I don’t go to pools. I don’t drink margaritas. Somehow here I am, sitting at a pool with a margarita in hand, editing my 82nd draft of a plan for the future of the human race. My girlfriend is worried people might think I’m crazy. “Baby, ” she posits, “most people just want to make it through the day. Who really gives a shit whether humans survive in 200 years?” She’s kinda right. Fortunately, tequila takes the edge off. For the past decade, I’ve been obsessed with solving a problem that very few people seem