All too often I will hear people say their personal stories aren’t good enough to share. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing very shocking. Nothing that other people would care much about. But some of the best stories are those with a simple narrative, but that also contain great meaning.
Such are the stories that recall childhood memories — those special times spent with family members. In this case, Ryan Roe’s story at The Moth takes us back to the time when he was learning to play the trombone. The story which unfolds is, at first, one of discomfort, but it turns into a father-son bonding experience that Ryan holds onto throughout life.
It’s heartfelt, as you’ll come to find out when you watch Ryan on stage, but it’s also filled with many funny moments. Listen to how he uses the technique of self-deprecating humor that also serves to enhance the visual experience.
You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday.
Without that humor his story would still be meaningful, but it wouldn’t have connected to the audience in the same way. It involves an effort to be near someone we like (we’ve all done that) and also being put into a potentially embarrassing situation (who hasn’t been there), so we’re rooting for Ryan.
Transcript
When I was in fourth grade, that’s when we as students could pick an instrument to take lessons in and play in the school band. And I chose the trombone for two reasons.
The first one was that there’s this cute girl named Jessica who told me that she was going to play the saxophone. And I had heard that the saxophone players and the trombone players took lessons together. Now, the reason I didn’t just also play the saxophone was that the buttons scared me.
And the second reason I chose trombone was that my dad is a phenomenal trombone player. For many years, he played in the Marine Corps Band, and he traveled around the country playing with them. He was based in New Orleans, and he played in a lot of the jazz clubs there. And then after that, he became an instrument repairman.
So, a lot of my memories as a child were of hearing him test the instruments in our house, playing his favorite songs. And I just loved the sound of the trombone. So I felt like if I played trombone, that would make him proud.
Now, the only other trombone player in the school was a fifth grader named Gina. And for months, Gina and I took lessons with our music teacher, and after all this time spent practicing, I just sounded terrible. The noise that came out of my trombone sounded like a hive of angry bees, yet somehow more alarming.
And, you know, it’s a really hard instrument to play for a fourth grader because you have these little fourth-grade arms, and you can’t even reach far enough to hit a C note. And what’s more embarrassing is that when you have an instrument that has a lot of valves and reeds and keys, if it sounds bad, you can sort of blame it on the instrument.
But when it’s just one long horn, if it sounds bad, it’s 100% your fault. I even came to my dad at one point and I was like, “This thing’s busted.” And he’s like, “Here’s the thing, no, it’s not.”
But the only consolation I had in all this was that Gina was also terrible. So as long as she was embarrassing herself, I felt fine embarrassing myself. Until two weeks before our first concert, Gina decides to quit. Up and leaving me as the only trombone player in the whole school, and my music teacher is worried.
But that week, my dad came in for a parent-teacher conference and he met with my music teacher and mentioned to her that he played trombone, and she goes, “Wait. Would you like to play in the winter concert with the fourth graders?” And he’s like, “I don’t know, this is their thing. I don’t want to take anything away from it.” And she’s like, “Please. Will you play in the winter concert?”
So he accepts and when he comes home and he tells me about it, he actually seems really excited about it. And I had to be like, “That’s awesome, Dad. I’m excited too.”
Because at this age, my biggest fear was being the center of attention. I just wanted to blend into the background. I did not want to be sitting in the front row with Jessica on my left and an adult man on my right.
But the concert comes around and we’re holding it in our dimly lit elementary school cafeteria. It was one of those cafeterias that weirdly has a full stage and curtains as if they’re trying to make the students think, “Will there be dinner and a show?” Who knows.
And the families are all there in their metal folding chairs. Suburban moms have their 30-pound camcorders armed and ready. You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And the drummers, they were lucky. They got to sit all the way in the back, along with this kid named Evan who had a triangle because he wasn’t really to be trusted.
And every family that walked into the room instantly looked in my direction and had a confused look because it was exactly as I had predicted. Me in the front row, Jessica on my left, and my adult father on my right.
And we begin playing the first song and immediately my dad and I are in a competition to see who can play the quietest. I’m playing quietly because I don’t want people to hear the noises coming out of my trombone. My dad is playing quietly because he doesn’t want to upstage a bunch of nine-year-olds. We’re both playing so quietly that the music teacher is waving her baton at us and mouthing, “Get louder! Now!”
But we get through the Blue Danube. The Carnival of the Animals goes a little better. And by the time we get to the Funeral March, I can finally relax. But the last song that we played was What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. And you guys know it, it’s a very soft and slow song. It’s a bit easier to play on an instrument.
And as I’m playing, I start to listen to my dad playing next to me. And I’m hearing him hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next. And then I look out into the crowd and I can see everyone else’s dad sitting there. And then I look over at my dad, and he’s smiling because he’s having the time of his life playing the instrument that he loves with his son that he loves.
And I felt really lucky to be playing next to my dad. I finally felt like this is a really special thing, I should cherish it.
And he ended up playing in every concert we did for the next five years. We had zero new trombone players every year for five years. So we just kept inviting him back. And it was awesome. I loved it. Every single time. I was never embarrassed about it, I always looked forward to it, and it was always a special moment.
So much so that when I got to high school and there were some upperclassmen that played trombone, I was no longer the only trombone player, so he didn’t need to play with us anymore. And I only ended up playing one more semester before I decided to quit because it just wasn’t as fun anymore. Something felt missing. So I moved on.
Fast forward to just a few years ago, I was taking a road trip through the South and I stopped for a day in New Orleans. And I was really excited because my dad had told me so many things about New Orleans and the whole experience just felt magical walking around the city because I kept thinking to myself, “This was my dad’s home when he was my age.”
And I ended the day by going to a jazz club called Preservation Hall. And it’s a really small club with these guys that play Dixieland jazz. And they sat me right next to the trombone player. And I’m having a great time listening to these guys, they’re so talented.
And then right before they ended the show, a guy came up from the back of the room and handed the lead man a five-dollar bill and asked him to play What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.
And as I’m listening to the trombone player hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next, I become overwhelmed with emotion because I was being transformed back into being fourth-grade Ryan. And I felt so lucky that I got to have those special moments with my dad.
And so when I got back home, I went to my parents’ house and I told my dad all about it and I thanked him for what he had done all those years ago. And then I went up to the attic and we had kept my trombone this whole time. So every now and then, my dad and I will still get that musical itch and we’ll go up to the attic and we’ll break out our trombones.
And I open up the case and I smell that sweet brass smell. And I put the horn and the slide together and you just hear all the familiar sounds. And when I begin playing, I’m immediately reminded of how terrible I am. But he hits every note perfectly, and that’s the fun part for me.
Thank you.
Now back to you…
Take a moment to think about similar experiences from your youth — from your childhood, to adolescence, to your teenage years. Is there some event (or series of events) that defined your relationship to one or both of your parents? Music, sports, nature, travel, food, etc.
Consider the sweet aspects, the humorous ones, as well as the meaningful ones. What memories have you carried with you throughout your life? As you recall an event, try to go deeper. What did it feel like, sound like, look like? As adults, we’ll too often push those memories into a corner, when the truth is, they are often well worth revisiting and sharing.
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Can the great barrier reef be saved from climate change? Theresa Fyffe gives us some insights at TED 2025
/in Climate Change, Environment, Nature, Science, TED Talk/by Mark LovettI often write about the storytelling side of climate change, as this modern day phenomenon will shape billions of stories in the coming decades. Some of the effects can be seen and felt above ground — fiercer storms, more intense fires, increased temperatures, droughts, etc. — but a very different sort of damage is occurring out of sight, below the surface of our oceans.
Coral reefs are one such example that have been given a great deal of attention, as they are under assault in much of the world, and no spot has achieved more notice than the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. In her talk at TED 2025, Theresa Fyffe talks about the work being done to reverse this trend.
As you can imagine, the full story is quite complicated, and Theresa could speak for hours on the topic. But in ten minutes she give able to give us an overview of the situation. She doesn’t tell the entire story, but does tell us enough to get us up to date, and hopefully to inspire us to dive further into what’s happening on the reef. Check out her TED Talk: A new lifeline for the world’s coral reefs.
Key Points of Concern:
As the Executive Director Impact of the Great Barrier Reef Foundation, Theresa has a front-row seat to the innovative processes that are now being deployed to rebuild damaged reefs. Review the section from 4:09 to 4:56. In just 93 words & 47 seconds, she changes the tone of the talk, pivoting from problem to solution, and setting the stage for the balance of her story. She doesn’t go into depth, or use complex jargon that the audience won’t understand.
When Theresa introduces Uncle Bob, a Wopabara man from the Great Barrier Reef, her talk shifts from technology to human — it’s the story block I refer to as Someone Else’s Story — and we learn about the impact this innovation can have if deployed. To be honest, I would have enjoyed hearing more about Uncle Bob. By adding a minute, I would have developed a deeper connection to the topic.
Transcript
When I say Great Barrier Reef, what do you see? If you grew up in the 2000s, I’m guessing it might be Nemo and his best friend, Dory.
Or perhaps it’s this. It’s the best part of my job. Taking people underwater to witness such a wonder and so much life. Coral reefs are the most biodiverse ecosystem on our entire blue planet, home to more than a quarter of all marine life.
They are food, livelihoods and coastal protection for more than one billion people. They anchor the economies of over 100 nations and hold deep cultural significance for saltwater First Nations peoples, who see coral reefs as their family and the creators of life.
But increasingly, when I say Great Barrier Reef, people think of this. Or even worse, this. Sadly, our reef, my reef, has become the poster child for climate change. And here’s why.
Coral polyps, the tiny animals that build reefs, are incredibly sensitive to warming oceans. When stressed by heat, they expel the algae that nourish them, exposing their skeletons and turning them white, a phenomenon called coral bleaching.
Now a bleached coral isn’t dead, but it is sick and starving. And if temperatures stay too high for too long, it dies. Coral reefs are the absolute lifeblood of a thriving ocean. We thought them too big and too important to fail.
Already we have lost half of the world’s coral reefs. In 2024, the global extent of coral bleaching reached 53 countries and every ocean on Earth. By 2050, 90 percent of corals could be lost, and with coral reefs thought to be one of the most vulnerable ecosystems to climate change, we could witness their extinction in our lifetime.
Because of this, many people have already given up. They see the problem as just too big and the progress too slow. But I haven’t given up. And I’m here to tell you why you shouldn’t give up either. Prior to working at the Great Barrier Reef Foundation, I worked in medical research, and the parallels are surprisingly striking.
While many cancers have no cure, a cancer diagnosis is no longer a death sentence due to the expanding toolkit of treatments. This is how we must think of coral reefs. Yes, we need the cure. The solutions to climate change itself.
But right now, corals also need treatments to buy them time. Enter reef restoration. Reef restoration has been around since about the 1970s, mainly through coral gardening. It’s pretty simple. You take small pieces of coral, you grow them in an underwater nursery, and when big enough, you replant them in a reef.
While an important part of the reef restoration toolkit, this approach is slow, expensive and very difficult to scale. As a result, it is thought that less than 200,000 corals are planted across the world’s oceans each year, with many of these corals not surviving. We needed a breakthrough.
Over the past five years, 350 Australian scientists and engineers have been working on just that: technology to make reef restoration faster, cheaper and smarter. We’ve made more advancements in the last five years than the previous 50.
Using an automated process, we can now produce millions of baby corals, not just thousands. We can naturally increase the heat tolerance of these corals so they are better adapted to warming oceans. And we have developed ceramic cradles for mass deployment, eliminating the need for divers to replant each piece of coral by hand.
But in a race against time, the key to dramatically scaling our impact is to deploy this technology in a highly targeted way. We will focus our restoration solution on the reefs that are the most connected to other reefs via the ocean’s natural currents.
By seeding these highly connected reefs with more heat-tolerant corals, their subsequent and stronger offspring will be spread far and wide. By using this precision approach across the Pacific, restoring as little as three percent of coral reefs can drive the recovery of 50 percent of the entire ecosystem. This would be restoration on an unprecedented scale. And we’re making it local. Thank you.
Packaging these technologies into portable coral micro-nurseries for coastal communities to own and operate. The productivity of one single micronursery is expected to exceed that of all global coral gardening efforts combined today.
By 2031, we will be planting 1.2 million heat-tolerant surviving corals per year, about 30 times more than planted across the Pacific today. By 2040, it is our ambition to increase the global scale of reef restoration by 120 times. But we know — Thank you.
We know that the technology on its own isn’t enough. To have real impact, this technology needs to be in the hands of those on the front line, those that know the oceans best.
Meet Uncle Bob, a Woppaburra man from the Great Barrier Reef. His people have been caring for their sea country for millennia. Now when Bob talks to me of his country, he says, “Country is sick, country is crying.”
But with this technology, his community is empowered to be the first responders to heal their sea country by blending this modern innovation with their ancient knowledge. For many coral reefs, unfortunately, it is already too late. But for the half of the world’s reefs, including our Great Barrier Reef, that call the Pacific home, there is still time.
These corals haven’t given up. They are still resilient. They can regenerate. So if the corals haven’t given up, how can we? Now hope without a plan, it’s nothing more than a wish. But thanks to the generosity of the TED community, we have a plan. A lifeline for coral reefs.
So I’m asking you — don’t look away. Change your perspective and join us in the fight to sustain not just coral reefs, but the livelihoods, the cultures and the futures they safeguard. This isn’t game over. It’s game on.
Thank you.
Back to you…
If you have a complex topic that you want to talk about, whether it’s a scientific story or not, think about how Theresa was able to craft a narrative that was both brief and informative. That explained the problem and solution. That ended on a hopeful note, but in this case, with a call to action too. After someone hears your story, what do you want them to think, to feel, and to do? Have you enlightened them? Inspired them? Given them food for thought?
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Ryan Roe at The Moth in Philadelphia
/in Family, Humor, Life Lessons, Music, The Moth/by Mark LovettAll too often I will hear people say their personal stories aren’t good enough to share. Nothing dramatic happened. Nothing very shocking. Nothing that other people would care much about. But some of the best stories are those with a simple narrative, but that also contain great meaning.
Such are the stories that recall childhood memories — those special times spent with family members. In this case, Ryan Roe’s story at The Moth takes us back to the time when he was learning to play the trombone. The story which unfolds is, at first, one of discomfort, but it turns into a father-son bonding experience that Ryan holds onto throughout life.
It’s heartfelt, as you’ll come to find out when you watch Ryan on stage, but it’s also filled with many funny moments. Listen to how he uses the technique of self-deprecating humor that also serves to enhance the visual experience.
Without that humor his story would still be meaningful, but it wouldn’t have connected to the audience in the same way. It involves an effort to be near someone we like (we’ve all done that) and also being put into a potentially embarrassing situation (who hasn’t been there), so we’re rooting for Ryan.
Transcript
When I was in fourth grade, that’s when we as students could pick an instrument to take lessons in and play in the school band. And I chose the trombone for two reasons.
The first one was that there’s this cute girl named Jessica who told me that she was going to play the saxophone. And I had heard that the saxophone players and the trombone players took lessons together. Now, the reason I didn’t just also play the saxophone was that the buttons scared me.
And the second reason I chose trombone was that my dad is a phenomenal trombone player. For many years, he played in the Marine Corps Band, and he traveled around the country playing with them. He was based in New Orleans, and he played in a lot of the jazz clubs there. And then after that, he became an instrument repairman.
So, a lot of my memories as a child were of hearing him test the instruments in our house, playing his favorite songs. And I just loved the sound of the trombone. So I felt like if I played trombone, that would make him proud.
Now, the only other trombone player in the school was a fifth grader named Gina. And for months, Gina and I took lessons with our music teacher, and after all this time spent practicing, I just sounded terrible. The noise that came out of my trombone sounded like a hive of angry bees, yet somehow more alarming.
And, you know, it’s a really hard instrument to play for a fourth grader because you have these little fourth-grade arms, and you can’t even reach far enough to hit a C note. And what’s more embarrassing is that when you have an instrument that has a lot of valves and reeds and keys, if it sounds bad, you can sort of blame it on the instrument.
But when it’s just one long horn, if it sounds bad, it’s 100% your fault. I even came to my dad at one point and I was like, “This thing’s busted.” And he’s like, “Here’s the thing, no, it’s not.”
But the only consolation I had in all this was that Gina was also terrible. So as long as she was embarrassing herself, I felt fine embarrassing myself. Until two weeks before our first concert, Gina decides to quit. Up and leaving me as the only trombone player in the whole school, and my music teacher is worried.
But that week, my dad came in for a parent-teacher conference and he met with my music teacher and mentioned to her that he played trombone, and she goes, “Wait. Would you like to play in the winter concert with the fourth graders?” And he’s like, “I don’t know, this is their thing. I don’t want to take anything away from it.” And she’s like, “Please. Will you play in the winter concert?”
So he accepts and when he comes home and he tells me about it, he actually seems really excited about it. And I had to be like, “That’s awesome, Dad. I’m excited too.”
Because at this age, my biggest fear was being the center of attention. I just wanted to blend into the background. I did not want to be sitting in the front row with Jessica on my left and an adult man on my right.
But the concert comes around and we’re holding it in our dimly lit elementary school cafeteria. It was one of those cafeterias that weirdly has a full stage and curtains as if they’re trying to make the students think, “Will there be dinner and a show?” Who knows.
And the families are all there in their metal folding chairs. Suburban moms have their 30-pound camcorders armed and ready. You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday. And the drummers, they were lucky. They got to sit all the way in the back, along with this kid named Evan who had a triangle because he wasn’t really to be trusted.
And every family that walked into the room instantly looked in my direction and had a confused look because it was exactly as I had predicted. Me in the front row, Jessica on my left, and my adult father on my right.
And we begin playing the first song and immediately my dad and I are in a competition to see who can play the quietest. I’m playing quietly because I don’t want people to hear the noises coming out of my trombone. My dad is playing quietly because he doesn’t want to upstage a bunch of nine-year-olds. We’re both playing so quietly that the music teacher is waving her baton at us and mouthing, “Get louder! Now!”
But we get through the Blue Danube. The Carnival of the Animals goes a little better. And by the time we get to the Funeral March, I can finally relax. But the last song that we played was What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong. And you guys know it, it’s a very soft and slow song. It’s a bit easier to play on an instrument.
And as I’m playing, I start to listen to my dad playing next to me. And I’m hearing him hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next. And then I look out into the crowd and I can see everyone else’s dad sitting there. And then I look over at my dad, and he’s smiling because he’s having the time of his life playing the instrument that he loves with his son that he loves.
And I felt really lucky to be playing next to my dad. I finally felt like this is a really special thing, I should cherish it.
And he ended up playing in every concert we did for the next five years. We had zero new trombone players every year for five years. So we just kept inviting him back. And it was awesome. I loved it. Every single time. I was never embarrassed about it, I always looked forward to it, and it was always a special moment.
So much so that when I got to high school and there were some upperclassmen that played trombone, I was no longer the only trombone player, so he didn’t need to play with us anymore. And I only ended up playing one more semester before I decided to quit because it just wasn’t as fun anymore. Something felt missing. So I moved on.
Fast forward to just a few years ago, I was taking a road trip through the South and I stopped for a day in New Orleans. And I was really excited because my dad had told me so many things about New Orleans and the whole experience just felt magical walking around the city because I kept thinking to myself, “This was my dad’s home when he was my age.”
And I ended the day by going to a jazz club called Preservation Hall. And it’s a really small club with these guys that play Dixieland jazz. And they sat me right next to the trombone player. And I’m having a great time listening to these guys, they’re so talented.
And then right before they ended the show, a guy came up from the back of the room and handed the lead man a five-dollar bill and asked him to play What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.
And as I’m listening to the trombone player hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next, I become overwhelmed with emotion because I was being transformed back into being fourth-grade Ryan. And I felt so lucky that I got to have those special moments with my dad.
And so when I got back home, I went to my parents’ house and I told my dad all about it and I thanked him for what he had done all those years ago. And then I went up to the attic and we had kept my trombone this whole time. So every now and then, my dad and I will still get that musical itch and we’ll go up to the attic and we’ll break out our trombones.
And I open up the case and I smell that sweet brass smell. And I put the horn and the slide together and you just hear all the familiar sounds. And when I begin playing, I’m immediately reminded of how terrible I am. But he hits every note perfectly, and that’s the fun part for me.
Thank you.
Now back to you…
Take a moment to think about similar experiences from your youth — from your childhood, to adolescence, to your teenage years. Is there some event (or series of events) that defined your relationship to one or both of your parents? Music, sports, nature, travel, food, etc.
Consider the sweet aspects, the humorous ones, as well as the meaningful ones. What memories have you carried with you throughout your life? As you recall an event, try to go deeper. What did it feel like, sound like, look like? As adults, we’ll too often push those memories into a corner, when the truth is, they are often well worth revisiting and sharing.
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Your Stories, AI, and George Washington
/in Democracy, Government, Personal Stories, Writing/by Mark LovettOn this day in 1790, President George Washington signed into law the first U.S. Copyright Act. The Act emerged from the unique intersection of Enlightenment ideals, economic necessity, and the practical challenges facing a new nation as leaders were trying to establish its cultural and intellectual identity.
To understand why the law felt so urgent to the Founders, we need to step back and consider the current situation. In colonial America, there was no protection for authors’ works. Publishers could freely reprint books without compensating the original author, which created an environment of need without incentive.
The Founders recognized this as more than just an economic problem — it was a threat to the kind of society they were trying to build. They believed deeply in the power of knowledge and education to sustain a republic. Think about it: how could America develop its own intellectual traditions, its own literature, its own scientific contributions, if there was no financial incentive for Americans to write and publish?
When Washington signed the Act, he was addressing several interconnected challenges. First, there was the immediate practical need to protect American authors so they could make a living from their work. Second, there was a desire to encourage the growth of American publishing and printing industries, which were still quite small compared to their British counterparts. Third, and perhaps most importantly, there was the recognition that a healthy democracy required an informed citizenry, and that meant fostering a robust marketplace of ideas.
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The law itself reflected these concerns in interesting ways. It protected books, maps, and charts for fourteen years, with the possibility of renewal for another fourteen years if the author was still alive. This was actually quite generous compared to many state laws of the time, but deliberately limited to prevent the kind of perpetual monopolies that the Founders associated with European aristocracy.
It embodied a carefully considered philosophical approach that prioritized societal benefits while providing necessary incentives for creative production. The legislation was conceived in essentially utilitarian terms, taking as its primary goal the encouragement of intellectual activity and production for the good of society as a whole.
This framework aimed to guarantee both material benefits for creators and intellectual benefits for readers, recognizing that sustainable creative industries required economic incentives while knowledge advancement demanded public access to creative works.
The limited scope of the initial law — protecting only books, maps, and charts — demonstrated a focused approach to establishing the copyright system. Rather than creating a centralized copyright office, the legislation directed authors and proprietors to register their works at U.S. district courts in their areas of residence, establishing a decentralized but systematic approach to copyright administration.
Consider how this law would have affected someone like Benjamin Franklin, who was not only a scientist, inventor, and statesman but also a prolific writer and publisher in Philadelphia.
Without copyright protection, Franklin’s “Poor Richard’s Almanac” could have been freely copied by competitors, eliminating his incentive to continue producing it. The same principle applied to countless other potential authors whose stories and ideas might never have reached the public without the economic protection this law provided.
The timing of this legislation — just one year after the Constitution was ratified — reveals how fundamental the Founders considered intellectual property rights to be a critical step in the country’s evolution. They understood that the stories a nation tells about itself, through its literature, its newspapers, its scientific works, and its philosophical treatises, shape its character and destiny. By protecting authors’ rights to profit from their work, they were essentially investing in America’s future capacity to generate and share knowledge.
To ensure broad awareness of the new protections, the Act was widely printed in newspapers following its passage. This dissemination strategy reflected the government’s recognition that the law’s effectiveness depended upon public understanding of both the rights it created and the obligations it imposed.
Copyright Law and AI Training
Navigating Intellectual Property in the Age of Large Language Models
The rapid advancement of large language models (LLMs) has ignited a global debate about the ethical and legal implications of training artificial intelligence systems on copyrighted materials. As AI companies increasingly rely on vast datasets scraped from the internet, questions about intellectual property rights, fair use doctrines, and the boundaries of creative ownership have moved to the forefront of legal and technological discourse.
Major Pending Cases
1. The New York Times v. OpenAI/Microsoft (2024)
2. Sarah Silverman et al. v. Meta (2023)
3. Getty Images v. Stability AI (2023)
Regulatory Developments
Key Legal Arguments
Back to you…
This is obviously a very complex topic, but I bring it up as many of my clients have published books which formed the foundation of their speaking career. In other cases, clients have worked on crafting their signature talk, and now realize there’s a book to be written.
Some storytellers are okay with their stories being referenced by AI — they feel the exposure is a positive thing. Others, however, believe their original works should be protected — they think that if they end up in the public domain they will suffer financially.
I’m not sure what the outcome will be, but I’m thinking that if President George Washington was alive today he would be concerned about how the Act is being circumvented — that the intent of protecting intellectual property was being ignored in the name of amassing wealth.
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It Took Thousands of Personal Stories to Create the Mariner 9 Story
/in Government, History, Science, Technology/by Mark LovettFifty-four years ago today, on May 30, 1971, a symphony of human ambition lifted off from Cape Kennedy. Mariner 9 wasn’t just a spacecraft — it was the culmination of thousands of individual stories, each person contributing their unique thread to a tapestry that would forever change how we see our place within the cosmos.
Launch of Atlas-Centaur Rocket Carrying Mariner 9 Mars Probe
The Genesis of a Dream
The Mariner program began in 1962, nine years before the launch of Mariner 9. NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory conceived this series of robotic explorers as stepping stones to the planets. Each mission built upon the last — Mariner 2 had whispered past Venus, Mariner 4 had glimpsed Mars in passing. But Mariner 9 would be different. It would stay, orbit, & see.
The development of Mariner 9 took approximately four years of intensive work, from initial design concepts in 1967 to its 1971 launch. Yet this timeline barely captures the human drama unfolding behind the scenes — engineers working through weekends, mathematicians recalculating trajectories late into the night, technicians hand-assembling delicate instruments with the precision of watchmakers.
A Cast of Thousands
Picture this: over 5,000 people directly involved in the Mariner 9 mission, with countless more supporting roles spanning across multiple states. From the assembly floors of Denver to the tracking stations scattered across the globe, this was humanity at its collaborative best. Each person — whether they wielded a soldering iron or a slide rule — contributed their personal skills and passion.
Mariner 9 Mars Probe
The mission required an extraordinary convergence of skills, including:
Five Gifts to Humanity
Mariner 9’s achievements resonate through the decades. First, it became the first successful Mars orbiter, proving we could establish a permanent robotic presence around another planet. Second, it mapped most of the Martian surface with unprecedented detail, revealing a world of stunning geological complexity. Third, it discovered evidence of ancient water flows — those mysterious channels that whispered of a warmer, wetter Mars. Fourth, it provided our first detailed study of the Martian moons, Phobos and Deimos, expanding our understanding of small celestial bodies. Fifth, it demonstrated that long-duration interplanetary missions were possible, paving the way for every Mars mission that followed.
The Ripple Effect
Imagine if Mariner 9 had failed. Would we have the rovers — Sojourner (1997), Spirit (2004–2010), Opportunity (2004–2018), Curiosity (2012–present), and Perseverance (2021–present) — exploring Martian soil? Would we still dream of human colonies on the Red Planet? Would countless young minds have been inspired to pursue careers in science and engineering? The mission’s success created a cascade of possibility that continues to shape our technological vision of space exploration.
Back to you…
I’ve worked with a long list of folks whose story involved technical achievements, from scientists to engineers and entrepreneurs. While digging below the surface we invariably discover a cast of supporting characters that made their project a success. If your story involves a team effort, weaving bits of their stories is one way to add depth and richness to your story.
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Billions of Personal Stories as Told on the Golden Gate Bridge
/in Architecture, History, Society, Statistics, Transportation/by Mark LovettIt was 88 years ago, on May 27, 1937 that the Golden Gate Bridge opened, finally making a direct connection (not using a circuitous route) between San Francisco and Marin County, California that did not involve a ferry. Only pedestrian traffic crossed the bridge that day, with vehicles permitted to make the journey the following day.
It’s just one out of the millions of bridges that exist throughout the world, and in one respect its function is basically the same as virtually all the others — getting people from one side to the other — but the unique combination of its location and architecture have made it iconic. A visual recognized the world over.
While bridges evoke the idea of transportation, I think of bridges as storytellers, or to be more precise, story conduits. So how many stories has the Golden Gate Bridge facilitated? That’s hard to say, precisely, but based on numbers I dug up, the total seems to be well over 2 billion. More likely than not beyond 3 billion.
Stories of people coming and going to work. Families on vacation. Those making trips of all sorts; south towards Mexico, and north towards Canada. Both saints and sinners, as well as everything in between. While they’re just physical objects, bridges facilitate a fundamental desire to reach beyond ourselves.
For example, when the ancient Romans built the Pons Sublicius across the Tiber River around 642 BC, they weren’t just connecting 2 banks of earth — they were helping create the destiny of their civilization. Every Roman legion that marched across their bridges carried the seeds of an empire that would shape Western culture for millennia — for better or worse.
In more recent times, but still predating the Golden Gate Bridge, consider how different New York City would be today if the Brooklyn Bridge had never been built. When it opened in 1883, it didn’t just span the East River; it transformed New York from a collection of separate boroughs into the unified city we know today.
Consider the Tower Bridge in London. Completed in 1894, it connected not just the north and south banks of the River Thames, but also the old world with the new industrial age. Imagine the conversations that took place as horse-drawn carriages shared those roadways with new motor cars — generations literally passing each other on a bridge between eras.
When we understand bridges as more than infrastructure, but as the connective tissue of human experience, we begin to appreciate how they’ve shaped not just where we can go, but who we become in the crossing.
Back to you…
Maybe your story involves crossing a physical bridge, as you moved from one place to another, or it may be more metaphorical in nature as you progressed in your career or in a relationship. Think about the starting and ending points, with a chasm in-between, and what changed when you crossed over.
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