Chris Colin

With his long hair, dark glasses and slow, amiable grin, Hedberg will have you convinced he’s just another dope fobbing off boring pot humor at first. If he makes one joke about getting high, he has said, people will approach him after the show and ask why he only talks about drugs.

He doesn’t. Like most comedians, he talks about everyday things. The difference is that he seems to earnestly enjoy the funniness of eggs or tightrope walkers or frozen bananas. His goodwill, which in real life would seem ordinary, is shocking in front of a red curtain.

“My apartment is infested with koala bears. It is the cutest infestation. When I turn on the light, they scatter, but I do not want them to.”

Of course it’s more than just niceness. He’s also funny and extremely offbeat — something that gets him compared to Steven Wright a good deal. On paper, Hedberg does sound like Wright. He inflects observational humor with kookiness and skips the narrative setup. It’s in the delivery that he leaves Wright in the dust. If Wright’s superdrollness amounts to something of a joke-telling robot, Hedberg never lets you forget there’s a ghost, or at least a frog lover, in the machine. With his chuckling, awkward pauses and apologies for confusing non sequiturs (“sorry, that last part didn’t make no sense”), he comes across as vulnerable and real.

“I love Steven Wright,” he told Shecky magazine, “but as far as him being an influence, I can’t measure that. Let me say this: If I made potato chips, and I decided to pack them in a skinny can, people would say I was like Pringle’s, but what if I packed them in a bag?”

The vulnerability never seems like shtick, and the effect is that you’re watching your good friend be funny. Which is refreshing, given how stand-up comedy often relies on an unfortunate alienation between performer and audience. Even with Jerry Seinfeld — a funny guy — the taxi-drivers-are-crazy routines sometimes feel a little too hostile. Hedberg doesn’t utter a single criticism, nor does he fall back on self-deprecation.

“Comedy is a red rubber ball and if you throw it against a soft, funny wall, it will not come back,” Mel Brooks once said. “But if you throw it against the hard wall of ultimate reality, it will bounce back and be very lively.”

Hedberg chooses to throw the ball at the softest walls he can find. Swiss cheese, shish kebab, ant farms — and the result is as lively as anything Brooks can come up with.

“When someone tries to hand me a flier, it’s like they’re saying, ‘Here, YOU throw this away.’”

Maybe this is what’s strange about his show: For an hour, we realize, we’ve been laughing at good old-fashioned jokes. They aren’t ushered through with funny faces, innuendo, irony or quirky neuroses. It’s just trees and animals, and they’re a riot.

Not that they jump off the page, exactly. With Hedberg’s jokes, you had to be there, and if you weren’t, the best you can do is try to imagine a funny guy saying them:

“I’d like to talk about the differences between frogs and bears. I know, it’s a cliché.”

“Escalators are never out of order. They’re just temporarily stairs.”

“Foosball is a combination of soccer and shish kebab.”

Hedberg performs eyes closed — perhaps his only gimmick. He mumbles, swallows a joke now and then and occasionally tells the punch line first. The amateurism is endearing. So is his own running response to it, which oscillates between “fuck it” and “oh fuck.”

This confused oscillation gels with his overall routine — maybe it’s the creative cousin of stoner shtick after all. Whereas the average stoner stage persona just provides a character through which the comic may act stupid, Hedberg liberates the weird cleverness and dispenses with the ums and uhs.

“I’m against picketing, but I don’t know how to show it.”

In person, Hedberg is the same combination of tender, reserved, sharp and stoned. He’s neither cocky nor modest, probably because his talent seems as new to him as it does to the audience. Hedberg began comedy relatively late, after a string of unfulfilling kitchen jobs in Florida. He still seems surprised about his success, or at least curious about it.

“I like to play blackjack … I’m not addicted to gambling; I’m addicted to sitting in a semicircle.”

At one show, someone in the crowd farted. Nobody heard the indiscretion, but Hedberg smelled it. You’d have thought we’d gone to war. For five minutes, he struggled dramatically against the stink, barely able to get through a sentence without collapsing in prim revulsion. “It’s ridiculous,” he cried, wrapping himself in the stage curtain, “it’s fucking me up.”

It was a riff on James Brown feigning injury onstage: the conceit of the enduring, defiant performer meets the conceit of someone cutting the cheese. And as with Soul Brother Number One, we get sucked into Hedberg’s drama no matter how sure we are that no one actually cut one. We worry for his nose as we would worry for a friend’s, a brother’s, a son’s.

“If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker and you were walking down the street together and he fell, that would be unacceptable.”

Time magazine has called Hedberg “the next Seinfeld.” It just meant, surely, that he’s really funny. The two jokesters have little else in common. Where Seinfeld goes for Porsches, extremely young women and credit card commercials, Hedberg likes watching his local weatherman and used to live in a car. Not that he slacks. (“I’m not a slacker. I just don’t tuck in my shirt.”) He wrote and directed his own movie — the film made it to, then bombed at, Sundance — and now keeps a packed touring schedule.

So Hedberg is the next something. And just in time. With a wealth of comic material looming around the corner — global warming, an energy crisis, three more years under Bush — America needs a comedian who will, with precision timing and unerring nerve, explain how cute and soft and huggable koalas really are.

To invest in the high-volume, low-boil soap opera that seized a tiny corner of downtown Oakland today, one must trace Occupy’s strange evolution in recent weeks, and then one must throw all that out because Oakland’s its own weird thing. Militant, politically shrewd, economically screwed, energized, immature, determined, obsessive, scarred or none of the above, the Bay Area city has a proud history of inspiring passionate ambivalence. Occupy Oakland, for its part, is either a can of Jolt for a flagging international movement, or an embarrassment to a steadier one. Depends whom you ask is often as true about Oakland as it is about Occupy.

Frank Ogawa Plaza, aka Oscar Grant Plaza, has mostly been a calm acre of mud and patchy grass lately. The craziness that made the news has given way, via forcible eviction, to quiet clusters of discussion and coordination. On the eve of the planned re-occupation, I attended a chilly 6 p.m. general assembly meeting, plus another meeting about the Dec. 12 port blockade being planned. If Tuesday was to be the big day, I wanted to look in on a little one first.

The Occupy Oakland activists are a wily crew, and via supernatural anarchist powers they intuited my approach. Away went the bongos and weed and guns and bricks and frivolous liberal arts degrees. Out came a different terror, the agony of patient, sensible, rational, mind-numbing democracy.

“Point of process,” an older gentleman in a baseball hat was saying to a semicircle of 60 or so people, and I can no more transcribe what followed than I could the terms and conditions of my iTunes agreement. In the most tediously civil and cogent manner possible, the assembled 20-through-60-somethings spent an hour discussing the logistics of the port blockade. Should it start at 6 a.m.? Could someone get in touch with the truckers tomorrow? Point of information. Point of clarification. Straw poll? Very good, thanks, everyone.

It was lovely, and inspiring, and utterly incompatible with daily journalism, which prefers the kind of fireworks sure to come the next day. No bargain with the city had been struck. “If the 1 percent won’t share voluntarily … we will force change!” the press release had promised. It was anybody’s guess how police would respond, and the guessing had been tending toward pessimism.

When I returned in the morning, I did so with obligatory vinegar-soaked dishrag in my bag, but mostly it seemed inconceivable the city would pepper spray its way onto the front pages again. Many of the Occupiers I met seemed to feel the same, but with asterisks.

“Every time we say the police aren’t going to do something dumb, they surprise us,” Becca Von Behren told me in the hours before the vigil.

Von Behren, 30, is an attorney with a San Francisco veterans rights group and part of Occupy Oakland’s volunteer legal committee. There’s no clearer picture of a 99 percenter than a veteran my age, she told me. Over the last few days Von Behren was instrumental in helping to devise the legally savvy underpinning of the day’s planned vigil. The idea rested on precedent from a 1984 case called  Clark v. Community for Creative Nonviolence. As she and another attorney from the committee explained it to me, that case established that elements of a protest designed for expression were protected by the First Amendment — even tents and teepees, if they’re used as symbols rather than for sleeping.

“Sleeping is not protected — they can ban that,” Von Behren said. “We’ll have a permanent and meaningful structure in the plaza, but nobody will be sleeping in it.”

I asked her what the meaning was. Specifically, I asked her how I should explain it to my mom, a proxy in my mind for everyone with growing sympathy for the movement and growing doubts about its tactics.

“Here’s what I said to my mom,” Von Behren said. “Regardless of whether measurable changes occur — and I’m not even sure what the metric would be — there are people out here involved in direct, deliberative democracy, discussing things usually not discussed among strangers. That kind of awakening is enough.”

Ten minutes later Zachary RunningWolf was standing before a small crowd in front of City Hall. RunningWolf is an elder from the Black Feet tribe and something of a celebrity in tree-sitting circles. A growing collection of police officers stood behind him, either smirking or being moved, it was hard to say. The crowd was being moved. The teepees would remind the public of the struggles of the Sioux, and of homeless workers during the Depression, and Resurrection City after Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, and other occupations. Eight long teepee dowels came out, and the crowd cheered, and everyone moved to the building site, and then the police said any structure would be torn down and everyone responsible would be arrested.

The slow-motion confrontation that followed lasted nearly two hours. A handful of cops stood impassively as a knot of Occupiers shouted at them. Could they name the ordinance they were enforcing? No? Then how could they enforce it? Couldn’t they think for themselves? Why were they working for the 1 percent? They were idiots. No, they were part of the system, the system’s what’s idiotic. Thank you, sister. No, they idiots. Seven people shot last night and they need two dozen cops to guard a fucking teepee?

Meanwhile Von Behren and another volunteer attorney, Kirk Boyd, had gotten into City Hall. They arranged a meeting with a young, bearded fellow named Arturo Sanchez, assistant to the city administrator. Sanchez listened and conceded perhaps there’d been a misunderstanding regarding the intent of the teepee. He said he’d return in five minutes with an answer.

Five minutes became an hour so I spoke with an Oaklander outside in a pink sweat shirt, aged old enough to be your mother. She’s a paralegal who came down to see what the day would bring. She wouldn’t give her name because she feared retribution from the occupiers, with whom she’s furious.

“Look, I support regulating the shit out of Wall Street. I’m progressive and so’s the rest of Oakland — if Bernie Sanders was 20 years younger I’d stalk the man. But this? This is a nightmare. Oakland is sick of this,” she said.

“What if this is the next Woolworth’s?” I asked, thinking of that 1960 sit-in at a segregated lunch counter that ignited the civil rights movement. “How would you know?”

“They had a specific goal,” she replied. “Occupy Oakland has no focus, just rage. No sense of Glass-Steagall, for example. I try to get involved but they shoot me down.”

One of the officers getting yelled at was Lt. Freddy Hamilton.

“I’m sympathetic to a lot of what they say, but I also got a job to do,” he told me.

A young couple also on the scene spoke of their investment in Occupy Oakland.

“I was going to school in Alaska, studying natural science,” said Lucas Wilcox, 29. “But I stopped. Why go further into debt in an inherently dysfunctional system? This here, this is a hub. I don’t think democracy of this sort has ever happened in this country.”

By and by Sanchez came out and delivered what struck many as an arbitrary compromise: The teepee could be erected in a different spot, would have to be taken down between the hours of 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. and this “encroachment permit” would only last three days.

“It’s not a victory till it becomes 24 hours,” Phil Horne, another attorney volunteering with Occupy Oakland, told me. “Occupation means occupation; we don’t turn it off at night. So we’re going to challenge this. No permit is required to exercise a right. That’s a slippery slope.”

The occupiers — who now numbered about 70 — debated the city’s position and there was more anger at the cops and at last a decision was made. Everyone surrounded RunningWolf, who climbed up on a metal chair under the boughs of two trees. He lashed eight modestly sized wooden dowels together with rope and then, in about four minutes, it was done.

The crowd clapped and made signs to hang on it then gradually trickled away. The police trickled away, too, at least until the evening’s vigil. The night before, when everything was quiet and calm, I’d asked a former Black Panther named Gerald Smith what, in the grand scheme of things, could come of today’s event. He made a face that said please understand the significance of what I’m about to say, and then said, “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The teepee stood about 12 feet tall and was tucked over at the edge of the plaza.

Fancy Upper West Side address, nice clothes, summer in the Hamptons, fawning media attention, parents mellow enough to pass him their joint now and then — for a year and a half, Nim had a life many humans would envy. But that was the problem: He himself wasn’t human, merely raised to think he was. He bonded intensely with his adoptive family, and indeed learned around 125 words in American Sign Language, but in the end his fate wasn’t that of a true son. Funding for the project ran out, Nim proved more difficult to handle as he got older, and eventually he was unceremoniously sent away.

Terrace would make a dramatic concession to Chomsky on the language question, sending waves throughout the field. But the charismatic subject at the center of the study more or less vanished. Nim bounced through some of the assorted grim facilities that house chimps, all the while making it clear he longed for his human family. For a creature who would demand hugs after being disciplined, and bring tissues to his adoptive mother when she cried, relocating to a world of cages and strange, hairy beings was incomprehensible.

Ultimately Project Nim illuminated as much about humans as about chimps. There was never any exit strategy. The implications of humanizing a wild, and intelligent, creature seem to have eluded the people responsible. At the time New York magazine referred to the study as a “scientific revolution with religious consequences that occurs once every few hundred years.” One hopes it’s no more often than that.

Hess spoke to Salon from her home in upstate New York.

How did people respond when they’d find out you were writing a book about chimpanzees?

I got a lot of banana jokes. And people were surprised to see that these animals are so complicated, and so emotional, and that they form such deep and serious attachments to human beings. That’s why I wanted to write this. It’s a novel experience to read a biography of a wild animal.

I was surprised myself. When I discovered Nim’s story, it was like I was struck by lightning. No one really knew that story. He’d had these moments of incredible celebrity that were well documented, but ultimately what happened to him was a bit of a mystery.

The fact that Nim had been raised in a human family [by Stephanie and W.E.R. LaFarge], and learned how to operate around people, made him a very interesting subject. His life also allowed me to write about a variety of landscapes where chimps end up. The book takes you behind the scenes of a major behavioral language science experiment, and inside a primate breeding colony, and briefly inside a biomedical research lab, and ultimately to a sanctuary. Which in the end is about as good as it gets for any captive-born animal.

Can you describe the happy period when Nim first got to the house in New York?

Nim was with the LaFarges for 18 months, and most of that was a pretty happy time. I think it was incredibly exciting to have this baby chimp around. He loved to be held, he drank from a bottle. By the time he was 2 months, he could cling to walls and get up and down the banister. There was a giant waterbed in the living room that Nim loved to bounce up and down upon.

He was very beguiling. They dressed him in OshKosh and little T-shirts, and taught him how to sit at the table and use utensils. I think he really enjoyed being part of the family.

After funding ran out and Terrace declared the project a failure, Nim was taken from his loving home in New York, and bounced around various grim research facilities before he wound up at Cleveland Amory’s sanctuary, in Texas. Tell me about what it was like for Nim to be put back in a cage with other chimps after he’d only ever known humans.

It was terrifying. One graduate student described the response that all the [research] chimps had [upon being reintroduced to other chimps] as a nervous breakdown. Nim’s brother [and the subject of another study] Ally was so terrified and upset that he suffered a kind of paralysis for a while. They often pull out all their hair; they refuse to eat; some get beaten up by other chimps because they don’t know how to respond to them.

The former graduate students in New York believe that Nim had no idea he was a chimpanzee. One of them suggested to me that Nim might have thought he was going to grow up, lose all his facial and body hair and eventually look like the people who were around him. That would be a reasonable supposition. Throughout his life, Nim preferred to be with humans.

Toward the end of his life, he was paired with an ex-circus chimp named Sally Jones. That, I think, was the first deep relationship he had with his own species. They were inseparable. Sally was a lot older, a lot milder. Nim had a reputation for breaking out of his cage in Texas. When Sally came, he would break out of his cage, but then he’d remember her, and he’d go back and get her. He’d lead her out of the cage and they’d go on a little romp together. Cleveland Amory was always afraid that Nim was going to run off into the woods. But he had no desire to run away. Nim would go to the nearest house and bring Sally with him, and they would raid the refrigerator, go through the closets and try on any shoes that were lying around, and sometimes they’d get into bed and turn on the TV.

He was also dangerous. Chris Byrne, the manager at [Amory's] Black Beauty Ranch that Nim was closest to, learned that when Nim broke out, the best thing to do was to just be completely calm. He’d see Nim at the door and he’d say, “Nim, welcome,” as if Nim had been invited over for cocktails. He’d let him sit down for a while. Then he’d slowly lead Sally back to the cage, and Nim would eventually follow.

Can you describe the first time you met a chimp?

Oh yes. I went out to the Black Beauty Ranch to see the three adult chimps who were Nim’s companions when he died in 2000. I went out just to hang out with them, and learn what it’s like to look in their eyes. I certainly remember the first time I held hands with one of them. It’s quite a joyful-slash-terrifying experience.

Partly it’s so profound because they’re so humanlike. But another part is that they’re in a cage and you’re on the outside. There’s a built-in injustice to the relationship — there seems to be a clear consciousness about that in them. Nim used to sign “out” all the time. Anybody who passed by his cage in Texas, he’d start signing to them, to see if they knew any sign language. If they didn’t, he’d get disappointed and go to the back of his cage. He enjoyed signing and taught the other chimps some signs.

When they like you, they’re extremely gregarious. They want to show you things. They love books and magazines. There was a children’s book all about Nim while he was in New York, basically a photo book, and Nim kept his one copy of this book safe, even though chimps tend to wreck everything. He would bring it down and show the other chimps, then bring it back to his bunk and keep it under his sleeping area so that no one could destroy it. He would just look at pictures of his New York City family, and himself, over and over again.

What kind of response have you gotten from people who’d been involved with Nim?

Everybody felt so bad that they’d worked so hard to convince him he was human, and then he was just shipped off at the end of the experiment. There was no exit plan. No one ever asked, “What’s going to happen to the chimp?” In the ’70s, this is the way research was done. At the end of the experiment, the animals were either euthanized or sent to the next experiment down the line. Nobody asked questions about it. There was a tremendous amount of sadness and guilt wrapped around the whole project.

When Project Nim ended and Terrace finally published the results, years later, in Science magazine, he not only argued that Nim did not learn American Sign Language — that he was merely mimicking his teachers — he argued that all apes [in language programs] were mimicking their teachers. He basically tried to put a knife into the heart of all language research with animals. He sided with Chomsky. There were a lot of [other] projects under way at that time, and he had a huge effect on funding. It was a small, fragile movement to begin with. It took about five years for the field to recover.

Why do the language capabilities of a chimp matter?

I think they matter to different people for different reasons. The value of Project Nim is still hotly debated. The fact that chimps are really good at a gestural-based language is not surprising. Whether or not their use of ASL has anything to do with the way humans use ASL is still debated. What I can say is that those people who were around Nim had no problem understanding him.

Yet in Project Nim they made many mistakes. They brought Nim into a classroom, they made him hang his coat up on a hook, they sat him down at a little desk, and they drilled him in sign language. This is not a great way to teach a little human person, and it’s certainly not a great way to teach a chimp. Nevertheless they documented a vocabulary of more than 100 words and 20,000 different combinations. But the question of what Nim learned — everyone has a different point of view about it.

Now, we’re looking much more closely at the animal mind, not the way in which the animal might use a human language. And what we’re discovering is how little we know about how the animals communicate, and how little we know about their intellectual potential. Most of these captive animals have been born in captivity and locked in small cages their entire lives. If you did that to a human, it certainly wouldn’t stimulate their intellect. Now that we know these animals have consciousness and desires and emotions, we think of them as sentient beings. We wonder not only what they have to say but whether we’re doing the right thing by them, or to them.

It sometimes seems there’s a disconnect in our thinking about chimps. On the one hand, we know very well that they’re capable of seeming human — in movies and commercials they look and act very much like us. But on the other hand, people sometimes seem shocked when they find out how complex or intelligent they actually are.

I think that’s the lesson learned at Project Nim. This very adorable, humanlike baby turned into a wilder and wilder creature. People don’t realize that chimps aren’t forever these little people that are cute and funny. And they don’t realize that they’re actually an endangered species. They’re kind of an invisible species here, too — there are very few in zoos. Most are in research, and we don’t get to see those. The ones we see on TV and in ads are babies.

How many chimps are there in captivity in the U.S.?

I think around 2,000. Five hundred are owned by the government and are in research labs. Another 600 are in privately owned research labs. Then there’s a number of them in the entertainment industry and a number that are privately owned in exotic collections.

And there’s a huge, mostly hidden number in garages and attics, right? People take them in thinking they’ll always be cute and little, but they get big and unwieldy, and go on to live a very long time.

Yes. In the ’70s, the period I was writing about, it was a kind of fad to raise a chimp as a pet in your home, and treat it very much as a child. None of these did very well. They not only tear through the families, but they tear through the house. They eat everything and wreck everything in sight. They’re not easy to control. Marriages broke up, children were badly bitten, and people realized that while it was a really fun idea, the reality was far more harrowing than they’d imagined.

How does a chimp break up a marriage?

Chimps bond very tightly to their mothers. The fathers have very little to do with raising the babies. A lot of these women who had been raising orphan chimps [in the '70s] were suddenly engaged to be married, and their chimp babies would not accept their husbands.

What needs to change to improve the lot of apes and monkeys in this country?

We need to get the chimps, which have been in these small cages their whole lives, into sanctuaries where they can step on grass for the first time, and think about whether they want to climb a tree. We need to ask what we owe them, especially because many of these animals have given their lives to research. And once we start asking these questions, I think the answers are going to be so obvious. In many countries it’s illegal to use chimpanzees for any biomedical research, or any invasive research at all, and I think that really needs to happen here. I predict it will.

Just to anticipate some of the responses you’ll get for that, I want to be clear that the chimps being studied are not all saving human lives.

Oh no, not at all. But I think the whole attitude toward chimpanzees is finally starting to change. We’re going to be the last country to protect chimpanzees legally. It wasn’t so long ago that we were using them in car crash studies. We’ve used them for all kinds of useless toxicity studies. The AIDS studies were a disaster.

There’s a lot of research now that looks at how successful research on chimps has been — [and it's] relatively unsuccessful. I think we’re getting to a point where we have to ask, are they really necessary? Or are they being used because it’s a good way of getting grant money, or because they’re simply there?

My heart isn’t a pebble but it is a corrupted little capitalist sponge; almost immediately after the New York construction worker’s stunning subway rescue, I found myself hoping some kindly billionaire would discreetly deliver him a whopping check for his incomprehensible good deed. (For those living under rocks, the 50-year-old jumped onto a subway track before an oncoming train to protect a teenager who’d suffered a seizure; Autrey laid his body on top of the young man’s, positioned himself between the rails, and let the train pass over them.) Later, when Donald Trump announced he’d be coughing up a $10,000 award, I snorted at his stinginess.

But maybe Trump gave $10,000 too much. Maybe an act so extraordinary as Autrey’s gets debased by a financial reward. To dive on a stranger before an oncoming train — I’m pretty sure that’s sublime. Money? Handy but not sublime. In such truly exceptional circumstances, shouldn’t our better selves strive to preserve the delicate miraculousness of such an act — not flatten it into a pecuniary equation?

Of course there’s always a reasonable argument for the pecuniary — that’s the brilliant insistence of capitalism. A whopping check could, in turn, facilitate other exceptional things. College tuition for his two little girls, for instance. And maybe it’s absurd to ask Autrey to perform the double heroism of refusing piles of money and gifts. Certainly it’s embarrassingly paternalistic to be debating whether a man far greater than myself should push future checks back across future tables — and don’t get me wrong, I only want this saint to get whatever he wants or needs. But I do think the sheer singularity of what he did compels us to ask how we can best match it. It’s the purity of Autrey’s altruism that moved us, so it stands to reason we should poke around for some purity, too.

This is abstract and sort of pointy-headed stuff, I know. But people like Autrey don’t come along every day, and just as their actions burrow down to our marrow for a short while, so too do they float upward toward bigger questions. Can we, as a society, really think of no other way to express our admiration and appreciation than with money? And if not, shouldn’t we be worried by that?

In the news frenzy that followed Autrey’s leap, one AP story dug up Daniel Santos, another New York hero, who in 1996 jumped 130 feet off a bridge into the Hudson River to save a woman trying to kill herself. It seems the tidal wave of appreciation didn’t have the effect the hero’s admirers might have wanted. “My life unraveled,” recalls Santos, who started drinking heavily afterward. “The publicity changed my life … It took me four or five years to get my life back.”

I’ve never jumped off a bridge or before a subway car to save a fellow human. I’ve never even jumped in front of a fellow human’s snowball. Like everyone, however, I have occasionally stumbled into pretty good Samaritanism. At 10, I left my father at the Safeway checkout line and chased the previous customer down the block with the $10 in change he’d forgotten. It was a long enough run that I had time to think — specifically, I thought about the different types of candy I’d be buying with my reward money. Were there a god of Teaching Little Boys Profound Lessons, the customer would have surprised me with a mere thank you. But, of course, even at 10 I knew the score. I went home with M&Ms, plus a Snickers for later. What might have been a faintly ennobling experience was instead tainted and transactional.

We live in an era of remarkable and varied peril, as cable news dutifully reminds us every few seconds; by extension, we encounter some heroes. Two days after Autrey’s subway rescue, two other New Yorkers rushed to catch a toddler as he fell four stories off a fire escape. Sept. 11 gave the country more courageous selflessness than we knew what to do with. In fact, we still don’t. That we still fight, here and there, over how to memorialize and honor the various souls who died trying to save others — well, maybe this reveals something beyond just the inevitable divisiveness of 9/11.

Perhaps what’s revealed is a kind of cultural anxiety over how to comprehend the humanity of those acts. We know they’re good, we know good things get rewarded — but our understanding stops there. In other cultures it’s often said that Americans lack the ability to process death; maybe the same is true about real goodness. These unselfish moments of compassion and bravery, maybe they’re the human equivalent of quantum physics for us. So we throw money: a prostration at the feet of incomprehension.

But there are practical limits to this hero-love — the cozy feeling unravels when we look to franchise it. On the verge of sending more poor troops to a dumb war to do Autrey-esque things daily, well, we’ll barely reward them with body armor, much less Disney vacations. And if we did compensate them all on the level they deserve, what about the brave Iraqi civilians, or the brave Red Cross volunteers, or the brave protesters back home, or… Once you start looking beyond subway tracks, the world’s suddenly lousy with fine, selfless humans. Should Trump pay them all? Actually, yes — of course he should. But in so doing, he might trample something delicate (and that’s even before we had to watch him name a building after his generosity).

It would be lovely if good deeds could be their own reward. Even lovelier if we’d never heard of rewards in the first place. Some terrifically ineffable thing took hold of Autrey last week, and the best I can wish him is that something equally ineffable will attend the rest of his days. In my fantasy, the Bronze Medallion from Mayor Bloomberg and the trip to Disney World give his daughters a hell of a January, but that later, when the fuss has died down, the Autrey family is visited by a goodness as deep and mysterious as that jump down into the subway tracks. And yes, if the guy’s goodness is such that it’s undiminished by a briefcase full of cash, I suppose I’m hero enough to accept it.

Karson, naturally, claimed the whole thing was a joke — a joke and a lesson, in fact. He publishes “The Yeti” to shine a light on the very issues “people should be talking about but aren’t talking about.”

“I wanted to bring it out to light,” he said, “to show how ridiculous it was that women are treated this way.”

Funnily enough, this turns out to be familiar territory for Karson, who’s either a Borat-like genius or, well, not. In 2002 the then-high school senior was suspended several times for his previous publication, “The Crux.” In what English professors might call a leitmotif, “The Crux” also explored Karson’s thoughts about sex — principally masturbation. “Racist and deeply disturbing,” is how one parent described it at the time. The ACLU stepped in and the suspensions were overturned.

The university never quite threatened action for this latest obscenity. Still, vice chancellor for student affairs Ron Stump told the Boulder Daily Camera the school had been considering whether Karson was in violation of any code of conduct. Before long, the ACLU intervened again.

“The ACLU is aware of no lawful limits that a public university may place upon the content of a self-published student newsletter such as Mr. Karson’s,” Judd Golden, chairman of the group’s Boulder County chapter, wrote in a letter to the university. The university’s response, he said, should be to “encourage more speech, not threaten legal action.”

The literary community appears to be awaiting Karson’s next project with quiet enthusiasm.

Having worked to establish herself as a non-threatening chocolate lover and toiler “on behalf of America’s children,” Warner writes, Pelosi must now put her gavel where her mouth is. “American families,” she says, “are cracking at the seams.” The self-described mother and grandmother must get serious about the mending as she’s promised.

We know Pelosi can be seen edging away from the left now and then. But she has endorsed raising the minimum wage, cutting interest rates on student loans and making some college tuition tax deductible. As Warner points out, though, these aren’t nearly enough. The American family needs quality after-school programs, national standards for childcare, voucher programs and tax subsidies to help pay for that care, universal, voluntary public preschool, paid family leave and incentives for businesses to make part-time and flex-time work financially viable.

The assaults on the American family have been legion over the last two decades, and Warner runs down the list: Working moms are forced out of jobs due to workplace inflexibility, putting their children in all-night childcare, and couples “increasingly enduring split-shift work schedules — putting their health and marriages at risk — to avoid the costs and anxieties of day care.”

As she points out, these conditions don’t describe the reality of Pelosi’s upper-middle-class sphere. Indeed, the speaker’s reputation as a woman — her code for both family-friendly and human — hangs on her ability to reach beyond her own privileged orbit. California Green Party Senate candidate Todd Chretien, interviewed in today’s Socialist Worker, puts it more bluntly: “She represents San Francisco, but not the working class, Latino and Asian immigrant communities that make up its majority. Instead, she represents the yuppies who flooded the city during the 1990s tech boom.”

(Three-time Green candidate for California governorship Peter Camejo, in the same interview, runs through an imperfect record: Pelosi “voted for every Pentagon budget Bush has requested since 2001″ and “opposes granting legalization to undocumented workers.” Camejo detects a lurking class prejudice in Pelosi’s recent reference to Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez as “a common thug.”)

Warner, for her part, employs a more family-values-friendly approach, arguing simply that Pelosi’s “glorious life” be made “possible for everyone else.”

“This isn’t a radical leftist agenda,” Warner writes, presumably with the hand that’s not holding her nose. And of course it’s not. It’s the radical right agenda that has dominated American politics for years. Whether Pelosi is the mother and grandmother to remind the country of this remains to be seen.