The above saying was coined by the humorist Jean Shepherd and served as the title of his best-selling collection of short stories. One of those stories was made into the classic movie “A Christmas Story.” I also understand that the saying has been used as a sign and posted in bars and other business establishments.  With good reason.

 Note that this applies to “human” relationships. That does not include our relationship with Artificial Intelligence, which can be decidedly untrustworthy, because AI often has a mind of its own. Just now, AI, (or perhaps it was my right index finger), conspired with my iPhone to turn the word “trust” into “tryst,” which would give this blog a decidedly different meaning. Tryst me on that one. Tryst is the word with a “try” in it. Repeated “trying” does not engender trust. Trust. That’s the word with an “us” in it and is a concept essential for human survival.

When I leave my house, I trust hundreds of drivers every day. This trust, over 86 years, has been betrayed just three times — by drivers turning left in front of me at an intersection, without the courtesy of a turn signal. My body shops thank them. My body itself thanks seat belts. My auto insurance agents thank everyone.

I reserve my personal trust for people, not institutions or things (note the AI story above). When I drew wills for clients it seemed to me that institutional trustees often did not merit the first five letters of their title. (I know, word play is work but also fun, and, hopefully, rewarding.) (Oh, uh, the machines are at again — just now AI tried to turn rewarding it into rewording — which I suppose is its own kind of wordplay. But AI should take note: I am fully capable of creating my own mistakes.)

Without trust, there can be no real love. With trust we have accomplished a moon landing.

To me trust is knowing that another human being will look out for my interests above their own, even if temporarily.  That’s why I did not expect my law firm — my former law firm, that is — (they shall remain deservedly nameless) — to add a paragraph appointing themselves as a trustee should Daveen ever have the audacity to remarry after my death.

That used to be called malpractice. Today, apparently, it’s merely law practice.

I rarely write about politics. But I do read editorials. The column from which this blog emerged concerned a proposed resolution of the current Iran conflict.

Is the proposal perfect?

No.

Does it require trust?

Yes.

Are both sides completely trustable?

That’s a rhetorical question.

Alan

I asked AI to write a funny limerick about peanuts. That’s P E A N U T S. AI responded that it could not, but it was happy to write a limerick about walnuts or almonds.

Hmmm, I wondered. How is it that AI, which, as we all know, is just a computer, has an aversion to peanuts? And because I’m having fun poking around with AI, I replied in turn, “peanuts seemed like an innocuous request to me.”

AI agreed, then apologized, and then produced three limericks about peanuts. All three were terrible. Perhaps AI has a peanut allergy.

Yesterday I asked AI to recommend an audiologist. After more than a bit of symbolic whirring and clicking, it came up with a well-reasoned list of possible audiologists. All were located in Portland. I assume Portland, Oregon, not Portland Maine (although, there are seventeen cities in the United States named Portland).

Fortunately, there is just one city in the United States named Los Angeles, where I have enjoyed living for 86 years.

I advised AI of my location in LOS ANGELES, and received another creative apology, together with a new list. I may actually use one of the AI-suggested audiologists, but only if their phone is not answered by a robot.

Inadvertently, I may have discovered one of AI’s superpowers — apologizing.  From my own experience, AI has had lots of practice, and has learned that a sincere apology goes a long way toward assuaging a real person.

I hasten to assure you that I have produced this blog all by myself, using only the tools of my right forefinger and my iPhone.  And my own mind.  Unless you count the tool of my looking up how many cities called Portland or Los Angeles there are. Those may be the actual facts. But AI hallucinations can be fun-nier.

With appreciation for those of you who are my human readers, but I hope you don’t plan to use AI to determine the quality of this blog.  It may have put me on some kind of AI internal blacklist.

Alan

When I was sixteen, I attended Boys State in Sacramento, an annual event sponsored by the American Legion (in California it is now co-ed and called Boys and Girls State). The program is a week-long immersive experience for a select number of High School Juniors in which they learn about democracy and civic participation by forming mock city and state governments for which they campaign, run for office, hold elections, draft legislation, hold trials, and navigate political challenges.

My high school friend Pete, who ended up at Cal Tech, ran for state treasurer.

In front of several thousand teenage boys, Pete delivered an erudite, articulate, and polished campaign speech. I thought it was nearly perfect and was certain Pete would win.

Then his sole opponent approached the lectern. He was a scrawny boy who appeared wobbly on his feet. His hands visibly trembled as he paused and cleared his throat. I was gleeful with certainty that my friend would easily prevail. That is, until his opponent, this seemingly shy, awkward, unpolished young man spoke.

After a long pause, he said:

“I’m…..s..s….scared.”

Two words.

Two softly spoken words that surged through the crowd with immediate impact.  You could feel the atmosphere in the room change and then — thousands of boys erupted with cheers that became a long, standing ovation

In a single second, or less, I realized that Pete was done for.

Why? There’s a lesson here.

Pete’s polished intellect had been overwhelmed by something more powerful, and rare: authenticity.

Years ago one of my sons commented, “Authenticity is the most important thing in life. Once you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”

I hope my son was joking. To me, true, deep human connection depends upon…no, requires mutual authenticity. (Now I hear my brother, though long dead to others he still resides in my own head, saying, “Yes!”)

My brother David was one of a kind. You always knew exactly what he thought. Because he told you. I loved him. For me, he was a model of authenticity. He made it easy for me to be authentic in return because our love and respect for one another was mutual.

Authenticity.

Powerful.

Scary.

Essential.

You might consider giving it a try yourself. (With another person, of course.)

Alan