Nature abhors a vacuum, rushing to fill it often chaotically. Policymakers, similarly, dislike a regulatory void. The urge to fill it with new laws is strong, frequently leading to shortsighted legislation. There's a common, if flawed, belief that "any law is better than no law." This action bias—our predisposition to do something rather than nothing—might be forgivable in some contexts, but not when it comes to artificial intelligence.
Regardless of one's stance on AI regulation, we should all agree that only effective policy deserves to stay on the books. The consequences of missteps in AI policy at this early stage are too severe to entrench poorly designed proposals into law. Once enacted, laws tend to persist. We even have a term for them: zombie laws. These are "statutes, regulations, and judicial precedents that continue to apply after their underlying economic and legal bases dissipate," as defined by Professor Joshua Macey.
Such laws are more common than we’d like to admit. Consider a regulation requiring truck drivers to place visibility triangles around their rigs when parked. This seemingly minor rule becomes a barrier to autonomous trucking, as there's no driver to deploy the triangles. A simple, commonsense solution, like integrating high-visibility markers into the trucks themselves, exists, yet the outdated regulation persists. Another example is the FDA's attempt to help allergy sufferers by requiring sesame labeling. Rather than simply labeling, many food producers responded by adding sesame to more foods to avoid non-compliance, a comical and wasteful regulatory backfire.
Similar legislative missteps are highly likely in the AI space. With Congress declining to impose a moratorium, state legislatures across the country are rapidly pursuing AI proposals. Hundreds of AI-related bills are pending, addressing everything from broad, catastrophic harms to specific issues such as deepfakes in elections.
The odds of any of these bills getting it "right" are uncertain. AI is a particularly challenging technology to regulate for several reasons: even its creators aren't sure how and why their models behave; early adopters are still figuring out AI’s utility and limitations; no one can predict how current regulations will influence AI's development; and we're left guessing how adversaries will approach similar regulatory questions.
Given these complexities, legislators must adopt a posture of regulatory humility. States that enact well-intentioned regulations leading to predictable negative consequences are engaging in legislative malpractice. I choose these words deliberately. Policymakers and their staff should know better, recognizing the extensive list of tools available to prevent bad laws from becoming permanent.
Malpractice occurs when a professional fails to adhere to the basic tenets of their field. Legal malpractice, for instance, involves "evil practice in a professional capacity, and the resort to methods and practices unsanctioned and prohibited by law." In medicine, doctors are held to a standard of care reflecting what a "minimally competent physician in the same field would do under similar circumstances."
While policymaking lacks a formalized duty of care or professional conduct code, we're not entirely without guidance. A related concept, though less familiar, offers a starting point: maladministration.
Maladministration encompasses "administrative action (or inaction) based on or influenced by improper considerations or conduct," indicating when "things are going wrong, mistakes are being made, and justifiable grievances are being ignored." While typically applied to administrative agencies and politicians, as the creators of such systems, they bear responsibility for anticipating and correcting these mistakes.
Given the inherent difficulties of regulating AI, policymakers should, at a minimum, demonstrate consideration of three key tools to reduce the odds of enacting misguided regulations. These tools align with core democratic values, ensuring policy promotes the common good.
First is experimental policy design via randomized control trials (RCTs). Legislators shouldn't assume one best way to test AI models or report their training. Instead, they should build experimentation into legislation. Some labs might follow steps A, B, and C, while others follow X, Y, and Z. The legislature can then assess which provisions work best, ideally transitioning all regulated entities to superior practices or amending the law. This fosters innovation in regulatory methods.
Second are sunrise clauses. These delay enforcement until prerequisites—basic conditions of good governance—are met. Unlike a simple future effective date, a true sunrise clause imposes a checklist: Is the implementing agency staffed and funded? Have regulated entities been consulted? Do stakeholders understand compliance? In AI policy, these questions are urgent. Enforcing complex laws before infrastructure exists is inefficient and undermines legitimacy. A sunrise clause ensures laws "land" effectively, demanding competence before policy becomes an enforceable rule. This promotes transparency and accountability.
Third are sunset clauses. If sunrise clauses delay a start, sunset clauses enforce an end unless actively renewed. This is critical for fast-evolving technologies. A sunset clause builds in mandatory reassessment: "This law expires in two years unless renewed." This isn't laziness; it’s disciplined humility. AI regulation shouldn't outlive its usefulness, and sunset clauses ensure laws earn their permanence, preventing outdated assumptions from locking in.
The stakes of AI policymaking are too high and the risks of getting it wrong are too enduring for lawmakers to legislate on instinct alone. While action bias is human, embedding it in law is neither excusable nor sustainable. At this early, uncertain stage of AI development, policymakers have a rare opportunity: to regulate with foresight, humility, and discipline.
Kevin Frazier is an AI Innovation and Law Fellow at Texas Law and Author of the Appleseed AI substack.
A deep look at how "All in the Family" remains a striking mirror of American politics, class tensions, and cultural manipulation—proving its relevance decades later.
All in This American Family
There are a few shows that have aged as eerily well as All in the Family.
It’s not just that it’s still funny and has the feel not of a sit-com, but of unpretentious, working-class theatre. It’s that, decades later, it remains one of the clearest windows into the American psyche. Archie Bunker’s living room has been, as it were, a small stage on which the country has been working through the same contradictions, anxieties, and unresolved traumas that still shape our politics today. The manipulation of the working class, the pitting of neighbor against neighbor, the scapegoating of the vulnerable, the quiet cruelties baked into everyday life—all of it is still here with us. We like to reassure ourselves that we’ve progressed since the early 1970s, but watching the show now forces an unsettling recognition: The structural forces that shaped Archie’s world have barely budged. The same tactics of distraction and division deployed by elites back then are still deployed now, except more efficiently, more sleekly.
Archie himself is the perfect vessel for this continuity. He is bigoted, blustery, reactive, but he is also wounded, anxious, and constantly misled by forces above and beyond him. Norman Lear created Archie not as a monster to be hated (Lear’s genius was to make Archie lovable despite his loathsome stands), but as a man trapped by the political economy of his era: A union worker who feels his country slipping away, yet cannot see the hands that are actually moving it. His anger leaks sideways, onto immigrants, women, “hippies,” and anyone with less power than he has. The real villains—the wealthy, the connected, the manufacturers of grievance—remain safely and comfortably offscreen. That’s part of the show’s key insight: It reveals how elites thrive by making sure working people turn their frustrations against each other rather than upward.
Edith, often dismissed as naive or scatterbrained, functions as the show’s quiet moral center. Her compassion exposes the emotional void in Archie’s worldview and, in doing so, highlights the costs of the divisions that powerful interests cultivate. Meanwhile, Mike the “Meathead” represents a generation trying to break free from those divisions but often trapped in its own loud self-righteousness. Their clashes are not just family arguments but collisions between competing visions of America’s future. And those visions, tellingly, have yet to resolve themselves.
The political context of the show only sharpens its relevance. Premiering in 1971, All in the Family emerged during the Nixon years, when the “Silent Majority” strategy was weaponizing racial resentment, cultural panic, and working-class anxiety to cement power. Archie was a fictional embodiment of the very demographic Nixon sought to mobilize and manipulate. The show exposed, often bluntly, how economic insecurity was being rerouted into cultural hostility. Watching the show today, it’s impossible to miss how closely that logic mirrors the present, from right-wing media ecosystems to politicians who openly rely on stoking grievances rather than addressing root causes.
What makes the show unsettling today is that its satire feels less like a relic and more like a mirror. The demagogic impulses it spotlighted have simply found new platforms. The working-class anger it dramatized has been harvested by political operatives who, like their 1970s predecessors, depend on division to maintain power. The very cultural debates that fueled Archie’s tirades — about immigration, gender roles, race, and national identity—are still being used as tools to distract from wealth concentration and political manipulation.
If anything, the divisions are sharper now because the mechanisms of manipulation are more sophisticated, for much has been learned by The Machine. The same emotional raw material Lear mined for comedy is now algorithmically optimized for outrage. The same social fractures that played out around Archie’s kitchen table now play out on a scale he couldn’t have imagined. But the underlying dynamics haven’t changed at all.
That is why All in the Family feels so contemporary. The country Lear dissected never healed or meaningfully evolved: It simply changed wardrobe. The tensions, prejudices, and insecurities remain, not because individuals failed to grow but because the economic and political forces that thrive on division have only become more entrenched. Until we confront the political economy that kept Archie and Michael locked in an endless loop of circular bickering, the show will remain painfully relevant for another fifty years.
Ahmed Bouzid is the co-founder of The True Representation Movement.