Singapore’s remarkable success as a nation is often humorously attributed by Lee Kuan Yew to the invention of the air conditioner. While it may start as a joke, there’s truth to it. Singapore has distinguished itself from its Southeast Asian neighbors by presenting itself as a first-world nation, in part thanks to the comfort provided by air conditioning. This ability to offer a conducive work environment attracted investments and opportunities, transforming it from a nation with dirt roads and few resources into a global business powerhouse. Given its limited natural resources, Singapore had to leverage its human capital and strategic location. Without air conditioning, the extreme heat and humidity would have made a productive work environment nearly impossible.

In the United States, we have our own success story: Silicon Valley. This region is often envied worldwide for its innovation and significant contributions to the American economy. Discussions about replicating its ecosystem of innovation frequently mention factors such as deregulation, access to funding, and even the weather. However, one essential element is often overlooked: the garage.

Many of us casually reference the fact that companies like HP, Disney, Microsoft, Apple, and Amazon “started in a garage,” but we rarely reflect on what that truly signifies. Would these companies have emerged without garages? I believe not.

Before Silicon Valley became synonymous with software, it was a hub for hardware development, which is reflected in its name. Building hardware requires a dedicated workspace. While one could use a living room or apartment, the nature of hardware development—often messy and requiring specialized equipment—makes a garage a more suitable option. Indoor soldering generates fumes, lab equipment can damage home furnishings, and external weather conditions can be unpredictable. A garage provides a clean, accessible space for experimentation and innovation without the constraints of a rented warehouse, which can be costly.

For many, a garage is an underappreciated asset. It serves as an ideal workspace—a mini-warehouse connected to your home, customizable and equipped for a variety of tasks. It can house power tools, CNC machines, and other equipment, acting simultaneously as a manufacturing center and a shipping hub. The convenience of working with friends or neighbors nearby enhances collaboration, while climate control is as simple as opening the garage doors.

Garages became popular in the 1920s with the rise of automobile ownership and boomed in the post-World War II suburban expansion. The standardization of homes kept prices low, while the growing demand for cars necessitated storage space, leading to the creation of garages. These spaces allowed homeowners to maintain their vehicles and store tools without cluttering their living areas.

In America, garages have naturally fostered innovation. They offer a sheltered environment where individuals can create and experiment freely, equipped with the tools they need. This contrasts sharply with Singapore’s emphasis on air conditioning, which arose from its hot, resource-scarce environment. While air conditioning supports a thriving office culture, America benefits from its mild climate and ample land, making garages a practical solution for innovators.

Without garages, our landscape of innovation would look very different. Urban settings often limit opportunities for creation, forcing individuals to work in their living rooms, which can detract from quality of life. This issue is evident in the divide between San Francisco and the broader Bay Area, where tech hubs favor software development over hardware production.

Ultimately, the key to America’s growth lies in its garages. If other countries aspire to emulate our success, they should consider building single-family homes with attached garages as a foundational step.

There are two main criticisms of AI art (that is, not on the effects of AI in art, but rather the art itself) - AI art sucks and can’t draw hands or cannot replicate the technique of a human artist, and also AI art lacks ‘soul’ or ‘emotion’ as Art is something sacred to be created by Humans.

“AI art sucks. It can’t draw hands. Look at the line around this character and the inconsistent shading. AI will never be able to replicate the delicate detail around the eyes.”

But the artist community most upset about AI art is not one that will criticize their own on the technical merits of their work. The detachment from technical ability and the value of the artwork is emphasized the most in artist communities which abhor AI generated artwork. Support is given to even the most rookie of artists, and technical merit is downplayed in favor of the content of the artwork, the character of the artist, and the story of the journey itself. In essence, the detractors of AI artwork’s technical merit are themselves, not applying the same criticism to human artwork. This is most likely a byproduct of over-socialization; ‘don’t say anything you wouldn’t want said to you’. Those who throw themselves so deeply into their passion are often the ones who take criticism the worst, and so often produce mediocre work as they take offense to anyone who suggests changes, and with these True Believers at the core of their movement, any movement that does not embrace the value of negative feedback stagnates and creates a safe, but mediocre, space, one devoid of the cycle of failure and improvement.

“AI has no soul and is emotionless as it is not created by a Human. Look at this generic, bland photo. There’s nothing behind it”

The predication of emotion and soul existing behind a piece of artwork means that there is some sort of human element that cannot be duplicated by machine. It renders the technical ability of the work only a medium by which to convey some sort of story or emotional feeling, something the proponents of such a criticism feel AI lacks. Humans are to Art as God is to Humans, and as only God can create Humans, only Humans can create Art. A good argument nonetheless for True Believers. But do those who criticize AI art on this basis themselves believe they were created from randomness, from evolution? The disconnect between believing they themselves were a part of Nature’s Evolutionary Learning Algorithm and the ability for themselves play God to Art is something of a mental gymnastics optimization problem.

Not only are the two most dominant criticisms against AI generated art in contradiction to each other, they’re in contradiction to the criticizer’s own beliefs. No wonder they’re so unhappy.

So what should you do if you don’t like AI art? How do you avoid being unhappy by creating unrealistic mental models for trying to justify human created artwork? How CAN you launch criticisms against it?

By simply not.

Just complain that it’s taking your jobs!

Coal miners complained about the technical aspects of solar, they complained about the aesthetics and the ecological impact and the economic impact, but none of those did anything to them. In the end the they just became solar installers.

Technology from an economic perspective exists to expand the Production Possibility Frontier by keeping L (labor) and K (capital) consistent, or rather to reduce L and K while keeping PPF consistent. It’s here to take everyone’s jobs so people can move onto different things. Unless significant demand is induced, L and K will and should shrink while production is kept constant in line with demand, and will result in a lower cost.

Technology comes for everyone, whether you’re an artist or a truck driver or a coal miner or a horsekeeper or a village shaman. Just complain about it!

“America stands divided.” But what’s the dividing line? Some might point to politics. Others may argue it’s ideology or even geography. Articles keep popping up, trying to dissect the “Two Americas” at their core, but they often overlook the intricate web of interconnecting cultures, policies, demographics, and environments that fuel this division.

In the realm of science and research, we often seek to explain phenomena through causal studies. A correlational study just doesn’t pack the same punch as a causal one. No one’s rushing to publish your work until they grasp why that correlation exists. The pressure to overfit our models can be overwhelming. However, instead of trying to pinpoint the root differences of the Two Americas, why not define them by their symptoms?

There indeed exist Two Americas. In one, you’ll find places, regions, towns, and cities where public bathrooms are as plentiful as they are free. Need to relieve yourself? It’s a no-brainer; just step into a McDonald’s or Starbucks, and you’re good to go – no secret code, no purchase required. The restrooms might not be pristine, sure; there could be water puddles around the sink, and the toilet paper might be of the single-ply variety, but hey, it’s free. You’re free to do your business without interaction or inquiry. You can sip from your gym bag’s water bottle without a second thought, munch away, and carry on with your day, unburdened by thoughts of tummy discomfort or mapping out the nearest public restroom in a park using Google Maps. Restrooms are so ubiquitous in your life that you don’t even think twice about them.

Now, shift your gaze to the other America, where public restrooms aren’t so charitable. Need to go? Brace yourself for a strategic operation. You might plan your restroom breaks around establishments where you’re a paying customer. You could find yourself holding it in until lunchtime, forgoing that water bottle in your bag, or opting for a lighter meal to avoid the inevitable restroom hunt. Sometimes, you’ll spot a McDonald’s or Starbucks, only to discover that their restrooms are exclusively for paying patrons. In such moments, you reluctantly purchase a coffee just to score a restroom code. And when local laws mandate public restroom access, you might just encounter the “out of order” sign at the most inconvenient times.

The need to answer nature’s call is a universal one (unless you’re perpetually dehydrated). Yet, the barriers to doing so are all too familiar in the second America. Those in the first America hardly notice these challenges.

Now, consider this scenario: pluck a man from the First America and drop him into the Second America, and you’ve got a recipe for frustration. He’ll question why he can’t simply use a McDonald’s restroom without the prerequisite McChicken purchase. He’ll grumble about every closed restroom he stumbles upon. Nevertheless, he’ll adapt; he’ll ration his water intake and carry hand sanitizer for those sketchy park restrooms. It’ll be bewildering at first, but he’ll soldier on.

On the flip side, transplant a Second America resident into the First America, and brace for shock. They’ll raise an eyebrow at the sight of a clean, open McDonald’s restroom. Their initial confusion at the concept of freely accessible restrooms will fade as they gradually embrace the idea. Unconsciously, they’ll start drinking water more liberally, and while there might be some initial befuddlement, they’ll eventually find their footing.

The dichotomy between these two Americas isn’t just a matter of restroom availability; it’s also a reflection of the mindset ingrained in the citizens of each realm.

In the America blessed with abundant public restrooms, a sense of convenience and entitlement often prevails. People move about their daily lives without the burden of restroom-related worries. They hydrate without a second thought, snack whenever the urge strikes, and navigate their day without the constant awareness of the nearest bathroom’s location. This freedom from restroom constraints not only impacts daily routines but also influences attitudes towards consumption, hydration, and even the acceptance of discomfort. In this America, the notion of “freedom” extends beyond the political realm into the realm of bodily functions, where personal needs can be addressed without hesitation or constraint.

Contrastingly, the Second America, where public restrooms are scarce and often locked behind purchase barriers, fosters a mindset of restraint and calculation. Residents here must carefully plan their restroom breaks, consider their liquid intake, and strategize around meal times. The constant juggling act between hydration, nutrition, and the impending need for a restroom influences how they approach their daily routines. This mindset reinforces the idea that certain basic needs, like answering nature’s call, must be earned or planned for, and it often results in individuals unconsciously suppressing their physiological requirements to avoid inconvenience or embarrassment.

But more than anything, it reflects on the mindset of each person’s view of America as a whole. First America citizens see their America as a land of convenience and opportunity. They take great pride in their America. Second America citizens see their America as a land of inconvenience and struggle. They view their America with a lens of shame.

For citizens of the First America, their land is one of boundless pride. They take immense pride in the accessibility and freedom of their public restrooms, seeing them as emblematic of the American spirit – a land where convenience and liberty are paramount. In their eyes, this privilege extends beyond restroom access; it represents an entire way of life, where needs are met with ease, and obstacles are minimal. This perspective often translates into an unshakeable faith in the nation’s ability to overcome challenges and a sense of entitlement to the comforts of life.

Conversely, for citizens of the Second America, there’s often a sense of shame associated with their restroom predicament. They view their limited restroom access as emblematic of a broader systemic failure, where inequality and inequity loom large. They may carry a sense of embarrassment or even resentment towards a society that doesn’t ensure equal access to something as basic as a restroom. This shame can extend to their perception of the nation as a whole, seeing it as a place where fundamental needs are not universally guaranteed and where systemic issues persist.

These mindsets are self-fulfilling. In the First America, citizens take immense pride in their easy access to public restrooms. They take for granted things that should be taken for granted, and strive to make their America one where these things can continue to be taken for granted. Anything that attempts to reduce their access to free restrooms is an attack on their America. They live their lives with this freedom. So they work hard to maintain these freedom. They maintain order, cleanliness, civility, trust. They assert that people, like them, are good. They assume that people who use the public restroom are good. The thought of committing an act that removes these benefits for First America is disgusting and almost unimaginable.

In the Second America, the citizen feels helpless. They have to bend their lives to the powers which control the restrooms. Their entire lives are structured in a way where they are constantly reminded of their helplessness. This reduces their agency. They accept that their America will never have free restrooms, and live their lives under the control of the bathroom key. They accept that they will never have the free use toilets. They do not care about the maintenance of order, cleanliness, civility, or trust. They assume that there will be people who destroy these toilets, and assert that they can never be free due to the drugs and destruction that happens around them. If someone shoots up in a McDonalds bathroom, oh well - it’s just a fact of life.

This stark contrast in attitudes towards public restroom access fuels a spiral in each of the Americas. In the First America, any act of violence or disruption that threatens restroom accessibility is met with outrage and condemnation. However, in the Second America, similar actions often go unnoticed or are met with apathy. This glaring disparity in responses to public restroom-related crimes further deepens the divide between these Two Americas.

These Two Americas transcend rural and urban boundaries, racial and ethnic ties, and income levels. The availability of public restrooms in each America isn’t determined by a single causal factor but rather by a multitude of factors. However, more crucial than the actual availability of public restrooms is the reflection of the mentality of the residents in each America. It’s the contrast between a mentality of possibility and one of hopelessness that truly defines these that divide.

It’s 4 in the morning. Well, 4:02 AM. You start with a full tank of gas, forty ounces of water, and a couple of granola bars for your journey.

Your goal: Los Angeles by 9 AM, preferably by 8:30. You take the freeway and hit the 5. You’ll spend the next four and a half hours here. You take it easy out of Sacramento - cops are notorious for hiding behind the bushes. You’re going 75 miles an hour, but you only have to do it for ten minutes.

After you leave the Freeport area, there isn’t anything until Stockton. It’s too early for the truckers to have woken up, and the Silicon Valley super commuters take the 80. But you still have to take it easy; it takes you 25 minutes to reach the center of Stockton. You see the super commuters heading to work and join them, acting as part of the rat race for a bit. But 15 minutes later, you’ve reached it. The split. You see the wagies split off to the 205, and you have the most pure, unadulterated stretch of highway you can get this side of the Sierras.

The twelve miles before the 5 joins back up with the 580 represent lawlessness, no cops, no other cars at 5 am. You press on the pedal; what should take ten minutes takes six. Unfortunately, it’s back to the merge, but here’s where it gets fun. You slow down a little bit, but you’re still cruising at 95. Soon, you see the familiar signs of Flying J, Chevron, on your left. You’ve reached Patterson, and it hasn’t even been an hour. You skirt the hills as you zoom by. You know that aside from a cop check at Los Banos, the highway is yours and yours alone.

It’s 175 miles to Buttonwillow, a trip that should take two and a half hours. You plan to do it in less than two. You put on your podcast and are in the zone. Google maps estimates you’ll arrive in LA at 10. You know you’ll get there at 8:45. You pace your water and granola intake, ensuring you can hold your bladder for the next two hours. Your miles per gallon drop thirty percent as you zoom by the few semi-trucks on your right. The sun starts to rise on your left. At first, it’s blocked by your A-pillar, but soon it’s in your eye, but you knew that. You anticipated that. You put on your sunglasses, drop your sun visor, and extend it all the way to the left. You shimmy your lightweight jacket on to protect your arms from the sun. Problem solved.

Soon you zoom by Kettleman City, the last of the hills, and you truly enter the valley. You see the sign of the In-n-out race by, and you see the few electric vehicles parked there, poor souls. Thirty miles and twenty minutes to Lost Hills. But Lost Hills is for the uninitiated, and you are initiated. You forgo the temptation of McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, and the Arco that’s so close in favor of an extra fifteen minutes. Buttonwillow, your only fuel and bathroom stop for the drive. You turn off and go under the 5. Taste of India? One day you’ll try it, but today isn’t the day. You see the farm workers already hard at work, and the taco trucks lining up at the SureStay. But you don’t have time for that.

You pull up into the TA Travel Center and start the pump. You leave your car with your water bottle. The Taco Bell and Popeyes combination shop are closed, but their drinking fountains are always accessible. You fill up on ice-cold water, set your bottle on the counter, and go take a piss. By the time you’re done, your car is filled up and ready to go. You’re ready to go. You throw away the Nature Valley bar wrappers that have entertained you for the last few hours, and you get back on the 5. Google says it’s two to the 110, but you know it won’t take you that long. The long on-ramp lets you hit the 5 running. It’s 6:50. You still have twenty minutes of fun before you have to merge with the 99, where the real traffic comes in. You take the bridge to merge in, wondering if it would’ve been faster to take the truck ramp. Well, who cares, it’s still early and you have time.

The outlets loom by like a man-made oasis. You’ve never been, and likely never will. You zoom by the Ikea Distribution center and prepare yourself for the Grapevine. There are warning signs to turn off AC, but it’s not warm enough yet to turn your AC on. Soon you’ve climbed up into the mountains, and you’re blazing by Fort Tejon. The gentle slopes of the 5 and the lack of traffic mean you save on gas at every decline. On your right, Pyramid lake. You always wonder if it’s named after the strange triangle carving on its side, but you’ve never been bothered to look it up. But now you know you’ll soon approach civilization again. You see the blue skies turn gray in the distance as you begin your descent. But don’t get too happy now, you still have a bit left to go and another mountain range to pass.

You see the empty Six Flags, and wonder if you were driving a few hours later, would it be full of children? But those thoughts leave your head as you zoom down the final stretch. You see the Van Norman reservoir. Whatever happened to those shade balls they put there? By now your trip is ending. There are cops and traffic on either side, but luckily it’s not too bad. You see the airplanes on the mall signs in Burbank, and the Ikea right next to the highway. Just a few more miles, and you’ll have reached the 110. You veer right through a rickety two-lane off carved into the Elysian park to merge with the 110. As you pass Dodger Stadium, you know your trip is finished; the view of the Intercontinental is in front of you. The time is now 8:37 AM.