No saviour who loves you. No inherent meaning. 

This philosophy accepts the cold realities of known existence. It tempers nihilism with purpose by placing life — and especially consciousness, with its unlikely capacity to care — at the center.

One of my kids' favourite cassettes was Really Rosie by Carole King, based on stories by Maurice Sendak. We played it constantly in the car, and later watched the animated film version at home. It’s the whimsical story of a group of inner-city kids singing, dancing, dressing up, and play-acting — what children used to do before cellphones colonized boredom. Flamboyant, imaginative Rosie leads the gang through their small urban adventures.

My favourite song was Pierre, about an obstinate little boy whose answer to everything is: “I don’t care.” His loving, bewildered parents ask him to do things. Pierre shrugs and answers, “I don’t care.”

Then one day, while his parents are out, a hungry lion arrives and asks Pierre if he wants to die. “I don’t care,” Pierre replies. So the lion eats him.

When Pierre’s parents return home, they find the lion sick in Pierre’s bed. They ask him, "Where is Pierre?" The lion opens his mouth and Pierre’s trademark phrase comes out: “I don’t care.” Realizing what happened, they rush the lion to the doctor, who eventually extracts Pierre intact. By the end of the story, the ordeal has transformed him. Pierre finally learns that he must care.

I find the story shocking, funny, touching, and oddly profound all at once. The best children’s stories often are. Think of Grimm’s fairy tales.

Pierre struck me as emotionally detached — a child so disconnected he cannot even recognize obvious danger when it presents itself. I used to wonder how a child becomes that numb. His parents seem loving enough, merely confused and exasperated, like most parents are.

Pierre’s indifference feels less like stubbornness than emotional self-protection. Caring makes you vulnerable, to disappointment, rejection, grief, embarrassment, dependence.

But the story’s moral is that ultimately not caring is even more dangerous.

The risks of not caring may at first look like safety. Emotional detachment can protect you from pain. But it also isolates you from the very thing that gives life meaning: connection to other people.

The rewards of caring are never guaranteed, but they include friendship, love, family, community — and the possibility of being cared for in return. The qualities that nurture life.

Caring is simply the acknowledgement of life's interdependence.

The universe is mostly airless, empty, dark and inert. 

It doesn’t give a damn. 

That’s why we have to.

The Last Review

In the past two weeks I've been following with interest the online controversy over The New York Times recent list of the 30 Greatest Living American Songwriters.  

I'm a sucker for 'Best Of' lists, and especially when it comes to music. The NYT list is justifiably being eviscerated for both inclusions and omissions. Particularly by some very knowledgeable and influential music YouTubers. 

There are many reasons these lists fascinate us in this cultural moment. It's partly because of the overwhelming amount of unfiltered creative content now available — far too much for anyone to properly evaluate. And it's partly because of the abundance of public opinion, informed and uninformed alike, which further erodes trust in expertise.

The controversy made me think about my own brief career as a literary critic.

Well, not really a critic. A reviewer. I reviewed fiction, non-fiction, and poetry back when newspapers still had Saturday book sections. Mostly for the Montreal Gazette, and occasionally for trade publications like Books in Canada.

I got the gig almost by accident. For a time I was program director at the Jewish Public Library in Montreal and was often invited to speak at afternoon book clubs and “study groups,” usually made up of women gathering over tea and cookies to discuss a book every month or two. They would hire reviewers to present the book and lead discussion, and I became a regular on that circuit.

Around the same time I began attending synagogue regularly, where, purely by chance, I met the editor of the Gazette’s books section who was also a regular attendee. One day she asked me if I’d be interested in reviewing books with Jewish content, especially Israeli literature. I always found this amusing because I had no special qualifications beyond general interest and being reasonably well-read.

A Gazette review paid between $150 and $250, depending on length. That sounds decent for 800 to 1500 words until you consider the work involved. I’m a slow, careful reader. A 300-page book could take me a week. I took notes, filled gaps in my knowledge with research — this was still the era of dial-up internet — and then spent hours writing and rewriting the review.

As an added bonus, we got to keep the book.

At first I loved seeing my opinions in print. The newspaper had granted me authority, and I quickly began to believe I deserved it. If the Gazette thought I knew what I was talking about, maybe I did.

I reviewed a few dozen books, mostly but not exclusively with Jewish themes.

Then two things happened. The Saturday review section steadily shrank, and with it the number of assignments. Six pages became four, then one. Monthly reviews became occasional ones.

At the same time, I began to feel like a phony — and worse, a potentially harmful one.

I generally tried to stay positive, even about books I felt lukewarm toward. When I disliked a book, I aimed for neutrality. I was always conscious of the years of labor, hope, and emotional investment behind what I was reviewing. Especially the small press books written by local authors.

But another part of me felt I owed readers honesty.

The problem was that I increasingly doubted what my judgments were actually based on. I had no academic training in literature. I was simply a reasonably intelligent, fairly well-read person capable of expressing opinions clearly.

And I began to realize that my reactions to books were often deeply idiosyncratic — shaped as much by mood, temperament, and whatever psychological knots I happened to be wrestling with as by the quality of the writing itself.

Eventually the conflict came to a head. I was assigned a debut novel by an Israeli-Canadian writer whose earlier short story collections I had loved and enthusiastically praised in print. I expected the review to be easy. Positive reviews usually are.

Instead, I hated the novel. Not mildly disliked it. Hated it.

So I wrote an excoriating review. I convinced myself I had a duty to be unsparingly honest.

The moment I submitted it, I regretted it. I immediately asked the editor to kill the piece. There was no reason to publicly skewer the book. I didn’t need to prove I had taste, authority, or intelligence by dismantling someone else’s work.

I could make a persuasive case that the novel was bad. And I could make it sound authoritative.

But maybe I reacted so viscerally because I had loved the writer’s earlier work so much. Or maybe the review had less to do with the book than with whatever personal tensions I happened to be working out at the time.

That was the moment I realized I was never going to write another newspaper review. I decided it was more important to be honest with myself than with the readers of my reviews.

The Incident of the Golden Calf

This week Yisroel showed up. You remember him from last week — the smart one. He brought someone new to experience me.

The new kid’s name was Yoseph. Same age as Yisroel, but not dressed like him, more like a miniature adult: a long black coat hanging to his ankles, a boxy hoiche (high) hat instead of the usual kneitch (pinched or folded) fedora. And for some reason this week Yisroel’s hat looked wrong, not his usual hat — too small for his head — and when I mentioned it, he admitted it without explaining why.

Yoseph barely spoke. He had thick, oversized square glasses, buck teeth, and carried a school backpack over his ankle-length coat, which made him look strangely anachronistic, like a child dressed for another century. I asked what was in the backpack.

“Pamphlets,” Yisroel answered for him.

Yoseph was clearly the junior partner on the mission. Maybe he was there strictly to observe, maybe he was in training. I decided at that moment Yoseph would not be disappointed by the visit.

Yisroel got right to it.

“This week we read Behar,” he said. “On the mountain. Mount Sinai. And we learn that Sinai was not a high mountain. From this we learn—”

“That we need humility,” I interrupted. “God chose a modest mountain to deliver the greatest gift possible.” I've heard this one a hundred times.

“Yes,” Yisroel said. “A person can be important like a mountain, and still remain humble.”

“Nice,” I said. “But that’s not why He chose Sinai.”

The boys looked at me.

“He chose Sinai because it was small enough for Moshe to climb. If God brought the Israelites to Everest, how would Moshe get up there? Sometimes the obvious explanation is enough.”

No response.

“Which raises another question,” I continued. “Why didn’t God simply float Moshe to the top? The people had already seen the ten plagues, the sea split, water come from rocks, manna from heaven. One more miracle wouldn’t have changed much.”

Still nothing.

“I’ll tell you why. Because God wanted Moshe to make the climb. And He wanted Israel to watch him make it. This was the end of miracle-dependence. The Law only matters if people do the work of following it. Faith alone isn’t enough. Taking responsibility is what matters.”

“And of course,” I added, “they immediately failed the first test.”

“The Golden Calf,” said Yisroel.

Then he said something unexpected.

“Rabbi Zushe says that for America’s 250th anniversary, trump wants everyone to honour the Sabbath.”

“I didn’t hear that,” I said. “But you go back and tell Rabbi Zushe that Glen says he’s committing chillul Hashem.” I know the kids tell their Rabbi about our weekly visits. 'Chillul Hashem' means desecration of God’s name. I realized it was quite an accusation.

The boys stiffened.

"Any Jew praising trump is doing exactly that. You know why? Because trump builds golden statues to himself. It’s literally the aigel hazahav (the Golden Calf) all over again. A violation of the second and third Commandments."

I pulled out my phone and showed them the photo of golden trump from his golf course this week.

“Tell Rabbi Zushe he should be ashamed."

Added smiling, "There was something pertinent in this week's Torah portion after all."

The kids left the office looking a bit shaken. 

Job done.