I have a friend, approaching middle age, who suddenly found himself single last year after 15 years of marriage. Recently he decided it’s time to re-enter the singles scene and after some fruitless flailing, surrendered to the 21st century inevitability of the computer dating service.
I find the whole thing fascinating, from a purely academic point of view. (Adrienne joins me in this academic fascination, so don’t get funny ideas.) The service to which my friend subscribes allows one to answer as many as 500 questions, the idea being, the more details one provides, the better chances of finding a good match. You don’t have to answer all 500 and most people –apparently – don’t, at least at first.
Although my first reaction was mild scorn, the more I considered this system, the more sense it made to me. This is the kind of thing computers are good at: take a bunch of data, reduce them to binary propositions (yes or no, zero or one) and see which data sets among thousands match up best.
The computer doesn’t do the selecting; it suggests profiles of other folks who seem like a good fit, one of the matched subscribers then has to get in touch with the other and if the gut reaction matches the computer’s opinion, things proceed from there.
Because I’m cynical, I immediately thought, “You can game this system by answering the 500 questions insincerely.” To which the sane part of my mind replied, “Why would you do that? Why would you want to be matched with people who are incompatible? Only a predator or psychopath would do that.”
A few weeks ago, I attended the wedding of a well-matched couple who met via this process. Both are professionals in their mid-thirties who want to settle down and start a family, but between careers and the haphazard nature of analog dating (I guess you could call it that), meeting people in the grocery store, etc., things were not panning out. So they registered online, answered some questions, paid a fee and boom, there’s the person they’d been looking for. The best man at the wedding knew both bride and groom for six years and never thought of introducing them. It’s not that he’s not smart, he’s just not computer smart.
Back when “computer dating” was rightfully considered a joke, I knew a few women who really wanted to get married. They were scary. I’m sure there are men who fall into that category, but I haven’t known any. These women seemed more interested in “being married” than they were in the attributes of the man who would share that marriage and seemed to project their desires onto any man whose characteristics came close to fitting the tuxedo they’d already picked out. When I immediately think the new computer dating systems can be gamed, it’s not because I have a twisted mind; it’s because I remember these individuals all too clearly. All the sane people in that social set, male and female alike, would try to get the targeted guys aside and say, “Run, dude! Run away!” It seemed like the charitable thing to do.
Tuesday, sitting in a crowded restaurant, waiting for my counterpart in a business lunch to arrive and I’m watching an attractive young couple at the next table. Neither is ringed on the third finger of the left hand and they’re trading the kinds of general information one shares on a first date. (So, I’m eavesdropping. That’s a crime now?)
I soon realize it’s not a date. The young man is an aspiring politician and the woman, I have now recognized, is a two-term state legislator. The young man is looking for an office to be elected to and was asking the advice of the young woman. Here’s one piece of advice he received: “It’s good to get out into the community and find out what issues are one the minds of the people who live there.” That’s it. Pick a likely district and start polling and you too can be a “community leader.”
The genius of the founding fathers theoretically anticipated 21st century computer dating services, in a way. In a legislative district, there are a given number of citizens who have opinions on a given number of issues, very like the 500 questions the dating services provides to its given number of subscribers. There are also candidates for office from among these citizens and these candidates share – to a greater or lesser extent – the opinions of their fellow citizens on the issues at hand. If things go as designed, a candidate emerges whose take on the issues best represents the opinions of the greatest number of citizens in a given area. That candidate is elected and – viola! – representative government at its finest.
What happens if predators or psychopaths are introduced into this system? As I eavesdropped at the restaurant, I couldn’t help but think that, like the women who were more interested in being married than finding a life partner, there was something skewed and backward about the way these young people were going about the business of politics and the fact that this notion does not occur to them is more disturbing still.
Am I wrong to so casually label politicians – public servants by some definition – as psychopathic predators? A thumbnail description of a psychopath is one who is grandiose and lacking in empathy, although retaining the ability to appear outwardly normal. Sound familiar? Despite their declarations of “I feel your pain” (Bill Clinton) or “Message: I care” (George H.W. Bush), I think most politicians have demonstrated their lack of empathy for anyone who cannot fill their campaign chests with cash – and that empathy runs out when the money does.
As I wrote a few weeks ago – and have pondered almost constantly since – there are the many, who play by the ostensible rules of society and the few, who play by the real rules, sheltering behind the façade erected by the many. The few become wealthy and powerful and because of that, almost no one will dare call them out for what they really are.
500 Questions
I have a friend, approaching middle age, who suddenly found himself single last year after 15 years of marriage. Recently he decided it’s time to re-enter the singles scene and after some fruitless flailing, surrendered to the 21st century inevitability of the computer dating service.
I find the whole thing fascinating, from a purely academic point of view. (Adrienne joins me in this academic fascination, so don’t get funny ideas.) The service to which my friend subscribes allows one to answer as many as 500 questions, the idea being, the more details one provides, the better chances of finding a good match. You don’t have to answer all 500 and most people –apparently – don’t, at least at first.
Although my first reaction was mild scorn, the more I considered this system, the more sense it made to me. This is the kind of thing computers are good at: take a bunch of data, reduce them to binary propositions (yes or no, zero or one) and see which data sets among thousands match up best.
The computer doesn’t do the selecting; it suggests profiles of other folks who seem like a good fit, one of the matched subscribers then has to get in touch with the other and if the gut reaction matches the computer’s opinion, things proceed from there.
Because I’m cynical, I immediately thought, “You can game this system by answering the 500 questions insincerely.” To which the sane part of my mind replied, “Why would you do that? Why would you want to be matched with people who are incompatible? Only a predator or psychopath would do that.”
A few weeks ago, I attended the wedding of a well-matched couple who met via this process. Both are professionals in their mid-thirties who want to settle down and start a family, but between careers and the haphazard nature of analog dating (I guess you could call it that), meeting people in the grocery store, etc., things were not panning out. So they registered online, answered some questions, paid a fee and boom, there’s the person they’d been looking for. The best man at the wedding knew both bride and groom for six years and never thought of introducing them. It’s not that he’s not smart, he’s just not computer smart.
Back when “computer dating” was rightfully considered a joke, I knew a few women who really wanted to get married. They were scary. I’m sure there are men who fall into that category, but I haven’t known any. These women seemed more interested in “being married” than they were in the attributes of the man who would share that marriage and seemed to project their desires onto any man whose characteristics came close to fitting the tuxedo they’d already picked out. When I immediately think the new computer dating systems can be gamed, it’s not because I have a twisted mind; it’s because I remember these individuals all too clearly. All the sane people in that social set, male and female alike, would try to get the targeted guys aside and say, “Run, dude! Run away!” It seemed like the charitable thing to do.
Tuesday, sitting in a crowded restaurant, waiting for my counterpart in a business lunch to arrive and I’m watching an attractive young couple at the next table. Neither is ringed on the third finger of the left hand and they’re trading the kinds of general information one shares on a first date. (So, I’m eavesdropping. That’s a crime now?)
I soon realize it’s not a date. The young man is an aspiring politician and the woman, I have now recognized, is a two-term state legislator. The young man is looking for an office to be elected to and was asking the advice of the young woman. Here’s one piece of advice he received: “It’s good to get out into the community and find out what issues are one the minds of the people who live there.” That’s it. Pick a likely district and start polling and you too can be a “community leader.”
The genius of the founding fathers theoretically anticipated 21st century computer dating services, in a way. In a legislative district, there are a given number of citizens who have opinions on a given number of issues, very like the 500 questions the dating services provides to its given number of subscribers. There are also candidates for office from among these citizens and these candidates share – to a greater or lesser extent – the opinions of their fellow citizens on the issues at hand. If things go as designed, a candidate emerges whose take on the issues best represents the opinions of the greatest number of citizens in a given area. That candidate is elected and – viola! – representative government at its finest.
What happens if predators or psychopaths are introduced into this system? As I eavesdropped at the restaurant, I couldn’t help but think that, like the women who were more interested in being married than finding a life partner, there was something skewed and backward about the way these young people were going about the business of politics and the fact that this notion does not occur to them is more disturbing still.
Am I wrong to so casually label politicians – public servants by some definition – as psychopathic predators? A thumbnail description of a psychopath is one who is grandiose and lacking in empathy, although retaining the ability to appear outwardly normal. Sound familiar? Despite their declarations of “I feel your pain” (Bill Clinton) or “Message: I care” (George H.W. Bush), I think most politicians have demonstrated their lack of empathy for anyone who cannot fill their campaign chests with cash – and that empathy runs out when the money does.
As I wrote a few weeks ago – and have pondered almost constantly since – there are the many, who play by the ostensible rules of society and the few, who play by the real rules, sheltering behind the façade erected by the many. The few become wealthy and powerful and because of that, almost no one will dare call them out for what they really are.
© Mark Floegel, 2011