A brief note before I begin: as you may have noticed, I took two weeks off from publishing here. I appreciate your patience. When I decided last January to publish these newsletters every Thursday, I didn’t anticipate that Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years would all fall on Thursdays. My two weeks off were enjoyable, but, like Frank Costanza, “I’m back, baby!”

There’s a story—probably an apocryphal one—about how Walt Disney decided where to put trash cans at Disney World. He bought a hot dog and then walked while he ate. He counted his steps and stopped when he had finished his hot dog. That’s how far apart the garbage cans should be. The moment you find you have trash in your hand—through the magic of Disney—a trash bin should appear before you.

The story probably isn’t true, but it does point to Walt’s obsession with cleanliness. Rubbish, Walt believed, should never be visible to the park’s visitors. But placing a bin here or there isn’t enough to drive cleanliness amidst a culture of litter. Even when it comes to refuse, I suppose, culture eats strategy for breakfast...

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Many years ago, we stood up a new M-1B Predator squadron—the 20th Reconnaissance Squadron. The last time the squadron had been activated was during the Vietnam War, when US Air Force pilots flew O-1s, O-2s, and the mighty OV-10 Bronco in the 20th Tactical Air Support Squadron. For the squadron stand-up event, we tracked down as many veterans of the original Vietnam-era squadron as we could. Thirteen such members descended upon Whiteman Air Force Base to celebrate with us. For us, it was the re-activation of an old squadron. For them, it was a reunion. We affectionately called that baker’s dozen “the old guys.” My commander told us in no uncertain terms that part of our job that weekend was to listen to the old guys’ stories; and so, we did.

On Saturday, late into the night at a visiting officers’ quarters room our guests called “the old guy hooch,” we listened to their war stories. Most our guests—and indeed most members of our squadron—had long since gone home. Five of them and two of us remained. Long after the sun had set, as the solo cups were emptied and refilled, and as voices lowered, the tenor of the conversation changed. No doubt, the day’s talk of throttle settings and aerial tactics drew the old guys into a headspace they hadn’t often occupied. Memories turned to their aircraft and their war.

As forward air controllers - airborne, they didn’t carry heavy bombs or missiles. Instead, they carried white smoke rockets. Flying aircraft with longer loiter times at slower speeds, the pilots of the 20th identified targets and marked them with smoke and then directed the heavier aircraft—often F-105 Thunderchiefs (or “Thuds”)—onto those targets.

To a person, each one of those five who remained that night had a story about a target mark and a weapons employment that still raises questions deep in their memories and in their consciences. One veteran in particular, John, told the story of a man in local attire riding his bicycle toward the friendly forward operating base (FOB). He said he didn’t have any reason to suspect the bicyclist of being a member of the Viet Cong, but the rules of engagement were clear: if a person got within a certain range of the FOB and continued toward the FOB, he was to be identified as hostile. John marked the target and the Thuds did the rest.

Moral injury, as a field of study, is relatively young. But as a phenomenon, it is as old as war. ...

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You probably don’t remember 110 film. It doesn’t come in a cylindrical can like 35mm film. It comes preloaded on a roll that looks a little like an old phone receiver—two small, black cylinders connected by a long piece of hollow plastic.

Back in the era of film cameras—110 or otherwise—every shot had to count. I had, I think, 24 photos on my roll of 110 film, a long, skinny container of film placed into the back of a long, skinny camera. Our family took a trip to Washington, DC. It’s the first time I can remember thinking, “I want to capture this moment on film.” We saw the sights. I’m sure I took pictures of my brother and sisters, the Washington Monument, and statues of dead presidents. But on the long road trip home, I had only one picture left. I needed to use it up so I could get the roll developed, but I also needed to make it count...

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I got bit by the publishing bug in 2013. I was applying to graduate schools and I didn’t have a writing sample from my undergraduate days that I was happy with. So, I decided to write a new paper. With the help of a philosopher from the US Air Force Academy (Dr. Leonard Kahan, in whose debt I remain), I wrote an academic paper on the ethics of remotely piloted aircraft. As a matter of procedure, I had to share the paper with my commander before sharing it more widely. Not only did he like the paper, but he also thought I should try to publish it. He happened to know the editor of the Spanish language edition of our professional journal, The Air and Space Power Journal, so, that’s where I sent it. It was published in 2013.

That was a profound moment for me. I realized for the first time that I, a fairly junior officer (a young captain at that time) might be able to shape the way people—maybe even senior people in my own organization—think about the world. I was hooked.

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That article-as-writing-sample (among other things) was enough to earn my matriculation into Boston College’s MA program in philosophy. There, my interests ranged widely. But one point of consistency was that every time a class required me to write a long (6-10k word) final paper, I decided I’d try to get that paper published. I was successful only a few times; but those few successes resulted in a published paper on Soren Kierkegaard, one on C. S. Lewis, and one on virtue ethics called, “The Martial Virtues: A Role Morality for Soldiers?”

I published the Martial Virtues paper in a journal called Social Theory and Practice. At that time, it was the most competitive outlet in which I had published and I was, frankly, very proud to have written something worthy of that journal. As a philosophical writer, I’ve come a long way since then and that 2018 article leaves me a little embarrassed now. At the time, though, it was easily the best thing I had ever written and I remain convinced that that publication had an impact my admission to Oxford’s PhD program.

I don’t expect you to care about any of these details except for this one: Social Theory and Practice, for better or worse, keeps a running tally of how many times each article has been downloaded. Today, in 2025, seven years since publication, my article, “The Martial Virtues: A Role Morality for Soldiers,” has been downloaded (wait for it)

Eighteen times.

Think about that for a moment. The best thing I had ever written, published in a high-end philosophy journal, has been enough to motivate 18 people to download and (maye even to) read it.

Earlier this year, I created Views Expressed. It’s reach is limited and its growth glacial. But every week, 100-150 people open up an email from me to read what I have to say about philosophy and AI. As a friend put it to me recently, 120 people is just about Dunbar’s number. That’s a person’s entire social circle. Each week I reach nearly ten times the number of people who have downloaded that scholarly paper. I might even get to impact the way some of those people think about philosophy and AI; and what a great privilege that is.

In addition to the weekly reports of people reading my work, there are, of course, also the “in real life” conversations in which many of you have reach out to tell me that something that I said informed you of something, or resonated with you, or meant something to you. For those interactions, I am especially grateful.

This Thanksgiving, my family will gather around a turkey (cooked on the grill as is the Chapa way) and share what we’re thankful for. I hope you’ll have a similar opportunity. In the meantime, I mean this will all sincerity: I am thankful that you’re a Views Expressed reader.

From my family to yours: Happy Thanksgiving.

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Glen Powell hosted SNL last weekend. It was one of the best episodes I’ve seen in awhile. (Beware, spoilers).

In Powell’s opening monologue, he tells the story of the first time he was supposed to host the venerated sketch comedy show. When he received the phone call inviting him to host back then, there happened to be a UPS delivery guy named mitch delivering a package just as the family was on the porch receiving the call. Mitch got wrapped up in the celebration and, no doubt, told his friends and family members that he met Glen Powell and that Powell would be hosting on such-and-such a date.

Well, that wasn’t to be. COVID delayed the opening of Top Gun: Maverick and SNL gave Powell’s slot to someone else.

When Powell got the word that he would finally be hosting the show for real, the Powell family did what any normal people would have done: They tracked down Mitch the UPS driver and invited him to be in the studio audience.

It was a very well done bit.

The quality of SNL waxes and wanes with time and I’m sure each fan has his or her favorite cast or favorite era of the show’s fifty year history. But we can probably all agree that SNL can act as a kind of barometer of cultural import. A pop culture reference has to rise above a certain threshold of common knowledge before we can expect to see it on SNL. Why does SNL prioritize impressions of Presidents, Vice Presidents, Presidential Candidates, and Speakers of the House? It’s because so many Americans know who those people are and know the circumstances under which those people appeared in the news that week.

So, here’s my thesis: If SNL highlights a topic, that topic is probably already pretty pervasive in our society.

In the very first sketch after Powell’s monologue, several cast members create a scene in which four young people introduce their aging grandmother to AI-enabled technology that brings old photos to life. ...

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It’s easy to be vindictive, to be to be selfish. It’s easier to burn bridges than it is to mend them.

The quotation that keeps coming to mind is from Julius Campbell in Boaz Yakin’s 2000 classic, Remember The Titans. In response to injustice, and prejudice, and racism, and hate, Campbell insists, “I’m suppose to wear myself out for the team? What team!? No, no. What I’m gonna do is, I’m gonna look out for myself, and I’m gonna get mine.”

The film is remarkable, but the line isn’t. The line is normal. It’s ordinary. It’s how each of us is tempted to respond in the face of injustice, or persecution, or unfairness. In fact, it’s how I often want to respond in the face of much lesser adversities: unpleasantness, uncomfortability, or inconvenience.

But there are remarkable ways to respond to that familiar feeling of being wronged.

I spent the last few weeks watching Brad Ingelsby’s Task on HBO Max...

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I was writing something this week that caused me to look up what movie contains the line, “I’m gonna look out for myself, and I’m gonna get mine.” (Do you know the movie?). I consulted Google search and the Gemini answer helpfully came back with text explaining that the quotation comes from Remember The Titans. Then it gave me the context, the name of the character who said it, and the name of the character he said it to.

Then Gemini unhelpfully offered me a link to the relevant clip. I followed the link to find the scene from Seinfeld—I don’t even remember the context—in which Elaine ends up in a feud with George’s father, Frank Costanza. In the clip Gemini fed me, Frank says to Elaine,

“You sayin’ you want a piece of me?”

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Note:

This excerpt is part of a longer, unpublished project on language and artificial intelligence.

“Fine,” my dad said. “Take the medicine if you want. If you don’t want to take it, that’s fine, too!”

We three were in the kitchen of our little house in Palo Alto, California. My mom poured the thick amoxicillin suspension into the plastic thimble of a medicine cup. I was not yet two years old and it was my ear infection we gathered in the kitchen to treat. This was not the first dose, so we all knew what we were in for. My dad, a six-foot three Air Force officer and weightlifter held me with one arm and picked up the cup with the other. My mom, she was also in her mid-20s, is a diminutive woman, especially next to my dad. She prepared for what she knew would be a struggle to hold my arms down.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to hold a child of not-yet-two who doesn’t want to be held. I once held my own son while a doctor and nurse tried—tried—to draw blood from his arm. Kids that age have a spastic, writhing technique that cannot be taught and a core strength that borders on super-human.

In one corner were two grown adults. And in the other, a toddler on a mission. As the sun set over the Stanford campus, we were ready to rumble...

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I was at Google’s headquarters (The “Googleplex”) in Mountain View, California last month for the Imagination in Action conference. There is plenty I could write about—a Distinguished Researcher at DeepMind who talked about how we’ll learn to use agents over time; a leader from the non-profit sector saying that she’s done hearing pitches from companies that wrapped a piece of software around an LLM to make it “non-profit-friendly” asking for $10 million; or the tech CEO who, when asked about mentoring said, “if you want to get promoted, do real work.”

But I want to focus on a very brief comment—almost a throwaway line—I heard from a leader in Google’s Gemini program. He talked about how he’s using Gemini as an “ambient companion” while doing things like playing video games. Gemini shadows him as he plays. When he gets to a place in the game where he has to perform repetitive tasks, he can say, “Gemini, would you take over here and level-grind for a bit?”

Gemini is just sort of there, alongside him, prepared to takeover when he gets bored, or disinterested, or a higher priority task comes up.

This line is the kicker. He said, “I can’t tell yet if it’s important or creepy, but I’m playing around with it.”

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When I was young, I used to build those plastic model airplanes you can find at hobby stores. When they were finished, instead of putting them on a shelf, my dad helped me to hang them from the ceiling; so, it looked like a dogfight between an A-10 and a P-47 in the corner of my room.

One morning, I woke up to the sound of my dad’s voice saying, “Joey, Joey! Get up! There’s an earthquake!”

Los Angeles and its San Andreas fault are famous for earthquakes. We lived through several that were 5-plus on the Richter scale.

I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes and, with all the wisdom of a six-year-old, asked my dad, “how do you know there’s an earthquake?”

“Look at your models,” my dad said. I glanced at the ceiling in the corner of the room. Sure enough, what had been a static snapshot of a dogfight had become bouncing and swaying model aircraft—both submitting to the motion of the quake and defying all the principles of flight.

I decided that evidence was sufficient and crawled down the ladder from the top bunk to join my dad and my sister under the door frame.

From that moment—the moment I, at six years old, asked my dad, “how do you know there’s an earthquake”—I’m sure he knew I was doomed to a life studying philosophy.

I attended a philosophy conference—a real philosophy conference—last week...

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