Paying Attention to Attention

[Hauled up from my Newsgroup archives; originally written June 21, 2006]

I hit a minor traffic jam on the way home, the other day. It was a “rubbernecker jam,” caused by some cars stopped by the side of the road, people out of the cars, probably exchanging information, but I was busy trying to get by them both safely and as fast as possible, so I didn’t see much.

It often makes sense to slow down. If there are people walking around by the side of the road, common sense suggests you shouldn’t speed by in the adjacent lane. I usually try to get as many lanes over as possible, and to slow down as little as possible, especially if the highway is near “jam condition,” i.e. when traffic flow is near maximum and the average speed is near 40 mph. Under jam conditions, anything that slows traffic will turn the entire highway into stop-and-go, because speeds below 40 have lower flow rates. Behind you is maximum flow rate, ahead of you is less than that. What do you think is going to happen?

Some people slow down to look at anything that catches their attention, though, even things that aren’t hazards. In fact, the slowing down adds a new hazard, but what is that, or the inconvenience of jamming the highway, compared to satisfying your curiosity?

I have very low impulse control when it comes to curiosity, so I should probably be a sucker for rubbernecking. But I’m also a contrary cuss, and I don’t like having my attention grabbed like that. Besides, it’s not as if an accident scene is something I’m particularly interested in.

Other things I’m not particularly interested in include political press conferences, presidential addresses, interviews of grief-stricken family members, stories about celebrity trials, celebrity marriages, celebrity divorces, prostitution rings, home invasions, the growing menace of meth, the growing menace of illegal aliens, pedophiles, and how they use the internet, stories about the internet generally, and pretty much anything that is followed by the words “News at 11.”

So I generally confine my TV news viewing to The Daily Show, and occasionally PBS. I get a newspaper, and I’ve got this internet thing going as well, not that you should be interested in that.

The thing is that attention, mine and yours, has a price tag. It always has, at least as long as I’ve been alive, but the competition for attention has been increasing. Even in strict economic terms, that means that when someone grabs your attention, they’re stealing from you. In more meta terms, philosophical even, they’re making you less free.

There are a lot of ways of grabbing attention. Loud noises, flashing lights, grisly images, those work pretty well. So do good looking women, children, and kittens. Or puppies. Oh what fools they were for rejecting The Puppy Channel!

What also works is making you afraid. There’s a lot of that going around. It’s related to making you angry, and there’s a ton of that, too, as well as making you gleeful because someone else (the right someone) is going to be angry or afraid. That’s the stock-in-trade of some right-wing hatemongers, but don’t kid yourself, your politics only speaks to which someone is trying to make you afraid of, or angry about.

But what to do about it? It’s a conundrum, because “Every knock is a boost.”

When someone tells you how much they hate a certain commercial, they are nevertheless spreading the information in that commercial, and sensitizing you to it. The reaction itself spreads it, like sneezing with a cold. The same thing applies when one complains about hate speech.

A friend of mine is a physician in Florida, and he has a colleague who got sucked into a malpractice and fraud scandal. The colleague had all charges eventually dismissed, and he won all civil actions, but the publicity was devastating. Personally devastating. Professionally, his business increased, even during the time when he was still under suspicion but not exonerated. My friend’s assessment came down to “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. People knew they’d heard of him, but they didn’t know why, so he got more business on name recognition.”

Maybe correct, maybe not, but the principle is there. Certainly at some level, infamy becomes a burden, but it’s chilling to remember that Ted Bundy was getting marriage proposals up to the day he was executed.

One idea is to try to ignore the advertisers, attention grabbers, hate-mongers, and the rest, but that isn’t what I do in rubbernecking incidents. I try to deal with the surrounding effects. So maybe the answer is to ignore the originating factor and to concentrate on those who give their attention to it. Don’t attack the leaders or the spokesmen, attack the followers.

You read Ann Coulter? Why would you ever want to gawk at such a car wreck?

Spider Solitaire

In response to a comment by black dog barking:

Spider Solitaire is the Devil’s game.

I’m writing about the Windows version, though I’ve tried several other computer variants, and they’re pretty much as bad. Computer solitaire games are in an entirely different universe from the hard copy versions, not least being that they can keep statistics.

The skill-to-luck ratios of solitaires are pretty obvious. “Regular” solitaire, Klondike, in other words, is pretty much a matter of luck, except when you miss a play. There are a few choices during the game, but most often, there is no way to determine whether or not which choice is best. In the Windows (and most other) implementations, the “undo” is severely limited.

Freecell is much more a matter of skill, and most games are winnable. But it’s a full information game, which means that luck mostly doesn’t come in to it, and there’s a ceiling. You can only get so good at Freecell, and most people can get that good, or pretty nearly. You can also replay the same hand, over and over, and they’re numbered in the Windows version, so you can tell your friends about specific deals. At least one of them is unwinnable, I forget the number, but it can be found if you do a web search for it.

Spider has a huge amount of “top,” room to get better and better. It took me probably 20 or 30 games at the beginning before I won my first game at the highest difficulty level, where all four suits are used. Of course, that was before I began to really use the “undo” function. Without the undo, I eventually got a win statistic of slightly less than 10%.

The undo changes that entirely. The Windows version has an undo function that is limited only by each deal from the stock (which happens 5 times per game), or when a suit is formed and moved off the tableau to the foundation. Sometimes forming a full suit can cause you to lose by leaving you in an untenable position, one that you could have gotten out of if you still had the lost suit to play with.

With liberal use of “undo” I can win about 45% of Spider Solitaire hands. But a friend told me that you can Save a game at the beginning, then keep playing the same game over and over again without it counting as a loss by just going to the Open Last Saved Game (“Replay Game” counts as a loss). You can use similar Save tricks to never enter a loss in the statistics, but that’s pointless. Replaying the same game until you either win, get tired of it, or convince yourself that it’s unwinnable, though, that’s a challenge.

I once played a game that had a bottleneck (no possible plays under ordinary conditions) on the third deal; I played it for an entire weekend and found a way to create a play on the third deal that won the game. Amy plays the two suit game and once hit a game that gave no plays on the final deal, which looks like an automatic loser. But it’s possible to put cards underneath the deal that put a dealt card in play (the cards underneath have to be the same suit in sequence so they can be moved as a whole). So I noted the final deal, then played to that final layout and beat it. I’ve done similar things in the four suited game.

I did compile a statistical run of over 400 games with 21 losses; the win statistics were 94%. And there were at least a couple of games in that run that I lost because I’d forgotten to Save the game at first. More recently, easing off my OCD a little, I win about 90%, because sometimes I just get tired and go to bed.

So, we have a really difficult game that rewards pattern recognition and logical thinking by giving a statistical score that other players can find mind boggling.

The Devil’s Game, I’m sure of it. I really should give it up.

Ellie's Underwear

Okay, Ellie is not her real name, but she was something of a celebrity. I'm giving her a pseudonym for some reasons that will become obvious, and some for which there is no need to divulge. The bottom line, however, is that the story doesn't absolutely require you to know. Also, this was a long time ago.

So. What with one thing an another, and all of it being entirely and totally innocuous, I was in possession of some of Ellie's underwear and I needed to return it. Oh, all right, I'll mention that there had been a gathering of quite a few people, the gathering included a hot tub, and there was also a dryer that didn't work fast enough and she had to be somewhere before said dryer had finished with her underwear. You don't need to know any more, and, really, there's not that much else to know. Entirely and totally innocuous, remember?

Because of Ellie's celebrity status, she was sometimes asked to address groups of people, and it so happened that the most convenient time to see her next was at one such gathering. So I attended her talk, which was enjoyable in and of itself, and afterwards, I waited until the cluster of people around her dwindled down. In fact, there came a time when she was talking to a single fellow about something, I don't remember what, and that doesn't really matter either.

I seized upon the opportunity, walked up to her, and handed her a small paper sack. She smiled, nodded her thanks, and continued listening to whatever the guy was saying. However, the little transaction had distracted him.

"What's in the sack?" he asked, keeping his attention on her (the celebrity), but giving me just a little flickering glance.

"My underwear," she said, with a slight grin that I recall as simultaneously totally innocent, and (as you may imagine), just a little mischievous.

He blinked, and looked at me for a longer moment, and much more closely. I don't know how long it lasted, but for a while, he thought that I was a much cooler person than I really am, privy to secrets that he could only envy and never fully imagine.

Games People Play

During my sophomore year at RPI, I had a housing crisis. I’d moved out to some apartments fairly distant from the campus with a couple of guys, both of whom had cars, and I did not. Actually, one of them flunked out before the beginning of the year, so that left just the two of us, me dependent on him for transportation to and from campus. It was possible to walk the distance, but it was definitely not a fun thing to do when the air temp was hovering near zero, as it did a lot in Troy in the winter.

It also turned out that the two of us ceased hitting it off, something that can happen when you go from being a buddy to a roommate. That’s part of the “education” thing that we hear so much about.

Anyway, long, painful, and somewhat embarrassing story short, in mid-winter I moved out, to a place nearer to campus, on Hoosick Street.

The Hoosick house had been a fraternity and some locals had bought it after said fraternity moved out, with the idea of making it into student housing. I’m pretty sure they hadn’t taken the flunkout factor into account, so when I moved in, there was plenty of room. I got what had been a double room all to myself. The other guys in the place had mostly come from my freshman dorm; that’s how I knew them. So it was back to semi-communal living, only this time with kitchen privileges.

There was a fair amount of mischief to be had in a place like that, and I had some of it, and watched some other people engage in it, and formed my opinions as to which mischief was safer than the other sorts. Good stuff to know. Also, that was the spring of 1970, when Kent State happened, and all other sorts of hell broke loose, so no one was paying attention to the more benign ways of being naughty.

So, loud music, soft drugs, alcohol (the legal drinking age was 18 in NY at the time, so that wasn’t even illegal), various girls running around at odd times, (though not nearly as often as salacious or puritanical minds would like to think), those were some of the activities. Also, there were the ice hockey games in the back yard, in which I did not participate, and the card games in the living room, in which I did.

One was the standard collegiate bridge game: the one that starts sometime on Friday afternoon, and finishes up sometime Monday morning, with no break as such, just people shifting in and out of it. I played fairly intensively for a while, then I gave it up.

I gave it up when I realized that, if I continued to play, all that would happen was that I’d become better at bridge. And nothing else. All playing bridge was doing for me was making me better at playing bridge. Bridge is just a game. So I quit.

On the other hand, there were also poker games, and poker isn’t just a game. Poker deals with probability, deception, and money. Poker is like life. Later, I took up poker on a regular basis, in an attempt to improve my skill at deception, to mediocre results. That has nothing to do with my appreciation for poker, however.

The poker games at the Hoosick house did suffer from the fact that “dealer’s choice” often wound up being some wild card game or another, like baseball where threes and nines are wild. It was about that time that I formulated my rule that any game where a royal flush can lose isn’t poker, and I don’t want to play.

I’ve come to divide games into “just games,” “good games” and “great games.” Like I said, bridge is just a game, though there is a social aspect to it, and if the company is good, it can be a good game. To be sure, some bridge terms are common parlance, like “trump,” “finesse,” and “slam,” but those terms are adapted to bridge; they don’t originate there. Contrast that to poker, where “bluff” originates, along with “busted flush” “inside straight” “ace-in-the-hole” and others. Great games leave their mark on the language, and they leave their mark on lives.

There’s a long standing dispute between chess and go enthusiasts over which is the better, or more profound, game. Both are great games. Chess is complicated, while go is complex. That’s the way I’d put it. But learning either (or both) will sharpen your wits as well as teaching you something about yourself, your opponent, and the very idea of opponent.

From out in left field, I came across a game that’s definitely a good game, and it may be a great game, but I haven’t seen enough examples of it to be sure. It’s a variant of Monopoly, sometimes called Auction Monopoly. In this variant, when you land on a piece of property that is un-owned, it goes up for auction, with the minimum bid being the board-listed price.

Oddly enough, the auction rule dates back to the predecessor of Monopoly, which was called The Landlord’s Game. It was designed and patented by one Elizabeth Magie (thank you, Wikipedia!), based on the economic theories of Henry George, old Mr. Single Tax himself.

With the single rule change, you get a vastly different game from standard Monopoly, because the auction sucks all the money out of circulation pretty quickly. At that point, a serious deflation settles into the game, and prices would drop – except for the price controls, which render most property too expensive for purchase. The first time someone lands on Boardwalk, for example, it almost invariably goes without sale. No one has enough money left to buy it. On the other hand, the winner is usually whoever manages to get the monopoly on Baltic and Mediterranean.

If you allow other rule changes, rules that inject money back into the game again have major consequences (re-inflating the currency), and so forth. I’ve often wondered whether there are other rule changes that would allow for things like fraud, corruption, market bubbles, and so forth, but that’s probably more suitable for computer games, which I seldom play, except for the demon-spawn Spider Solitaire.

Belting Out

Contract work is often a bit like the old Mission Impossible TV show: the Team is built around The Mission, which usually is subject to impossible constraints and the Team Members all bounce around trying to keep the makeup from slipping, and waiting for the Secretary to disavow all knowledge, etc.

And you get to meet management consultants, each and every one of them fully buzzword compliant and using all the fashionable tools to appear like they can actually deliver on whatever weird fever dream was sold to the organization that hired them. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, eh?

Anyway, one of the current fashions is Black Belts. There are Six Sigma Black Belts, Lean Black Belts, Process Management Black Belts, PFD Black Belts, and who knows what else. I just saw one business card that asserted the holder was a Master Black Belt, though it didn’t stipulate in what. Probably Six Sigma; I think that’s where this PR trick began, and, wouldn't you know it, it was a General Electric thing. There are, incidentally, also Green Belts in these things. I’m just glad they didn’t go for the whole rainbow, Yellow, Green, Blue, Brown, etc.

It’s the general opinion in at least my little stretch of the martial arts community that colored belts are mostly PR. It’s not like there is any licensing board that sets standards for the things. Anybody can hang out a shingle and award any colored belt to anyone they like, and many martial arts schools take the route of awarding lots of promotions quickly as a way of enticing students.

I can only report directly from Aikido, though I’ve had plenty of friends in other arts. For that matter, there are enough versions of Aikido that I can’t speak universally even for that one art. But generally speaking, my fellow Aikidoka don’t speak much of belt colors. For adults, it’s either white or black (In the first dojo to which I belonged, over 25 years ago, there were a few students who were informally given brown belts, but I haven’t seen that practice in over 20 years). The “black belts” are referred to as yudansha, and the first dan grade, shodan, basically means that the holder is now taken as a serious student of the art. There is also a tradition of beginning to wear a hakima (a sort of long black culotte), after promotion to shodan unless one’s sensei says to wear it sometime earlier. One of my fellow students once compared wearing a hakima to painting a big target on one’s back at seminars. It is certainly expected that someone wearing a hakima knows his/her limits in ukemi (having an aikido technique applied to you and surviving it unharmed).

And, of course, shodan (first dan grade) is only the beginning. Then there is nidan, sandan, yondan, and on up, though it gets mighty sparse above that. By the time you get to 5th and 6th dan, (godan and ryokudan) you might as well just give people’s names, since their art has become intensely personalized by then, and there are sufficiently few of them that everyone knows everyone else, more or less, and the differences in numerical rank become less important than their place in the community. More to the point, at that level, teaching is the important service, with Sensei (any teacher), Shidoin (instructor), Fuku Shidoin (assistant instructor), and Shihan (master instructor, or “teacher of teachers”) being the appellations.

I don’t really have a punch line (as it were) for these musings, except to maybe be glad that the Japanese terms haven’t been swiped as management consulting buzzwords. I don’t think I’d react very well to meeting a “Six Sigma Shihan.”

In case anyone is wondering, I began Aikido practice in 1980 at what was then called Aikido of Berkeley under Steve Sasaki Sensei. I had to quit in 1985, for health reasons, and I did not return to practice until 2000, at Eastshore Aikikai, under Elizibeth Lynn Sensei. I was promoted to shodan in the fall of 2005. It's a tradition to give certain promotions at the time of the New Year, and my promotion to nidan has just been announced.

Bingo from Bingville

There was a PBS special on Bing Crosby the other night, and Dave mused a bit about how was it that Crosby has become so extraordinarily famous and successful. I blurted, "Because Bing Crosby changed everything."

A bit hyperbolic perhaps, but not as much as you might think. I've been listening to quite a bit of early Bing Crosby lately, courtesy of the late Sheryl Smith's jazz collection, and it has been a revelation. A few months ago, I would have probably shared Dave's puzzlement, as we both date from the time where Crosby's popularity was somewhat like the Cheshire Cat's smile, the remaining glow of a much larger animal.

The first thing is that, before Crosby, no professional singer had ever sounded like that before.

The change was technology driven. The microphone itself was invented along with the telephone, in the 1870s, and voice broadcast radio first appeared in 1906, but the first commercial station came in 1920. The Edison cylinder phonograph dates from 1877, but the Berliner gramophone is ten years later. The early phonographs/gramophones were purely mechanical acoustic devices.

The first electronic public address systems date from 1921. In 1925, the whole shebang came together with radio microphones and vacuum tube amplifiers added to phonograph technology in the Orthophonic system from Bell Labs.

Bing Crosby's first record, "I've Got the Girl," was in 1926, using the older, non-electronic phonograph recording system, a carbon microphone connected to direct mechanical cutting. Every subsequent recording he made was with electronically amplified technology.

Before Crosby, every professional singer in the world needed to sing loud enough to fill a concert hall, or at least a night club. The troubadour might sing softly to his lady, and Uncle Phil might have a terrific voice for the gathering around the home piano, but they'd never make it in show biz. Crosby was the first singer who didn't have to sing loud. A new word was invented: crooner.

And he had the voice for it, a rich and expressive baritone that could dive into the deep bass range when he wanted to. Listening to his early recordings, where he is breaking away from the then-conventional vocal style into this new thing, is a revelation.

The next thing is that Crosby was a jazz singer, something that is less front-and-center in his later work, although he was working with Louis Armstrong pretty much as long as they could both manage it. Crosby loved (and copied from) Armstrong, and the two of them were a mutual admiration society as well as an ongoing force for integration in popular music during thier careers.

In the aforementioned documentary, there's a film clip of him singing "Don't Fence Me In." He uses some very subtle vocal syncopation in his phrasing. It reminds me, weirdly, of Cab Calloway more than Armstrong. Calloway created breaks in the normal lyrical flow and then frequently filled them with incidentals and scat vocals. Crosby sometimes uses the syncopation for sliding one note into another, or just to allow the music to play through, a more minimalist approach. But don't forget that he created his own scat style, the often parodied "buh, buh, boo."


Starring Bing Crosby: Accentuate the Positive and Don't Fence Me In




Cab Calloway: Jumping Jive



How many male vocalists in the following generation were influenced by Crosby? I'm tempted to say, "all of them." Even the ones that continued the "belt it out" style would go crooner once in a while. Sinatra was Crosby as a tenor. Dean Martin was just trying to be Crosby. Even Elvis was doing Crosby when he did ballads. Now that I've pointed it out, just try listening to "Love Me Tender" and not hear Crosby's influence.

So, recording artist, then radio star. Then Crosby conquered the movies, both as a leading man and as part of Hope and Crosby, the most successful comedy team of the era. The Wikipedia article informs me that he is the number three male box office star ever, in terms of tickets sold.

And, of course, there is "White Christmas," (from the movie Holiday Inn; the motel chain took its name from the movie, not the other way around), and "Silent Night" (from Going My Way). "White Christmas" is the highest selling single recording in history.

Crosby, like Bob Hope, outlived his genius, and, to a degree, even his talent. But his celebrity was far too large to disappear. So he was condemned to Christmas and Family Specials into the 1960s and 70s. Look at some of the performances he gave in those and, while he was always the consummate professional, the sheer boredom that looks out from his eyes is almost tragic. He changed the world, and then he was just another guy on a Christmas show.

Nitrous

I don’t call them “pet peeves.” I call them “things that annoy the hell out of me.” One of them is comparing the energy of high energy cosmic rays to a hard hit golf ball, and I'll perhaps explain why sometime. But the one that gets me every time is when someone is talking or writing about nitrous oxide and then says “NO2.”

If you want to go all British, it’s true that the generic Brit for nitrogen oxides is “nitrous oxides,” but that’s not what being referred to, for example, on the TV program Mythbusters, or any reference to nitrous either as a combustion booster (the “poor man’s supercharger”) or as a dental anesthetic / recreational drug. That is N2O, a notably different compound that comes in big blue tanks, because it’s an oxidizer. Also, because nitrous is slightly sweet and has a relatively low vapor pressure (because its critical temperature is about 35 C, it can be liquefied at room temperature) it’s used as a propellant for whipping cream.

If you compress NO2, you wind up with the dimmer N2O4, dinitrogen tetroxide, which dissociates back to NO2 on pressure release, producing toxic levels of NO2. It’s also a fine oxidizer, and will cause a lot of things to burn mighty fast. It is also somewhat self-oxidizing, which means that it can burn itself mighty fast, giving a good replica of an explosion.

Nitrous oxide, N2O, is also a good oxidizing agent, hence its use in auto racing (or in the movie Road Warrior). It just drops the oxygen atom off the nitrogen molecule and away we go. And since the bottle doesn’t need to be at high pressure, it’s safer than using compressed oxygen. Both compressed oxygen and N2O can be a little dangerous if there's anything like grease in your line, however.

Nitrous is a pretty good greenhouse gas, and it’s also a source of nitrogen oxides in the stratosphere. Usually the photolysis of ozone just give what’s called the “triplet state” of the oxygen atom that cleaves off the O3, but if it’s hit with short wave UV (down below about 290 nm), it give a more energetic form of oxygen radical called the “singlet state.” These have electrons in the p and d orbits respectively, so the shorthand is O3p and O1d, pronounced “Oh triplet p” and “Oh singlet d” respectively.

Most of the time, O1d just bounces around until an inelastic collision drops it back to O3p, but not always. In the troposphere, the most common reactive fate of O1d is reaction with water vapor, to give two hydroxyl radicals:

O1d + H2O -> OH + OH

But water is scarce in the stratosphere, and O1d is more plentiful (because there’s more short wave UV. Sometimes the O1d runs into a molecule of N2O and you get nitric oxide:

O1d + N2O -> NO + NO

Whitten once had a very clever idea for measuring the amount of short wave UV in the UNC outdoor smog chamber that involved pumping some 20 pounds of N2O into the chamber along with a lot of acetaldehyde and ozone. The ozone absorbed the shortwave UV, which reacted with the N2O. The resulting NO got sucked up by peroxyacetyl radicals that had been formed from the normal smog chemistry reactions from the acetaldehyde and the amount of PAN that was formed was a quantitative measure of O1d formation. In essence the whole shebang had become a giant actinometer. Very cool, and it happened to match the light models that UNC had been using to estimate UV in their chamber, so everyone went home happy, though a few of them were disappointed that they hadn’t been allowed to sample the nitrous.

The recreational use of nitrous is not exactly illegal, but it is discouraged. Most automotive nitrous is sold “sour,” with added sulfur dioxide to make huffing unpleasant. One the other hand, “whippets,” for use on whipping cream dispensers can be bought in stores all across the land. Whippet nitrous is mighty expensive, but I’ve seen people walking down the streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans with little balloon dispensers that take a whippet charge. Those dispensers used to be sold in “head shops” before somebody figured out how to harass them out of existence.

There are, of course, dangers involved in using nitrous recreationally, not getting enough oxygen being one of them. That was one significant problem at the World Science Fiction Convention in Denver a couple of decades ago (when nitrous abuse was much more common than it is now). People used to sea level air found themselves passing out and falling off their chairs. There’s also a known, long-term danger to nitrous use/abuse, in that it causes a vitamin B12 related “die off” of nerves in the peripheral nervous system. Those do grow back, but over-exposure to nitrous can get ahead of the ability to regenerate. And various neurological problems result. This has mostly been reported in anesthesiologists, who sometimes get a high background dose of nitrous even without an abuse syndrome, though the case I read of the dentist who used to take 2-6 hour “naps” under an N2O/O2 mix probably counts as abuse,

The biggest bang for the buck is nitrous by the tank full, in either medical/dental or metallurgical grade. There was a time when the “typical Bay Area SF Convention party” featured one or more large nitrous tanks. A few time I brought along another tank filled with helium, and those of us who were dispensing gas made people ask for the nitrous by first inhaling a balloon full of helium.

That wasn’t how nitrous came to be called “laughing gas,” but it should have been. Those times are long gone now, but that doesn’t stop me from eyeing the empty can of whipped cream from time to time. It’s out of cream, but sometimes there’s just enough gas left in it for a little whiff of nostalgia.

Collaborative

Anyone who knows me, as well as anyone who has been paying attention to these essays here, can attest to the fact that I don't score very high on the false modesty scale. Most would even suggest that I don't score very high on any kind of modesty scale.

So when I say that I'm a pretty minor SF writer, you can believe me. I could do all sorts of handsprings to compare myself with those who have been even less successful than I, but what's the point? There are probably hundreds of thousands of "aspiring writers" in the land, maybe more, and most will never even get past that creative writing course, much less a sale or two to a tertiary market, paying in "fresh fruit and contributors copies," to quote my first agent. But one doesn't compare the minor league baseball player to everyone who ever played ball in high school, or even everyone who every tried out for the minor leagues. A minor leaguer is a minor leaguer because they don't play in the major leagues. Hence the "minor" part.

So: two published novels, an undisclosed number of portion and outline proposals, an unpublished Venus trilogy that I was compelled to write for reasons unknown, plus a few dozen short stories, of which maybe half are published. It's a minor contribution to the field, but if I had not written those works, no one else would have.

Then there is the money angle. There are a lot of ways to parse it, and one of them I've mentioned previously. I've done a bit of work-for-hire writing, which turns out to have paid more (for less labor) than the works for which I hold the copyrights. However, had it not been for the novels and short stories in magazines, I'd have never gotten the work-for-hire gigs, nor would it have been as easy to make the jump from unemployed smog scientist to employed technical writer. Nevertheless, discounting the tech writing career, the total I've made from both the free lance and work-for-hire writing has amounted to somewhere around a year's income, give or take, and remembering that I've had some good years and some truly dreadful ones, and it's sometimes hard to adjust for inflation, etc.

But this is just to segue into a reminder that money isn't the sole judge of merit and worth, though I'll stipulate that if I'd made more money writing SF, I'd have written more of it. You can use money to buy time, and that's an important thing about money.

Let's flip that around, though. We're on the tail end of SF publishing, though maybe not the tail end of SF writing. What that means is that, while the number of book titles has gone up over the past few decades, sales per book have dropped substantially. Moreover, the number of pages per book has also increased substantially, such that a typical SF paperback is now at least twice the length of what it was in, say, the 1950s. Furthermore, sales figures in the 1950s were more than an order of magnitude higher than now, both for novels and the magazines (i.e. the primary venue for short stories). So any given published author in the 1950s reached an audience that was, at a minimum, well into five figures, and not infrequently into six figures or even low seven, even for authors who failed to make "best seller" status.

Now let's subtract money from the equation. What do we have left?

Every book or story takes a certain amount of time to write, and takes a range of times to read, depending upon the reading speed of the reader, and what we can call the "readability" of the book. Obviously a book takes a longer to write than to read, although it's sobering to remember that some writers write at full typing speed, and their full typing speed can be mighty fast. Still, the difference between writing time and reading time is pretty large, and if we toss in the re-reading, revision, proofreading, etc., the disparity become inevitable, even for a rapid writer and a slow reader.

Still, there is also a big disparity between the number of writers and the number of readers, at least for mass market works. Here I am, minor SF writer, remember, and lacking good sales figures on most of my works, but I do know that my first novel sold around 15,000 copies, because they had to go to a second printing, and they had to pay me some more money. I suspect that this was because the publishing house was undergoing an SFWA audit at the time, and wouldn't some more of those be a good thing?

In any case, Book of Shadows (no relation) clocked in at about 70,000 words (editorially trimmed from the original 80,000). It's a bit hard to say how much time I put into the writing of it, since part of it was, shall we say, a "learning experience," taking place over a number of years. More recently, however, I have enough information in how long it takes me (now) to write fiction, and I can crank about 2500 words in a four-hour writing day, which is about how long it take before my brains turn to jelly. Other writers are much faster; some are much slower.

The numbers on this are suspect, of course, since it implies that I can write a 100,000 word novel in 40 days; call it two months of regular work. But as I say, plenty of writers are faster. In the days of the pulps, there were a number of "million worders" who churned out more than a million words a year for quite a few years, and they were using manual typewriters. The trick is to have that much to write about and that many stories to tell. But that's not an issue for someone like me; I have far more stories I'd like to write than time to write them. On the other hand, this doesn't count the time for research, plotting, revision, etc. So everything I say here is ballpark numbers.

For SunSmoke, the matter is even more complicated. I don't have good sales figures, for one thing, and for another, I sold the novelette version first, to Asimov's, and more people read that 15,000 words than the novel, which is three times as long. There is also the matter of "pass around" and used books, and so forth.

But let's pretend that BoS had only the 15,000 readers, and that it took each one an average of three hours to read it (probably low, at 300 wpm, it would take about four hours). That's 45,000 hours of reading, compared to 100-200 hours of writing. Even averaging only 2 written words a minute, it would only have taken 600 hours to write. We're talking hundreds of reader hours for every hour of writing time.

Heck, even here on this blog, checking the page hits and time spent on page, and you folks are spending two or three times as much time reading as I spend on the writing of it.

Reading is not a passive activity. There is real effort involved, and real imagination expended in processing the words to get at a story. The story is different for every reader, often substantially different, and surprising to the writer. Sometimes the writer may even be appalled at what the reader gets from the story, but that's the biz, sweetheart.

Intellectual property laws allow the writer to "own" the story, but it's really a collaboration between writer and reader, in fact, a large number of collaborations, sometimes more than one per reader, even. Some writers (and owners of other forms of intellectual property) believe that they own everything, even what goes on in other people's heads. Put that way it doesn't seem right, does it? But writers are clever folk. We can come up with much better ways of putting it, ways that always make us out to be the heroes.

Grampa

My sister was born when I was not yet three, so I have no memory of the event. My mother tells me that my grandparents came down to visit and assist during that time, and when she was at the hospital, my grandfather, who I called "Grampa," took me out and bought me some cowboy boots. I'm told I was mighty proud of those boots, and my little feller pride of ownership overwhelmed any other feelings I might have had about the arrival of my one and only sibling. I barely noticed that there was now someone else in the household, or at least I was oblivious for a goodly while.

Besides, Grampa was in town.

We were best buds, he and I. Whenever he was due to visit, I'd get excited for days, and tell all my friends that Grampa was coming. Alternately, when we made the visits to Stanford, Illinois, which took something like twelve hours in those pre-Interstate Highway days, part of the "are we there yet?" excitement was that Grampa was at the other end. We'd arrive and I'd make a beeline for him and he'd pick me up, or, if seated, I'd climb into his lap. In the summertime we'd play catch, and in the wintertime, card games, or maybe checkers. He also got a kick out seeing of me reading my cousin Melvin's comic books, this before I was even five, and I was reading the words, not just looking at the pictures. Of course, he'd also read to me.

For Christmas, when I was six, Grampa and Gramma gave me a bicycle, with training wheels. It was a gray day, just before a snowstorm, but I rode the thing up and down the block maybe half a dozen times before I came inside. Probably someone had to haul me in; I'd have stayed out until I froze, otherwise; I really loved that bike.

I really loved my Grampa, too, or so I'm told.

A few months after that Christmas, Grampa Killus died of a heart attack. He'd had congestive heart disease for some time before that. He was actually at his doctor's office during the onset of the attack, but he refused hospitalization, went home, and died between his car and the house. In those days, there wasn't all that much to do about a heart attack, and survivors usually wound up seriously debilitated. Fred Killus deliberately chose to die, more or less, rather than burden his family with the medical bills and the long lingering debility. Or maybe he just couldn't take the idea of spending his remaining life as an invalid. Or maybe he was just tired.

His funeral service was open casket. I have a clear memory of how he looked laid out like that, and of my sister, who was not yet four, perched on my father's shoulder, looking completely baffled by the whole affair. I remember wondering why I didn't feel very much at all. The phrase "grief councilor" did not yet exist, and I was far too young to know about things like repression.

With the exception of the bike ride and the funeral service, everything I've written here is from the reports of others. I do not remember a bit of it. Every memory I have of my grandfather is motionless, like a still photograph, or something once alive now frozen in a block of ice. I have no recollection of his voice, save one dim memory of him saying "Clubs are trump," during a game of Pinochle, which the adults played, but we kids did not.

Bah, Humbug

I think it was Ian Shoals (Merle Kessler) who noted that the plot used in every Christmas story has become, "Oh dear, it looks like we may not have Christmas this year; oh, wait, at the last moment, we can still have Christmas. Yay!"

My own opinion is that if the Grinch had pulled his trick on a real town with real people (instead of those insufferable Whos), they'd have tracked him down and waterboarded him until his green fur turned blue.

Christmas is so very American, though, isn't it? It's an orgy of consumerism with a religious sheen. Somewhere in the blizzard of commercials, Linus does the shepherds speech, and everyone gets all misty-eyed for a bit, then back to the shopping, because if the retailers don't have a good year, the whole economy will tank, or so I've been told.

There's an article in today's paper about various religious folk who are annoyed at the usual, the lack of full bore religious celebration/indoctrination in the holiday. But remember, these are the same folks who are annoyed that you can't force children to pray in public schools and who want to tattoo the Ten Commandments onto the stomachs of convicts.

Okay, I made that last one up. Mostly.

Criminey, it's not like the deal is a big secret. Christianity got mingled with the cult of Sol Invictus back in Roman times, and engulfed the Sun God rituals, including the solstice/rebirth thing. Partying during the darkest days of the year makes perfect sense; a bit of the nog and flirting (or more) with the neighbors can get you through the Seasonal Affect Disorder better than most things. Besides, it's cold out there and the more bodies, the warmer the cave. But a goodly part of it remains the Don't Go Out, part. Stay in and wait out the darkness.

Which I certainly do, although the rigors of leaving the house nowadays have more to do with not wanting to buck the traffic, fight the shoppers, or listen to "Little Drummer Boy" one more time on muzak.

Yeah, yeah, now I'll have someone talking to me about giving and sharing. Look, tossing a quarter into the Salvation Army bucket does not make up for rounding up and deporting undocumented immigrants so they won't burden the health care system. Moreover, in case you haven't noticed, a good many people use gifts as a control measure. "He's making a list and checking it twice" has a nice truthful ring to it. Step out of line and no presents for you, child.

Then there's the football. Lordy, there is the football. I know that football is a season, but it certainly seems like it gets compressed into the week between Christmas and New Years. It's all those damn college bowl games added to the mix, I expect. There's another tangent I could go off on in a second: college football. Another orgy of commerce with a thin patina, this time of higher education. Feh.

This one I'm sure came from Merle: “Football players, like prostitutes, are in the business of ruining their bodies for the pleasure of strangers”

The other one is from George Will: "Football incorporates the two worst elements of American society: violence punctuated by committee meetings."

Ebenezer Scrooge wasn't a creep because he despised Christmas. He was a creep because he was a shrunken souled miser who refused to pay a decent wage to his employee. But he did have some pretty cool hallucinations, and maybe that's all I really want for Christmas: cooler hallucinations.

Dust Explosions

Dust Explosion in a Coal Mine



There are two kinds of sparks. One kind is the electrical spark, where a potential charge bridges the gap between two conductors. Electrical sparks span the range from that little flash you see when you touch the door knob after walking across the carpet when the air is dry, to the lightning flash caused by clouds playing with themselves.

The other kind of spark is basically a small particle burning in air. Those are the ones you see coming off of the campfire, or when you strike flint. One of the fun things to do with the old Gilbert Chemistry set is to take some of the iron filings and shake a few into the flame of the alcohol lamp. Or you can make a paste of some iron filings, potassium nitrate, charcoal, and a starch binder. Put it on a stick, let it dry and you have sparklers. Alternately, you can just drive to the nearest store that has a 50 foot sign that says !!!!FIREWORKS!!!! and just buy a few.

People don’t usually think of iron as something that burns, because most of the iron we deal with every day won’t. Very few solids will actually burn in ordinary air (air under pressure, pure oxygen, chlorine, fluorine, etc. are another matter). Wood, for example, emits combustible gases when heated, so wood burns by what is a complex, multistage process. Charcoal is similar; it has to be very hot, and then the carbon combines with oxygen to make CO, and the CO is what burns in a charcoal flame (which you mostly don’t want, since you’d rather have hot charcoal embers). Moreover, and this is very important, charcoal is porous, so it has a large surface area.

One of the most important features of physical geometry is the cube-square law. This is the recognition that, as things get larger, they have proportionally more volume to surface area (or any other two dimensional feature such as cross section). That’s because, as things get larger, their surface area changes as the square of linear dimension, while the volume increases as a cube, so volume goes up faster. Conversely, as things get smaller, surface effects begin to get more and more important. Chemical reactions between two different substances can only occur where the substances touch each other; for a solid and a gas, that is at the surface of the solid.

So oxidation of a bulk solid takes place at its surface, and, for big objects, that tends to be pretty slow. So iron slowly oxidizes on its surface to form rust. Because rust is porous and crumbly (that being because iron oxide is much bigger than the original iron), rust is progressive and will slowly rust the whole piece of iron. Aluminum, on the other hand, forms a tough oxide film on its surface, and that protects the rest of the aluminum from oxidation.

Chop a metal bar into fine enough pieces, however, and the dynamic changes. Iron filings will oxidize much more rapidly than if they were in an iron bar. Moreover, the oxidation rate increases with temperature. Heat the filings enough and the oxidation will take off and the whole filing will rapidly burn: a spark. You can also burn ordinary steel wool, incidentally.

Chop your particles even further and they will get to the size where they can be suspended in air. Get the right mix of combustible particles and air, and the burning can coordinate itself into a self-propagating flame front. Confine the particles in an enclosure and you can get a dust explosion.

I’ve been talking about iron particles, but any combustible material will do, and the most common types of dust explosions are in coal mines and in granaries and flour mills. The coal mine part seems pretty obvious, but people don’t usually think of flour as an explosive or even as combustible. Strictly speaking flour isn’t explosive; it’s just that, under the right conditions, it can burn rapidly enough in a confined space to cause what is called a “pressure burst” explosion. In other words, under the right conditions, a grain elevator can become a pipe bomb.



Grain elevators used to protect against dust buildup by rapid ventilation. That, however, sometimes caused local air quality problems, violations of the ambient air quality standards for particulate matter. So ventilation was reduced, and air filters were added, and sometimes the air filters weren’t maintained as properly as they should, so bang.

Actually, the dust filters themselves were sometimes a problem, since they concentrated the dust in a small space, and sometimes the filter itself would have a dust explosion. Sometimes, because the filter contained a lot of previously collected dust, a minor filter explosion would push the contained dust into a larger volume, and then a larger, secondary explosion would result.

That’s a specific example of the more general problem in dust explosions: secondary explosions. Often the amount of dust in the air was fairly small in comparison to the amount of settled dust in a container, or in a coal mine, or whatever. The first, small explosion would shake the area enough to push a lot more dust into suspension, and then that dust would ignite and cause the much larger pressure burst. In some ways, the geometry of the situation resembles that in a CVCC engine, where a small ignition chamber shoots a flame front into a larger combustion chamber. Only in the case of a flour mill or coal mine, the primary ignition also mixes the fuel with in the larger chamber.

There’s a standard educational lab demonstration that uses a pipe or small container, a funnel attached to an air hose, some flour and a candle to demonstrate dust explosions. A more dramatic demonstration of the secondary explosion effect would be to put a pan of flour on top of the first pipe, and have the pan shoot the flour into the air in a larger volume, like a shipping container perhaps. However, that might be a little rough on the shipping container.

Besides, I don’t want to give anyone ideas. The day that bags of flour are viewed as the tools of terrorists is the day that I’m packing my bags for New Zealand.

Lyon-ess

(Left, photo from Bodybuilding Fanatic)
(Right, photo © Copyright 2003 Chris Gulker)

Mystery solved.

I was baffled at first. I have Google Analytics installed on this blog, and it was telling me that no less than a third of the hits I was getting was on the essay on Robert Mapplethorpe. Okay, fair enough. If you want a lot of traffic on your blog, put up a photo of a gorgeous woman wearing only a snake.

But what really got me was that if I went to Google Images and put in "Lisa Lyons," my essay came up right at the top of the list, despite the fact that I was hot-linking the image from another web site.

Well, to my acute embarrassment, it seems that it's a good idea to spell the name right. It's "Lisa Lyon" not "Lisa Lyons." I am chagrined and apologetic to Ms. Lyon, and will try to do right by her forthwith.

The histories I can find on the Lady give the story that she took up weightlifting and bodybuilding in order to assist in her practice of kendo, then won the first World Women's Bodybuilding Championship in Los Angeles in 1979. That, plus guest posing at a number of other bodybuilding competitions that year, put her on the pop culture map. She appeared on talk shows, describing herself as a performance artist and body sculptor. Was this the first use of the phrase, or was it first applied to the likes of Schwarzenegger et al.?

In any case, Lyon sponsored a bodybuilding competition in 1980, Lisa Lyon's United States Bodybuilding Championships, which was won by Rachel McLish (photo at right), who also won the first Miss Olympia competition, which was part of the more established network that organized men's bodybuilding competitions.

There's an interview with Doris Barrilleaux, another of the pioneers in women's bodybuilding that fails to mention Lyon at all, which is interesting, and probably revealing, but I can think of too many different explanations for the omission, and I'm going to leave all speculation to my readers on this one.

Lyon connected with Robert Mapplethorpe in the early 1980s, and Lady was published in 1983. It was quite a revelation, to both the art world and the world of popular culture, including bodybuilding. Lyon was clearly exactly what she claimed to be: a performance artist, who could project a hundred different moods through the photographer's lens.

The story then gets stranger still. Lyon met John C. Lilly, the counter-culture hero, talker-to-dolphins, and inventor of the sensory deprivation tank. She wound up on the board of advisors to Lilly's Association for Cultural Evolution, and more than that, she became one of his four adopted children (if that is the right phrase; all four were adopted as adults).

Ah, doesn't the imagination runs riot here? Lilly wrote extensively about altered consciousness, and regularly used both LSD and ketamine to achieve some of those altered states. (Quick aside: the movie Altered States was inspired by Lilly, as was Day of the Dolphin).

When drugs enter the narrative, the narrative becomes all about the drugs. With Lisa Lyon, sex was already front and center in the narrative (woman wearing snake, remember?), so the narrative hits a pretty turbulent air pocket, right about here, doesn't it? Nor does it help matters that one finds references to Lyon being just out of a psychiatric institution at about the time of Mapplethorpe's death in 1989.

Maybe this all amounts to some sort of flameout, but I'm not buying into it. Lilly entitled his autobiography, Center of the Cyclone. I'm thinking that Lyon was more like a cyclone all by herself. When there is a zeitgeist, there is bound to be a lot of geist during the zeit.

Lisa Lyon and Patti Smith

My Star Trek Novel

Back in the mid-80s, when it looked like I might have a real career in SF (a major illness took care of that fantasy), I wrote a portion-and-outline of a Star Trek novel. It’s around in my files somewhere, but I’m going to reproduce the gist of it from memory. This was, incidentally, before any of the Trek follow-ons, so it was Classic Trek.

The story opens with the Enterprise getting multiple sensor alarms from what, after some investigation, turns out to be an object moving at some ungodly warp number, but rapidly decelerating. Given such rapid slowing, it only takes Enterprise a week to reach the vessel. When they finally arrive, they find the shape of a giant Conestoga Wagon, with what looks like “Antares or Bust” painted on its side.

It turns out to be a ship with “morphing” capabilities; it can change its shape at the whim of its captain, who is the only person on the ship, in fact.

The captain’s name is Tom, and he’s a Vulcan inventor. In fact, he’s pretty much Vulcan’s only inventor, which used to puzzle him. So he looked into the matter and came to the conclusion that the Vulcan education methods for controlling emotion had become so restrictive that they were stifling curiosity, imagination, etc. Therefore, he set out to find a way to reverse the damage,

Tom devised a method using conditioning, meditation, and other things (“Drugs?” asks McCoy. “Oh yes,” says Tom. “Lots of drugs"). When it was completed, he’d increased his inventive productivity, imagination, etc. as well as gaining a sense of humor. Unfortunately, it was a somewhat compulsive and adolescent sense of humor, and, among other things, it came out as practical jokes. After he gave a hot foot to a high Vulcan official, he was prosecuted for arson and criminal insanity. He fled the planet, so now he’s on the run.

Owing to vagaries in interstellar law, he’s not under any sort of Federation warrant, (the Vulcan Authorities do not want the details of the crimes made known, as one might expect) so Kirk allows Tom to make use of the docking facilities on the Enterprise to repair his craft. Spock assists, in hopes of learning some of the new drive technology etc. Besides the Vulcan repression thing is of importance to him personally.

A few days later, a Vulcan battle cruiser shows up and begins pacing the Enterprise. They can’t demand that Tom be handed over, because he’s broken no Federation Laws. But as soon as he leaves the ship…

After repairing his ship, Tom creates a distraction: a computer generated “entertainment” in the form of an old minstrel show, with Spock as Mr. Interlocutor, and Bones as, well, Mr. Bones. There is song and dance. There are jokes. It is all quite confusing to the Vulcans who are listening in. It’s fairly confusing to the humans on the Enterprise. The minstrel show allows a discussion of historical racism on Earth, and how it’s such a good thing that We’re Past That Now.

Tom uses the distraction to launch his repaired craft from the Enterprise. The Vulcan ship gives chase and fires a phaser beam at him.

It turns out that one of Tom’s inventions is a new kind of ship's shield, an “energy sponge,” that converts attacking energy (like the phaser blast), into ship’s power and motive force. The power of the Vulcan ship’s attack refuels Tom’s craft and he disappears in a burst of warp speed. The last, lingering signal from his craft is a sound like a bottle being rapidly stoppered and unstoppered, and a single “Beep, beep.”

In the coda, Kirk learns that Tom has given Spock the recipe for de-repression. Spock does not believe he can safely use or divulge it while still a Star Fleet Officer, but he will retire someday…

My agent sent in the Portion and Outline to whoever was editing the Star Trek novels at the time. We got back a rejection letter that said that the proposed novel was contrary to absolutely everything that had ever been said about Vulcans in the series or in the tie-in novels. Apparently, for once, I hadn’t been subtle enough.

MTBE

Methyl tertiary butyl ether is what is known as an “oxygenated hydrocarbon.” For reasons that still weren’t clear the last time I checked, oxygenated hydrocarbons alter the combustion characteristics of gasoline in an internal combustion engine such that combustion is more complete and in particular, carbon monoxide is reduced. Carbon monoxide incidents are more numerous in winter (because atmospheric ventilation rates are lower), so oxygenated fuel additives have been mandated for winter gasoline blends.

Oxygenated hydrocarbons are also generally octane boosters. In fact, ethanol, the alternative oxygenate to MTBE, was originally considered promising as an octane additive in the early days of the automobile. One story as to why tetra ethyl lead became the gasoline octane additive of choice is that ethyl could be patented, while ethanol could not. Another suggestion is simply that ethanol is not generally made from oil, and oilmen didn’t want it in gasoline for that reason.

For whatever reason, I can say from personal experience that the attitude toward ethanol among managers in the petroleum industry is very close to foam-at-the-mouth psychotic. They really, really, hate ethanol. MTBE, on the other hand, is made by the oil and gas industry (from natural gas to methanol to MTBE), and oilmen loved it.

From an environmental standpoint, you could say that MTBE is good for the air and bad for the water. Specifically, MTBE, like ethers generally, is water soluble, and will move into groundwater pretty easily. It also has a characteristic flavor and odor, which is apparently detectable (and unpleasant) in very small concentrations in drinking water.

None of this information is new; it was certainly well known 25 years ago, when MTBE was first being touted as an “environmentally friendly” additive to gasoline. It was, from the start, a big part of the “reformulated gasoline” initiative, whose intent was to bring some environmental awareness kudos to the gasoline industry, and, incidentally, to create a bit of a refinery squeeze to drive some independent filling stations and chains out of the market, or to at least bring them into line.

But everyone was aware of the potential problem of groundwater contamination, especially from leaks in service stations’ underground storage tanks. In fact, the industry had an answer to this problem: double walled storage tanks. There was a certain amount of underground leak contamination anyway, and this was touted as the solution to it. And again, it had the additional benefit of being expensive enough that it would drive some marginal independent stations out of business, again squeezing the supply chain.

So the idea was to retrofit the storage tanks before MTBE was adopted. Unfortunately this didn’t happen. While one part of the petroleum industry was confidently lobbying to put MTBE in, and it won’t be a problem because we’ll have underground tanks to keep the stuff from leaking, another part of the industry was lobbying to delay, delay, delay the storage tank replacement program, because it would cost them money. Often you had lobbyists from the same company arguing both cases, though, it should be admitted, rarely on the same day, or at least not to the same people.

So that, more or less, is how Santa Monica came to lose 70% of its drinking water to MTBE contamination, why Santa Barbara had to spend millions on a new water treatment plant, and why a lot of people across the land came to be really pissed. It also played a role in the current fad for ethanol fuels (I give that one another two or three years, tops) but that's a story for another day.

Handicapping the Horse Race

The purpose of propaganda is not to get people to believe in lies; the purpose of propaganda is to murder the idea of truth.

Mission accomplished. The general public now understands that one cannot believe a single thing that is said by any candidate ever, at any time. This has been accomplished not just by a series of broken political promises—that more or less goes with the territory. But the news media and journalistic establishment have connived in the reduction of politics to pure propaganda, calling some politicians liars for having said things that they never said (e.g. Al Gore inventing the Internet), and letting flagrant lies from other politicians pass without comment, save for the "others disagree" squib in the next to last paragraph of the article.

That leaves us with the idea that "character" and "image" are the only important factors to use in evaluating candidates. So let's have at it.

Huckabee is running as a fundamentalist preacher. That seems to be working. Giuliani is running as the biggest bastard on the block. That seems to sell pretty well also.

Romney is having trouble because he can't convince the Republican base that he's not a Mormon. That is the only thing that will work for him, BTW; convincing the base that the LDS aren't a satanic cult is simply impossible. Thompson has lost the "I play one on television" mojo, so now he's just an old guy with a hot wife, and Kucinich might win the Republican nomination (despite his being a Democrat and all) if that were the standard. It just depends on whether you like blonds or redheads, although Kucinich's wife is a Brit and her accent would make most Republicans think that she's too smart to be First Lady.

You'd think that having been tortured would give McCain a leg up, but only losers get tortured, so he's out. Ron Paul is genuine, if by "genuine" you mean "self taught wacko," (again, very appealing to certain elements).

Over on the Dem side, Kucinich has as much chance of winning as he does as a Republican. Biden has a lock on the "Hair Club for Men," vote, but the only way he could finish farther out of the money would be to die his hair plugs green. Richardson is running for Vice-President; everyone knows it and everyone thinks he's doing a great job at it.

Dodd seems to be trying for the Integrity, Courage, and Constitutional Values vote, which means that he won't carry a single state. And there's certainly no money in it.

Among the front runners, you have a black man who isn't considered black, a woman who's supposed to be a lesbian martian cyborg, and a rich white guy who is the champion of the poor. None of the three is crazy, which is a distinct plus. Also, all three benefit from the idea that you shouldn't believe what they say, since that would interfere with their being all things to all people.

It's not clear what will happen when the electorate realizes that Oprah isn't married to Obama, and that Hillary is, in fact, a woman. I'll just repeat my frequent warning: never rule out the middle-aged white guy.

The Indian Music Show

I've heard it said that everything in the 60s can be traced back to Kennedy, Dylan, or the Beatles. Okay, it was me who said it, and I agree that it isn't true or fair, except insofar as it is.

Take Ravi Shankar. He was the most acclaimed musician of the sitar of his generation, and his fame reached beyond India even before his Beatles-linked fame. Put it another way: without the celebrity from his connection to George Harrison and popular music, Shankar might still have recorded his collaboration with Yehudi Menuhin, but the two musicians might have been of equal fame, or Menuhin might even have been the more famous of the two. As things actually transpired, it's safe to assume that the vast majority of those who purchased recordings of the collaboration did so because of Shankar.

By the time I worked at WRPI, there was a wealth of Indian music available on record, but, of course, Shakar was getting most of the progressive radio airplay. I have no specific recollection of the events leading up to the decision by Bruce Barnett and myself to start an Indian Music show on WRPI, but I vaguely recall that it had to do with us bitching about how we preferred the sarod to the sitar, and Ali Akbar Khan to Ravi Shankar. Then we probably compared notes on which of the available Indian music recordings we had scored in the bargain bins over the years, and we realized we had enough to do a one hour show every Sunday.

Purnima Jha
Indian Kathak Dance

I also expect that this happened over the summer; given the nature of volunteer college radio, you can do almost anything during the summer. There aren't enough people around to keep a full programming slate, and who's going to stop you, anyway?

Sundays were WRPIs "block programming" day. Many college stations (and non-profit stations of all stripes) resort to block programming, x amount of time devoted to a particular type of music, or some non-musical format, followed by a complete break and into some entirely different deal. WRPI was something of an anomaly, as was the progressive music format generally, although it has morphed into the "alternative" format that still exists on many college campuses. (WRPI currently seems to be entirely block programmed, however).

There is a minor paradox that what was, by far, WRPI's most popular show in the late 60s, "Request Line Oldies" was in the block programming ghetto. RLO was so popular that at least one local radio station (the dj, it must be admitted, was a WRPI alumnus) simply listened to the RLO programming and ran the same songs with a little delay. But, of course, "Hey, Baby, They're Playin' Our Song," (the show's theme song) is bound to get an audience.

Another block show of note was the folk music show, albeit not so much the version that existed in my first years at RPI, "Folk Fest," which tended toward performers like Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan, which is to say, singer-songwriters who had started in the folk tradition. I once heard Merle Travis perform, and he told the story of being asked by a record label to write and record an album of folk songs. He said that he explained to them that they were sorta asking him to build antiques, but, hey, money is money, and he wrote "Sixteen Tons," and "Dark as a Dungeon," for it.

So the real folkies in the area (and upstate New York has a Lot of Real Folkies), kept carping, until finally, "Mostly Folk," with Jackie Alper, a majorly old-line folkie, took the helm. From there on out, it was pretty hard core folk music on display. (Jackie died last September, having been ill for a long time, but the show is still on the air).

Once Barnett and I started the Indian Music show, we had an excuse to really go hog wild, and both of us accumulated records like the vinyl junkies we were. Also, once the show lit up on the promo radar, we started getting promotional copies of every new Indian Music record released in the U.S. We also contacted (I expect that Bruce was the guy with the initiative on this one) Nonesuch Records, which supplied us with practically every one of its Explorer Series records.

Some of the Explorer Series were Indian music; many were not. So periodically, we'd slip some Egyptian or Balinese music into the mix. One show I did (Bruce was out that Sunday), just traced the sarod/oud/lute/guitar from India to England, by way of Northern Africa (side trip to Greece and the Balkans, however). Placed in geographic context, the cultural diffusion of music is pretty obvious, or at least it was to my ear. Eventually, the show became what would not be called a "World Music" show, but that was toward the end of my time at RPI, and overlapped the time I was banned from the station (a story I'll probably never tell, BTW).

The biggest obstacle we had was getting the audience to accept Indian vocal music. The quartertone warbles that are a key feature of much of it really grate on many western ears, so I spent a significant amount of time on some shows just trying to convince somebody on the phone to give it a chance, really, it can grow on you. Several people who heard me on these type calls remarked on how diplomatic I was being, an indication perhaps of both how much I wanted people to hear and accept the music, and how great my reputation for being, shall we say, less than diplomatic on other occasions.

It turned out that there was a sizable community of Indian immigrants in New York's capitol district, and we wound up meeting a number of them. Basically, they were asking that we play some contemporary music, which translates to movie music, it turned out. So Bruce and I diligently went out and collected a bunch of records and played them on one of the shows. I'm not sure what your opinion is about Bollywood musicals, but let me tell you, the music in them has greatly improved over the last 35 years. I was barely able to listen to our own show that day, though I imagine that, had I taken my own advice and given it more of a chance, well, maybe.

I was also found every one of the Indian nationals that I met to be just impressive, smart, personable, well-educated, the works. I eventually decided (perhaps correctly) that with half a billion people to choose from, we were getting the cream of the crop, and that was bound to be impressive.

In at least one case, Madam Chari, the result was nearly superhuman, or at least so said Bruce. This would be a woman who was a neurosurgeon and concert level sitar player that Bruce raved about for weeks after meeting her. Obviously, however, that would be his tale to tell and not mine. All I can say is that these stories are not always about me.

Nietzsche and Me

We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d’oeuvre or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph, and inviting in a female acquaintance for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex. – Hugh Hefner

Just for the record, I always found Hefner’s use of the editorial “we” somewhat jarring. The above sounds more like an invitation to group sex (with a single female participant) than a one-on-one dialog.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

___________________

Friedrich Nietzsche was a hard luck guy, no doubt about it. He was, for a time, an intimate of Richard and Cosima Wagner, then broke with them, in part because of Wagner’s anti-Semitism. His enormous output of philosophical work in the mid 1880s was greeted with what can most kindly be described as cool indifference by the intellectual community of Europe, and he suffered a complete mental breakdown in 1889, living another 11 years in full psychotic fugue. Suggestions as to the cause range from syphilis to brain cancer. If he had syphilis he probably contracted it from his time as a medical orderly during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, his physical contacts with women somewhere between few and non-existent. In any case, Nietzsche certainly had some neurological complaint, as he frequently suffered from blinding headaches, yet continued to work in snatches punctuated by near total collapse, a situation that gives insight into what Nietzsche was getting at when he glorified the will.

After his collapse, his sister, Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche, took over his affairs. She and her husband were anti-Semites, fairly virulent ones, though it’s difficult at this distance for a non-historian to gauge whether “virulent” meant merely “average.” In any case, her editing of Nietzsche’s notebooks and publication as The Will to Power began the distortion of his legacy. Being appropriated by the Nazis as a forebear sealed his fate for the first half of the 20th Century. It didn’t help that Leopold and Loeb cited him as an inspiration. Very bad English translations can apparently be as pernicious as listening to Black Sabbath records played backwards.

And the first English translations of Nietzsche were very bad. I’ve read a few of them, and whoo boy. Nietzsche was a poet as well as a philosopher, and he wrote with wit and irony. Subtract those, and, well, you might as well think that Jonathan Swift really was in favor of cannibalism. It surely didn’t help that his most famous work, Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spoke Zarathustra), was also his most poetic and allegorical. Even most native German speakers didn’t know what to make of it.

Then there was the unfortunate fate of the word “Übermensch” first translated as “Superman.” “Strange visitor from another planet” wasn’t what Nietzsche had in mind, but there you are. Proto-Nazi or comic book inspiration, those were what the poor fellow had been reduced to.

Then, in the 1950s, one German-born, American academic philosopher, Walter Kaufman, set out to rehabilitate Nietzsche’s reputation. It didn’t hurt that he taught at Princeton, and that he was a brilliant translator and a poet in his own right. First with books about Nietzsche, linking him to the existentialist tradition (a decided step up from Nazis and comic books), then with superb translations of Nietzsche’s own works, by the mid-1960s, Nietzsche the philosopher was respectable again. Indeed, he was more than respectable; he was hip.

Okay, there are various reasons why one might be embarrassed at having had a youthful fling with Ayn Rand, albeit in the Platonic sense, except that Rand despised Plato, and the phrase “in the Aristotelian sense,” doesn’t really, uh, make sense in this context. Nevertheless, I was young, open to new ideas (or new ones to me, anyway), and besides, among other things, she introduced me the Nietzsche. Not that this was her intention (or that she had even the vaguest notion of my very existence); indeed, she was attempting to warn me off.

In “Rolls Rex, King of Cars” my erstwhile collaborator Sharon Farber’s first story about a young girl named Billy Jean, she has Billy Jean’s hippie mother tell her not to go snooping around the farm next door, so the first thing that BJ does when left alone is make a bee line for the farm next door. I myself wasn’t quite that forthright. What happened was that I once found myself in a conversation with someone, comparing Rand and Nietzsche, and I realized that I hadn’t actually read the guy. If I kept that up, I figured that sooner or later, someone was going to think I was a nitwit, and I do not like being thought a nitwit. I especially don’t like it if the someone thinking I’m a nitwit is me.

(Since then I’ve learned that most intellectual discussions involve someone faking it at some point or another, basing their opinions on a book review, or a panel discussion, or the Cliff Notes version in one way or another. Furthermore, it is the height of impoliteness to point this out. Live and learn).

Anyway I got some of the Kaufman books and I read Nietzsche. And here’s the interesting thing: I found that, even when I disagreed with old Friedrich, he was still damned interesting to read. Stimulating. Informative. Manna for the budding intellectual, as it were.

Then I went to RPI, and in my freshman year, I assumed the editorship of the student magazine, Perspective. The two guys who had started it were seniors, and they were soon to be out of there anyway. They had a budget from the Student Union, so, hey, cool. I hadn’t made contact with science fiction fandom yet, so I didn’t know about all the folks making do with mimeograph and corflu; I had several hundred dollars to spend on full photo-offset printing, and I learned the most basic skill for getting people to do unpaid work (nagging). I managed to get two issues out, one my freshman year and the other my sophomore year and that was pretty much it for Perspective, but I had quite a bit of fun doing it.

Nietzsche was pretty much the patron saint of Perspective. Rich, one of the outgoing editors, had an article/essay in my first issue titled “Science and Tragedy.” At least, that was his title; I had to yank an illo at the last moment and for layout purposes, I changed the title to “Science and Apollo; Art and Dionysius.” That had been, more-or-less, nearly as I could tell, what he was driving at, a parallel between Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy and what C. P. Snow called “The Two Cultures,” except that Rich never mentioned Snow. He was, however, really pissed about my changing his title, which is entirely fair, and entirely my bad. I shouldn’t have done it, and my only excuse is that, if you appoint a freshman as editor of your magazine, you should expect some screwups.

There was also a guy named Greg who had written a pseudononymous critical letter about Perspective, as well as a couple of things for the school literary magazine, The Gorgon. I penetrated his pseudonym through the clever technique of getting drunk with one of his fraternity brothers. By “clever” I mean “totally accidental.” So I met with Greg one afternoon and had a nice chat, and son of a gun, yet another Nietzschean. These guys were just thick on the ground back then; I told you Nietzsche was hip.

____________________________

A Few Aphorisms from Nietzsche. Note: Don’t expect any of that “whatever does not kill me is a rope stretched across an abyss that looks back at you when you’re hunting monsters because God is dead” stuff. Better you should read The Nietzsche Family Circus.

_________________________

Discovering that one is loved in return really ought to disenchant the lover with the beloved. "What? This person is low enough to love even me? Or stupid enough? Or -- or ---"

Sometimes in the course of conversation the sound of our own voice disconcerts us and misleads us into making assertions which in no way correspond to our opinions.

A sure means of irritating people and putting evil thoughts into their heads is to keep them waiting a long time.

There is an innocence in admiration; it is found in those to whom it has never occurred that they, too, might be admired some day.

Never to speak about oneself is a very noble piece of hypocrisy.

Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself.

The advantage of a bad memory is that one can enjoy the same good things for the first time several times.

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the best even of their blunders.

Half-knowledge is more victorious than whole knowledge: it understands things as being more simple than they are and this renders its opinions more easily intelligible and more convincing.

Man is very well defended against himself, against being reconnoitered and besieged by himself, he is usually able to perceive of himself only his outer walls. The actual fortress is inaccessible, even invisible to him, unless his friends and enemies play the traitor and conduct him in by a secret path.

An injustice we have perpetrated is much harder to bear than an injustice perpetrated against us...

When our head feels too weak to answer the objections of our opponent our heart answers by casting suspicion on the motives behind his objections.

It is more comfortable to follow one's conscience than one's reason: for it offers an excuse and alleviation if what we undertake miscarries--which is why there are always so many conscientious people and so few reasonable ones.

One has to repay good and ill -- but why precisely to the person who has done us good or ill?

Pseudonyms Anonymous

Hello, my name is John, Peter, Walter, Matthew, and Dorothy, and I am a pseudonym.

Or at least I was or have been a pseudononym, at various times. Most of them date from my school days at RPI, where I was first editor off the student political/philosophical journal, Perspective, then Features Editor, Managing Editor, then Editor of the Rensselear Engineer.

When you don’t have money to pay writers, getting stuff actually written becomes a bit of a problem. You assign things to the staff, who are volunteers, just like I was, and they do it or not, depending on whatever reasons made them join the staff in the first place, tempered by the other demands on their time from school work and basic needs like trying to eat, sleep, bath occasionally, and get laid (there’s some correlation amongst those, you’ll note). You impose on friends and acquaintances. You learn to nag. You come up with cockamamie science fiction writing contests.

That one worked pretty well, actually, provided you’re counting words and not paying much attention to quality. We had six judges, faculty members mostly, and every one of them picked an entirely different winner, and thought that the stories chosen by the other judges were complete crap. So we printed all six and reported the first part of the judges opinions and not the second. I’m not a complete idiot.

Anyway, when the cost/benefit ratio on the various methods of cajoling etc. went too high, I wrote some more stuff. And in the time-honored tradition of editors since the beginning of time, I put different names on most of it, so it wouldn’t look like only one person was writing it all. There was a practical, if mildly unethical, reason for this: we got money from the Student Union to produce the magazines, and the number of students involved in any given activity was a factor in that activity’s budget, so the appearance of a larger staff made our budget more secure. Also, being represented on the Executive Board of the Student Union was a factor in budgeting, which is why I joined the E-Board, as it was called, my Junior year. I am a nefarious and conniving sort.

I also used pseudonyms for a few submissions to The Gorgon, RPI's student literary publication. I did this for a different reason than the other times I used pseudonyms; it was for fear of embarrassment.

As I have noted, I consider myself to be a lousy poet. This belief is backed by the fact that I am, indeed, a lousy poet; anything past simple rhymed couplets, limericks, and doggerel that I’ve attempted just makes me cringe on later reading. However, on the path to learning this great truth, I wrote a fair amount of poetry. Midway through this stop-me-before-I-kill-again realization, I decided I’d submit some to The Gorgon and see how they looked in print and what the response would be. Or see if they rejected it as crap. Either way, I’d learn something.

The problem was that, although they did indeed publish some of it, the only response that I could discern was from me, which is that it was still lousy, and so was most of the other stuff in The Gorgon. Not one of my more profound revelations: that most poetry written by students at a small engineering school was crap.

I will follow the sense of mild humiliation that remembering any thing about my writing poetry with a bit of a brag. RPI has this honorary society called “Phalanx.” Up until around my time, during those insidious “kids got no respect for tradition” sixties, the members got to wear cheesy white coats with a purple square on one of the pockets (representing the phalanx military formation, right?). There were also pins, I seem to recall. We got rid of those, and by “we” I mean student government generally (I was an E-Board member, eh?). We then got rewarded by being made members of Phalanx and not getting anything to show for it except our name on a list. By “we” here, I mean “me.”

Anyway, making Phalanx isn’t the brag. The brag is that I later heard that one of my pseudonyms had been considered for membership in Phalanx, but the idea was dropped because nobody could find him on any class rolls, him not actually existing, you see. But it was kinda cool.

Years later, Sharon Farber, my sometimes collaborator and I used a pseudonym a couple of times, one “Dorothy Smith,” (“Dot” Smith—get it? Oh, we had ‘em rolling in the aisles). We used Ms Smith as a pseudonym for a few stories where one or the other of us had a story that didn’t quite work and the other supplied the small, but necessary fix. Dorothy was the fixer-upper, a sort of “Remember thou art mortal” reminder. Much later, we had a profound disagreement on a collaborative story such that not even Dorothy could fix it so we ceased collaborating

Back in the late 80s, I first went on-line with Compuserve, which was the equivalent of being in a highly moderated Usenet Newsgroup. Moreover, every Compuserve user was theoretically identifiable; Compuserve had to know who you were (since somebody had to pay the bill), and you couldn’t just pop off and seconds later show up in a new identity, because everyone had a number tag and Compuserve email address. That was pretty much the case for the other on-line worlds, Genie, Delphi, America Online. Write anything bad enough and there was the possibility of real consequences.

The Internet, anonymous re-mailers, web-based email, cybercafés, public terminals, all these have changed that dynamic. It’s possible to operate online from a position of totally anonymity.

And I never do that. When I make a comment on someone’s blog, I give my own name and the path back to my own web pages, email addresses (I have several; doesn’t everyone?) or over to my little blog experiment where my user profile has those things. I’ve tried internet pseudonyms and they don’t feel right to me at all. Part of it may just be wanting what I say to have the weight of a real, identifiable person behind it. Part of it may be a sort of "old man in a raincoat on a park bench across from the playground" feel it has to it.

But I’ve been reflecting lately on what happens when we toss away components of the Superego, thing like accountability, consequences, empathy and persona. These are also components of the self, and they are part of what keeps the Id in check.

The Id is also part of the self. Ironically, denial of the Id gives it more power.

So every day I see things posted on the ‘net that are the verbal equivalent of “monsters from the Id.” Most often, they are anonymous; almost invariably they are written as if words have no consequences except possibly in relation to other words. Cyberspace becomes a massively multiplayer role playing game where magic rules, and not just in wizard-sodden gaming circles.

I am real; I have weight. Do your worst, puny magicians. My hide is thick with scales.

Dwarf magic does not work on dragons. Nobody knows why. - John Gardner, In the Suicide Mountains

Chain Gang

It's oddly difficult to get information about the chain gang system that existed in the South until the 1950s and 60s. There are a few famous exposes, plus the pop culture images of "I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang," or "The Defiant Ones," or "Cool Hand Luke." There are an awful lot of white faces in these movies.

I was in our back yard in Tennessee sometime in the mid-50s when I saw a work gang in leg irons working on Emory Drive across the vacant lot that abutted our back yard. There were no white faces in that crowd.

The convict labor system was the way that southern states kept their roads repaired for most of the first half of the 20th Century. I've seen claims that the chain gangs were integrated, despite a fully segregated prison system, but I'm bound to wonder how much of that integrated chain gang image came from ignorance and poetic license. There was no mystery about how the prison labor system worked: whenever a road contractor needed labor, the local constabulary rounded up all the "vagrants" in the area, and vagrants were almost invariably black. Putting a white man in a largely black work gang would have been considered appalling.

Perhaps the gangs that were made up of prison inmates, rather than local "pick up" labor were different, but again, how and why would there be a mixing of populations that were not even in the same prisons? The logistics alone make the idea dubious; it would have been a lot like "forced busing," wouldn't it?

As for the pop culture images, there's no question about the dynamic at work there. There would have been no audiences for a film that featured only black characters, whereas adding black men to the mix either allows a statement about racial issues, or it emphasizes the degradation of the main (white) character.

In any case, I've just spent some time on Google Images, looking for a photo of a real chain gang with both black and white men in it, and I couldn't find any. I never saw one in real life, either.

The movie, "I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang," was based on a book, I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang. The State of Georgia banned the movie. I don't think they did it because it showed chain gangs; I think they banned it because it showed one that was integrated.

Merry Christmas, Early, but Rocket Mail is Undependable

In the spirit of the holiday season, here are a few ditties from the wonder that is the Jonathan Coulton Project:

Chiron Beta Prime



Code Monkey



RE: Your Brains

Clare Graves

Clare Graves was a psychologist at Union College in Schenectady, New York, near where I went to school. I read an article in Cavalier magazine in the mid-sixties that described Graves’ work as “The Theory that Explains Everything.” A little checking suggests that it was reprinted from the Canadian publication, Maclean’s magazine.

At RPI, I looked up the Harvard Business Review paper that the popular article was based on. The RPI library wasn’t entirely lame.

My friend Ben Sano is from the Albany/Troy/ Schenectady area, and he’d heard of Graves from a local newspaper article about him, and how the HBR paper came to be published. Apparently, Graves was once talking to his plumber, who’d asked him what he did for a living. After some talk, the plumber got excited and wrote to the Harvard Business Review, raving about Graves. How it was that a plumber had pull with the Harvard Business Review remains a mystery.

In any case, one afternoon, Ben and I went over to Union College and met with Graves. This isn’t like just showing up on someone’s doorstep; I’m pretty sure we called in advance, and besides, university professors are used to this sort of thing. Besides, I probably told him I was a writer for some RPI publication or another. I used that gimmick a lot.

Before I say anything about Graves’ work, I’ll mention that what I remember of it is not the same as what you’ll find if you do a web search. We spoke with Graves in the early 1970s, and he died in the mid-80s. More to the point, he worked on his theories with some students, and they’ve continued on their various ways with the material, and it looks substantially different now. Now it’s called “Spiral Dynamics” or some such, and it has a strong Human Potential Movement/New Age feel to it. It’s also become very complicated and full of jargon. So I’m just going to report the original core material and you can make of it what you will.

Graves, like every other non-behaviorist psychologist of his generation was profoundly influenced by A. H. Maslow and Maslow’s “needs hierarchy.” Also, Maslow had that interesting idea of trying to study healthy psychology rather than pathological case studies.

Maslow’s hierarchy went as follows, with each need being met before the individual moves down the list (or up the pyramid, since that’s how it’s often presented):

• Physiological (biological needs)
• Safety
• Love/belonging
• Status (esteem)
• Actualization

Maslow then took “Actualization” or “Self-actualization” as being the highest psychological state and he presented descriptions of the psychology of those individuals (some of them historical figures, like Lincoln) that he believed to have met the criteria of being self-actualizing.

Graves was interested in the idea of the healthy or exemplar psychology, so he began having his student describe their ideas of a psychologically healthy or ideal person. He confessed surprise (and also surprise at having been surprised) that different people do not give the same description of psychological health. In fact, he found four major categorical groupings of the “ideal.”

Then Graves did something very clever. He divided his students into the four groups, based on their idea of ideal and gave them various tasks to perform, in groups, and studied the results. I’ll note in passing that Graves didn’t tell the students what he was doing, and he often secretly observed them as well, two practices that are considered not entirely ethical by today’s standards, though I doubt they did anyone any harm. So I’m going to describe the groups partly by the way they work together.

Group 3) Rule oriented. This group performs very well, provided there are very clear rules given at the outset for how to perform their tasks. Their ideal person is often described in terms like “law-abiding” or, in a great number of cases, religious stricture, indicating belief in the Bible, following the Ten Commandments and so forth.

Group 4) Competitive. Given a task, this sort of group will first have a big fight about who is to be the leader. Once that dispute has been settled, the leader sets the pace and everyone works well together. The ideal person is a “winner” and a hierarchy is always indicated as being in place. Group 4 type people are often found in the military, as officers. (Group 3 people would be enlisted men).

Group 5) Consensus. Group 5 people seem to be able to do a task without a leader, provided they can achieve consensus on how the task should be done. Ideal descriptors come out as “team player” (though there is some overlap there with 4s), “doesn’t make waves,” etc. Places group success ahead of individual success.

Group 6) Collaborative. Graves indicated that he didn’t get many 6s in his classes, but he saw plenty of them in the professions. That, in fact, was one of the markers, “Professional in behavior.” When confronted with a task, a group of 6s would quickly arrange themselves into a structure for performing the task, but as soon as the task switched, the structure would also change. Graves compared it to a string quartet, always changing roles depending upon the piece that was being played.

You’ll notice that I started the list with number 3. That’s because Graves considered the groups to be a development hierarchy (after Maslow) and added the levels 1 and 2 below three. Level 1 was someone entirely consumed with basic physical needs, like an infant, while level 2 consisted of people who behaved like young children before socialization, acting out, unable to consider the consequences of their actions, and who were primarily managed by force. Part of what Graves was doing here was dividing Maslow’s groupings further, such that “safety” (and immediate need) was separated from “security” (a longer term need).

Graves was, at least when we spoke to him, uncertain as to the extent to which his groupings really were developmental stages, and to what extent they were more characteristic of particular individuals. In other words, does everyone pass through all earlier stages before arriving at who they are now? I don’t know if Graves ever decided; I know that I haven’t.

Graves also postulated another level past 6, Level 7, but he confessed to being unable to describe it very well. For that matter, the few subjects that he thought might be 7s couldn’t describe their idea of psychological health or the ideal personality very well either. It tended to get all mystical. I suspect this has a great deal to do with how “woo woo” Graves’ students and later work became.

There is also, of course, the problem that, as Graves put it, “As soon as you devise a hierarchy, every level 4 is going to claim to be a 7.” To reference an earlier essay, every Smartest Guy in the Room is a 4.

There are other things that can be noted about Graves’ levels. For one thing, active and passive personality types seem to alternate, and each pair tends to form some stable constructs. As I’ve already noted, an army can be looked on as a bunch of 3s following a bunch of 4s. The same thing can be said about almost any authoritarian organization, and it’s worth thinking about politics in Gravesian terms for that reason. Each level presumably has its own characteristic pathology as well.

Do I believe it? Let’s just say that I’ve found this grouping theory to be a useful model of looking at the world at times, at least as useful as Jungian personality typing (upon which the Meyers-Briggs tests are built). Last year, I worked on a management consulting project where the project team could best be described as primarily consisting of 6s, for example, whereas the organization that we’re dealing with is most 5s, but the upper management seems to be mostly 4s. This, as you might expect causes problems, but then again, what doesn’t? In any case, intellectualization is a useful way to diminish anxiety, and I’m very good at intellectualization at least when the situation demands it.

Murphy Keeps Company

I went to the Wikipedia and looked up Murphy's Law, thereby running across all the similar such laws, Sod’s, Finagle’s, and all the variations of stating them:

• Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.
• Anything that can go wrong, will.
• Whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and at the worst possible time
• If there's more than one way to do a job, and one of those ways will result in disaster, then somebody will do it that way.

• The perversity of the Universe tends towards a maximum.
• Bad fortune will be tailored to the individual.
• Good fortune will occur in spite of the individual’s actions.

The first list is generally considered to be Murphy’s Law variants, while the second list (Sod’s and Finagle’s Laws) has more to do with the human perception of fate, irony, and the injustice of the universe. The last statement is exemplified by the idea that it won’t rain if you take your umbrella. In our household, we call this “using unsympathetic magic.”

There are two ways of looking at Murphy’s Law, and one of them is the “perverse universe” or “jelly side down” viewpoint. That’s actually the more popular version, because people like to complain. There’s a physics version, for example, that says simply, “Mother Nature is a Bitch.”

Here, though, it’s worth quoting the Wikipedia entry:

In any case, the phrase first received public attention during a press conference in which Stapp was asked how it was that nobody had been severely injured during the rocket sled tests. Stapp replied that it was because they always took Murphy's Law under consideration; he then summarized the law and said that in general, it meant that it was important to consider all the possibilities (possible things that could go wrong) before doing a test and act to counteract them. Thus Stapp's usage and Murphy's alleged usage are very different in outlook and attitude. One is sour, the other an affirmation of the predictable being able to be surmounted, usually by sufficient planning and redundancy.

So, properly understood, Murphy’s Law is an engineering design principle, whose highest expression is in the idea of Fail Safe, a design whose failure modes are all innocuous, rather than a design with failure modes that, however rare, can have disastrous consequences. (The book and movie versions of Fail Safe, of course, used the phrase ironically).

One of the most famous (and flagrant) violations of Murphy’s Law as a design principle is to be found in nuclear reactor design in the 50s, 60s, and 70s, where safety was, for the most part, actively maintained, so a failure of safety mechanisms could lead to disaster. The notorious Rasmussen report (Rasmussen N. (editor) (1975) Reactor Safety Study WASH-1400, USNRC) calculated the likelihood of catastrophic accident as very unlikely, but the calculations involved an assumption of statistical independence of adverse events, i.e. that one bad thing happening didn’t have an effect on other bad things happening.

In the case of the Three Mile Island disaster, however, multiple bad things did happen, all more or less at once, at least partly because human error tends to come in clusters, like on the midnight shift, when people are not tippy top. What saved TMI from being a full bore catastrophe was the final, passive safety system: the containment structure. It’s worth noting that had Chernobyl had a similar containment structure, the graphite fire would have rapidly consumed all the available oxygen and ceased. The Chernobyl radioisotopes would probably have remained within containment. It’s also worth noting that there were many in the U.S. nuclear industry in the 1970s who argued that containment structures were a needless expense because reactors were so safe.

Another problem with the assumption of statistical independence of adverse events is the “bathtub curve,” the statistical distribution of failure of devices. Simply put, things tend to break most often when they are either new (due to manufacturing flaws), or when they are near the end of their designed life. In other words, new things have a greater likelihood of multiple component failure, as do devices near the end of their own design life. This is because designers try not to put very long-lived components with those of much shorter lives, sturdier components being more expensive. Thus, multiple component failure is much more likely near the end of device design limits, aka “The Wonderful One Hoss Shay” effect.

Evolution does this with people, too, and it’s not just aging that produces a “design envelope.” I wrote a paper, never published (though it made the rounds within the air geek community such that I’ve seen some signs that some of my colleagues got the point) entitled , "Does PM Mortality Follow a Bathtub Curve?" which suggests that there is both a high exposure and low exposure elevated human health reaction to particulate matter in the atmosphere. That, of course, is another, albeit related, topic.

1968 Part II

June 3 - Radical feminist Valerie Solanas shoots Andy Warhol as he enters his studio, wounding him.

June 5 - U.S. presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy is shot at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, California by TAWKRFK. Kennedy dies from his injuries the next day.

The Wikipedia says that The Central Intelligence Agency's Phoenix Program was officially established in June, 1968, but the article on the Program itself says that it began in 1967. Since, among other things, it involved assassination and interrogation by harsh methods (i.e. torture), it's easy to see how basic information about the program is suspect.

In the summer of 1968, I was working full time as a lifeguard at the Downtown Nashville YMCA. Actually, that is an understatement. The other certified and experience Y lifeguards had all gotten nice summer jobs at suburban pools, where they made more money and got to meet girls. This left me as the only lifeguard that the Downtown Y had to fill the high chair.

The pool was open 6 days a week, for 12 hours each day, although I sometimes got there a little late, and I was allowed to leave early if there was no one wanting to use the pool past 5. Still I was working as much as 72 hours a week for less than minimum wage.

On the plus side, it was easy work; there would sometimes be stretches of well over an hour with no one in the pool at all. And during the swim classes, the main safety responsibility fell to the instructors, so I was sometimes allowed to duck over to the café and have lunch.

Also, because of the hours, I didn't really have much of a chance to spend money. So I saved several hundred dollars that summer, despite having weekly paychecks that seldom cracked $50.

July 23-July 28 - African-American militants led by Fred (Ahmed) Evans engage in a fierce gunfight with police in the Glenville Shootout of Cleveland, Ohio.

July 25 - Pope Paul VI publishes the encyclical entitled Humanae Vitae, condemning birth control.

August 5-August 8 - The Republican National Convention in Miami Beach, Florida nominates Richard Nixon for U.S. President and Spiro Agnew for Vice President.

Nixon was selling "The New Nixon" a forthright soul who had wandered the wilderness and who was now past the slush funds, sweaty brow, and "You won't have Nixon to kick around anymore."

But really now, everyone knew he was still an asshole. The only thing was that he was an asshole who hadn't tried yet to get us killed. Lyndon Johnson, however, had been trying to get us killed for quite a while.

Besides, George Romney, the Republican anti-war candidate, shot himself in the feet so many times that he could have used them as colanders.

In late August police clashed with antiwar protesters in Chicago, Illinois outside the 1968 Democratic National Convention, which nominates Hubert Humphrey for U.S. President, and Edmund Muskie for Vice President. Richard Nixon was to use the Democratic debacle to great advantage, speaking of the "silent majority" and disparagingly of "the Hippies" which everyone took to mean anyone who had any opposition to the war, any desire for sex, drugs, and rock and roll, or any white male who had hair that managed to creep over his ears. In other words, me, about six months after leaving Nashville. But I'm getting ahead of myself. In any event, I'm not the guy to ask about the Chicago DNC riots. For that, you want Skip Williamson.

[Brief aside: In Tom Brokaw's 1968, he gets a former Chicago cop and a former anti-war activist together to have at it a bit. The Chicago cop claims that there were park benches being burned during the riots. The activist says that the story is a "total urban myth." The cop replies, "I was there," and the segment ends.

Why the hell didn't Brokaw follow up on this? It's pretty easy to find, for example, photos of park benches being piled up as barricades, but I'm damned if I can find a single burning bench photo, or even a reference to it. Which is to say that the cop was almost certainly lying, or, more likely, remembering something that never happened. And Brokaw lets it pass, as if finding out who was telling the truth would be" taking sides."

Asshole.]

In September, 1968, I arrived at Rensselear Polytechnic Institute. My parents drove me the 1050 miles to get there, and "Classical Gas" by Mason Williams was larded onto the top 40 stations with a trowel. I remember waking to it somewhere in Baltimore, near the middle of the night, from being asleep in the back of the station wagon.

Somewhere in the first semester at RPI, Jean Shepherd performed in the gym, and asked his audience, "How many of you here believe that your life hasn't started yet?" Many hands went up, with some amusement. Shepherd proceeded to tell them what idiots they were, waiting for it to begin. I had not raised my hand. I figured that my life had begun with my arrival at RPI. I was wrong, of course; I'd had a life in Nashville. But I was also right; it wasn't the life I wanted.

That first semester, I learned how to drink. The legal age for alcohol in New York State at the time was 18, and since no freshmen were allowed to have automobiles, it wasn't even that dangerous. The RPI Student Union Rathskeller served cheap beer to anyone with a student ID, and there were a set of bars down in Troy that specifically catered to students. I made a hit with some of my buddies by knowing that common detergent contains optical bleach, which reflects UV as blue-white light. The bars had a cover charge, but used a UV ink stamp on the back of your hand to allow re-entry. A little bit of detergent, properly painted (one kind barfly loaned us her eyebrow brush; she probably found one of us attractive, but I have no idea which of us it was, which means it may have been me, dammit) saved you the cover charge.

On September 7, Women's Liberation groups, joined by members of New York NOW, targeted the Miss America Beauty Contest in Atlantic City. The protest included theatrical demonstrations including ritual disposal of traditional female roles into the "freedom ashcan." While nothing is actually set on fire, one organizer's comment - quoted in the New York Times the next day - that the protesters "wouldn't do anything dangerous, just a symbolic bra-burning," created a mass perception, and everyone now remembers the bras being burned.

RPI legend has it that the proper spelling of nerd is "knurd", which is "drunk" spelled backwards, dating from the time when you were one or the other. But some knurds drank, and besides, something new had been added to the mix. The RPI class of 1972, which arrived in 1968, already had a goodly pothead component, the younger brothers of those who had already gone to college, or those simply from places where marijuana culture had hit the high schools. It was only a year or two after that that drugs hit Donelson High, or so says my sister. There may have been somewhere in the country further behind the curve than Donelson, but it's hard to imagine such a place.

I liked hanging with the heads, but I did not indulge my freshman year. I wanted to see how it went for my fellows. Hey, isn't there a scene in Beowulf where he holds back for a while, taking Grendel's measure? Yeah, that was me and drugs. Beowulf and Grendel.

October 2 - Tlatelolco massacre: A student demonstration ends in a bloodbath at La Plaza de las Tres Culturas in Tlatelolco, Mexico City, Mexico, 10 days before the inauguration of the 1968 Summer Olympics.

October 2 - Marcel Duchamp, French artist (b. 1887) and great-grandaddy of Dada and Surrealism, dies.

October 11 - Apollo program: NASA launches Apollo 7, the first manned Apollo mission (Wally Schirra, Donn Eisele, Walter Cunningham). Mission goals include the first live television broadcast from orbit and testing the lunar module docking maneuver.

October 11 - In Panama, a military coup d'etat, led by Col. Boris Martinez and Col. Omar Torrijos, overthrows the democratically-elected (but highly controversial) government of President Arnulfo Arias. Within a year, Torrijos will have ousted Martinez and taken charge as de facto Head of Government in Panama.

During my first semester at RPI (and, quite frankly, during most of the rest of my time there), I merrily traveled up and down the Eastern Seaboard in search of adventure, which basically translated into listening to music and/or trying to get laid. I was much more successful in the former endeavor, as I recognized a musical opportunity when I encountered it. By contrast, I was so socially clueless (one ubernurd, far from the mothership) that I basically had to be hit over the head and dragged off to bed by any woman who found me attractive. If I hadn't been good looking, and it hadn't been the 60's, I'd still be a virgin.

I made a couple of trips to Vassar, in the company of my friend, Bullshit Harvey (not his real name), who had a sister going there. The girl who took me home from the dance later decided that I'd been lying about my politics. I can say now that I really didn't know enough about my politics to lie about them, but I believed that I was lying at the time, so she had me there.

The Games of the XIX Olympiad began on October 12, in Mexico City, Mexico. The image that you've all seen from this is the one of Tommie Smith and John Carlos, 2 African-Americans competing in the Olympic 200-meter run, who raised their arms in a black power salute after winning the gold and bronze medals for 1st and 3rd place. By contrast, after winning the gold medal for heavyweight boxing, George Foreman walked around the ring with a tiny American flag, bowing several times to the audience.

But the part I remember is this: Bob Beamon of the USA shattered the world record for the long jump by more than two feet, in a leap of 29 feet 2 & 1/2.

What does it say about the way things were in 1968 that all the counter-culture tropes were abundant at RPI, an old, conservative, engineering school. It said that the times were out of joint. I knew guys who didn't bother to change out of their ROTC uniforms before getting high. Everybody talked the talk, "bummer," "good trip," "Remember kids, don't forget to smash the State!" Even the straightest student quoted Firesign Theater, "Now it's time to play, 'Beat the Reaper!"

The campus political radical guys were seen as amusing, and not nearly as much into the party time as they should be. After all, our student deferments would only take us for four years, and the war was going to last forever. Eat, drink, and try to make Mary.

October 14 - The United States Department of Defense announces that the United States Army and United States Marines will send about 24,000 troops back to Vietnam for involuntary second tours.

I started out at RPI in physics, because I had no idea of what I was doing. Freshman year, the only difference between physics and engineering was that the physics majors took a foreign language (mine was German), while engineering students took mechanical drawing. I'd already had mechanical drawing in high school, though, so I went for the new stuff, rather than go through what I'd already taken (that's part of the "didn't know what I was doing").

In German, however, I quickly hit my standard limitation. I'm very good in languages up to the point of the vocabulary drill. Then I fall behind, because I'm just lazy that way. It probably wouldn't be a problem in an immersion course, but there were none of those around.

So my first test scores were A's but by the end of the semester I was approaching low C territory. No need for further interpretation; I transferred to engineering, and wound up in an experimental course called "Elementary Engineering" taught by Paul Daitch, who would later be my sequence advisor in Engineering Science. EE also had a TA named Gary Steinman, who I later worked with on another experimental course, this time with me as a TA.

November 5 - U.S. presidential election, 1968: Republican challenger Richard M. Nixon defeats Vice President Hubert Humphrey and American Independent Party candidate George C. Wallace. Nixon got 301 electoral votes to Humprey's 191 and Wallace's 46 (Wallace took 5 southern states). The disproportionate electoral split masks the fact that Nixon only got 43.4% of the popular vote, to Humprey's 42.7% (with Wallace taking 13.5%). If the South had still been "solid" for the Democrats, Humprey would have picked up Wallace's 5 states, plus also the surrounding halo of "moderate" southern states, and would have won the election.

I'm sure it would have mattered if Humphrey had won, I just don't know how, or how much. Nixon was an evil bastard of a war criminal, but he hadn't started the war. Neither, of course, had Humphrey. The thought of either of them running the country put us all into frenzied paralysis. It seemed clear that the country's problems ran deeper than merely being a matter of who was President.

By the end of the year, my hair had grown at least to Little Dutch Boy length. That was enough to get me physically threatened by some random working class male at least every couple of weeks.

November 14 - Yale University announces it is going co-educational. We all yawned, as we'd already read The Harrad Experiment, and, having had a couple of months of college behind us, knew that the orgies simply weren't that easy to find.

November 22 - The White Album is released by The Beatles.

December 13 - Brazilian president Artur da Costa e Silva decrees the AI-5 (or the fifth Institutional Act), which lasts until 1978 and marks the beginning of the hard times of Brazilian military dictatorshiop.

December 24 - Apollo Program: U.S. spacecraft Apollo 8 enters orbit around the Moon. Astronauts Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and William A. Anders become the first humans to see the far side of the Moon and planet Earth as a whole. The crew also reads from Genesis.

Whenever I hear someone talking about the cataclysmic events going on in the world, I think of 1968 (and '69, and '70) and think, "Not yet."

History happens to people, and every person's history is different, both their personal history and their embedding in the larger scheme of things. Every Baby Boomer's story is different, and even a year's difference in birth date can make all the difference in the world. I graduated high school and began college in 1968. That's how it was for me. That's how it was for all of us who had those experiences in 1968. Others had it different. If you think you understand it without having been there, you're wrong. Those of us who were there don't even understand it; we just remember it.

And badly.

1968 Part 1

In the late spring of 1967, I took the SAT exams. This was early; I figured that I could always take them again if my scores were less than what I needed to get into college. All the schools I was applying for had "Institute of Technology" in their names, so the math and science scores were particularly important, and I scored very well on those. I scored even better on the verbal section, but I took that as a given.

By early 1968, based on offered financial aid (I needed a lot of it), and distance from Tennessee (I needed a lot of that, too), I'd settled on attending Rensselear Polytechnic Institute in upstate New York.

On January 5, 1968, Alexander Dubček was elected leader of the Communist Party in Czechoslovakia. His term became known as the "Prague Spring," a time of general loosening of Iron Curtain repression. The thaw officially ended on August 20 when 200,000 Warsaw Pact troops and 5,000 tanks invade Czechoslovakia.

Once I'd received my acceptance to RPI, my time in Donelson became a holding pattern. I made a couple of half-hearted attempts at dating, both girls from the tony Belle Meade district on the west side of town, out past Vanderbuilt University, but my head was not in the game. Or in any game, really. I was so out of there.

On January 30, in Vietnam, the Tet Offensive began, as Viet Cong forces launched a series of surprise attacks across South Vietnam. The Tet Offensive was the "light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train" moment in the Vietnam War, and surprised everyone who'd thought that the war was nearing victory, which is to say, that fraction of the people whom you can fool all of the time. On January 31, Viet Cong soldiers attack the United States Embassy in Saigon. The Tet Offensive does halt until February 24.

On February 1 a Viet Cong officer was executed by Nguyen Ngoc Loan, a South Vietnamese National Police Chief. The event was photographed by Eddie Adams. The photo made headlines around the world, eventually winning the 1969 Pulitzer Prize. Americans are horrified, shocked, simply shocked, that bad things are done during a war.


One of my dates in January would have been to see "The Graduate." I liked it, as it seemed to speak to the disconnected feeling I had about everything, though, truth to tell, I expected to reconnect in college.

My date didn't like it, although she thought that Anne Bancroft was still pretty hot. I don't think she used those words, though.

January 13 - Johnny Cash records "Live at Folsom Prison".

January 22 - Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In debuts on NBC.

On February 4, 1968, Neal Cassady, inspiration for both the Beats and the Hippies died. Later in the year, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe, was released, bringing Cassady yet more hipster celebrity, and I'm sure he appreciated it, really.

On the job as a lifeguard at the Downtown Nashville YMCA, I read, when it was safe, i.e when there was no one in the pool, or maybe a single middle-aged white male swimming laps. At other times I listened to the radio, via single earpiece, when it was safe to do that. When swim classes were in session, of course, the pool got my full attention.

The available music was pretty feeble. Top Forty radio had "Yummy, Yummy, Yummy I've Got Love in My Tummy" on high rotation for weeks. And no matter how much I liked both The Graduate and Simon and Garfunkle, there are only so many times I can listen to "Mrs. Robinson" without thinking of opening a vein. On somebody.

There was a light classical station that I could barely get, plus a couple of "easy listening" stations. I became quite fond of the Baja Marimba Band, and "The Call of the Wild Goose." There was also some instrumental group that did a version of "Everybody Loves My Baby" that was heavy on the kettle drum. Maybe I'll try to find out who did that sometime.

On February 8, a civil rights protest staged at a white-only bowling alley in Orangeburg, South Carolina was broken-up by highway patrolmen, leading to the deaths of 3 college students. Drop in the bucket, really. Or, as some were describing it at the time, "a good start."

There were several versions of "The Best is Yet to Come," on the easy listening rotation, too, including the Sinatra rendition.

On February 8, 1968, the National Socialist White Peoples Party filed suit to obtain a Nazi burial for George Lincoln Rockwell’s remains at any National Cemetery. Rockwell had been assassinated in 1967, and there had been a public standoff sometime later about a previous attempt to bury his body at a National Cemetery, with members of the NSWPP demanding to be allowed to wear their Nazi insignia at the ceremony, and the cemetery officials refusing. This was all orchestrated by one of Rockwell's previous subordinates, Matt Koehl.

I wrote a bit of doggerel about the cemetery incident, using "Old King Cole" as a template. It was, to my recollection, dreadful, but it does have the distinction of being one of the least dreadful bits of poetry I wrote at the time. I was to give up all such attempts at poetry within a few years, and the world is a much better place for it.

On March 12, U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson beat antiwar candidate Eugene J. McCarthy in the New Hampshire Democratic primary, but won by only 7 percentage points. Moreover, McCarthy won the lion's share, 20, of New Hampshire's convention delegates.

On March 31, U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson announced he would not seek re-election. He'd been on the receiving end of the chant, "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids have you killed today?" for quite a while at that point. I remember thinking at the time, "Holy crap! I think he's quitting because they hurt his feelings." That would not prove to be a problem with his successor.

I was writing a lot at this point, another one of the activities that I used to fill the "empty pool time." My lifeguard duties were still somewhat contained, by attending high school and by the existence of other lifeguards to share the duties. So I was working maybe 3-4 hours 3 or 4 times a week.

One of the things I began about this time was a Tolkienesque fantasy. Much later, after adding a lot more stuff stolen from Jack Vance, Fritz Leiber, and Henry Kuttner, it became Book of Shadows, my first novel. Thank god, I removed the poetry.

On March 18, under heavy pressure from France's ongoing conversion of dollars to gold, the Congress of the United States repealed the requirement for a gold reserve to back U.S. currency. The dollar then began a series of sliding pegs against gold, that is to say, a series of "devaluations." These eventually ceased in 1975, when the gold/dollar link was broken completely, private citizens were again allowed to own gold, and the dollar floated against other world currencies.

I was keenly interested in business and finance, going so far as to have a subscription to Fortune magazine, and reading books on accounting. On the other hand, I was reading books on just about everything.

On March 20, Charles Chaplin Jr., American actor (b. 1925), died.

On March 22, Daniel Cohn-Bendit and seven other students occupied Administrative offices of Nanterre, launching France into a state of revolution in the month of May.

On March 16, the My Lai massacre occurred as American troops kill several hundred (300-500) civilians. The American public did not learn of the event for many months.

On March 14, nerve gas leaked from the U.S. Army Dugway Proving Ground near Skull Valley, Utah and killed a number of sheep.

On March 27, Yuri Gagarin, cosmonaut and the first man in orbit died in a plane crash.

In National Forensic League meets of the period, there were various categories of competition, generally segregated by gender. For most of the categories, such as "Boys' Original", there was a prepared text, which you could deliver until it won a first place prize, and then it had to be retired. Other categories, which had much lower status (and fewer NFL "points" accruing to victories) used someone else's words.

After burning through a few "Original" speeches, my forensic buddy Phil and I got either lazy or more confident, depending upon interpretation. The highest status category was "Extemporaneous" which got a subject handed to you, and you then had (as I recall) fifteen minutes to prepare the speech. Obviously the most you could really get was an outline. But that was enough, really.

It helped that the meet organizers weren't really high in the imagination department; they usually set topics cleaned from recent issues of Time, Newsweek, or U.S. News and World Reports. It was no great trick to locate the relevant newsmagazine, and to pull facts from it. What took some talent was coming up with a speech that didn't sound like you were just reading from a newsmagazine. Also, I needed something to keep me from getting bored with the deal. So I'd be looking for some odd take on the thing. That tended to make me stand out from the crowd, and often the judges appreciated that.

It also gave me an incentive to keep up with the newsmagazines, which was good, because there was plenty of incentive to just numb out from the goings on in the world.

On April 4, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. Riots erupt in major American cities for several days afterward. The Asshole who Killed Martin Luthor King was arrested for the murder on June 8th. TAWKMLK first confessed to the crime, then withdrew it, then pled guilty (to avoid the death penalty), and was sentenced to 99 years in prison. He then spent the remainder of his life trying to withdraw his plea and obtain a trial. He also gave interviews that tried to hint at a conspiracy. If you think there was a conspiracy, blame the death penalty for TAWKMLK not getting his trial. I think he was just a lying asshole, myself. TAWKMLK later made a book deal with writer William Bradford Huie (The Death of Private Slovik, The Revolt of Mamie Stover, The Americanization of Emily), which produced a work that I will not name.

Nashville did not have riots, and both the black and white communities patted themselves on the back for it, and even patted each other's backs a bit, which was a good thing.

There was a curfew, however. One of my dates put me up against the curfew when driving home. I don't think I worried much about it. I was more interested in the end-of-the-world sensation produced by driving from West Nashville to East Nashville without seeing a single other vehicle.

On April 6, a shootout between Black Panthers and Oakland police resulted in several arrests and deaths, including 17-year-old Panther Bobby Hutton.

In late April, student protesters at Columbia University in New York City took over administration buildings and shut down the university.

On April 29, the musical Hair officially opened on Broadway. For our sins, we were subjected to "The Age of Aquarius" on the radio for what seemed like months.

In May, student and worker strikes in France, sometimes referred to as the French May, nearly brought down the French government.

On May 17, the Catonsville Nine entered the Selective Service offices in Catonsville, Maryland, took dozens of selective service draft records, and burned them with napalm as a protest against the Vietnam War.

On May 19, Nigerian forces captured Port Harcourt and formed a ring around Biafrans. This contributed to a humanitarian disaster as the surrounded population was already suffering with hunger and starvation.

On May 22, the U.S. nuclear-powered submarine Scorpion sank with 99 men aboard, 400 miles southwest of the Azores.

In early June, 1968, I graduated from Donelson High School, in Donelson, Tennessee.


Pete,

Well, that's 12 years of school gone and we've been together most of them. What's more, there's at least 4 more years coming. Make the most of them. I'd like to think that I know you pretty well – better than most, anyway. Anyway, I know enough so that I can see you've got a great future. Let some more people find out about you – you're great. But then again, no one needed to tell you that.

--Mark

More later.

[Many of the historical events here have been memory refreshed via Wikipedia]

Exactly How Lame is Tom Brokaw?

I was a child of the 50s, so I was a student of cool jazz. I was with a friend yesterday, and we were at a restaurant and he looked up and said, "Hey, they're playing Miles Davis and John Coltrane." And I thought "We're the last generation that still recognizes that." -- Tom Brokaw in Entertainment Weekly

Yeah, man, all the 50s hipsters were into Miles and 'Trane.

Davis' "Birth of the Cool" dates from 1949-50; "Kind of Blue" is from 1959. "In a Silent Way," and "Bitches Brew" which ushered in "fusion" jazz, are from 1969 and 1970. He was still performing and recording up until his death in 1991.

Coltrane's "My Favorite Things," by far his most popular work, is from 1961; his magnum opus, "A Love Supreme" is from 1964-65. He died in 1967.

So Brokaw casually appropriates ten years of Davis' work, (and by implication, dismisses the next thirty years of it). As for what he does with Coltrane, I have no idea. Was the restaurant playing just from the period that Coltrane was with Davis, or did Brokaw decide that music from the early to mid-60s was part of the 1950s?

Ah, who cares? The 50s generation was listening to Buddy Holly, Elvis, and Bobby Darin (I'm being kind here; I had older cousins who were big into Bobby Vinton and Frankie Avalon). Cool jazz was for elitist snobs, which is why I went for it with some precocity. But jeez, I'd never claim that I represent some sort of last connoisseurship, après moi le deluge, you know? Brokaw's on television; didn't he watch Ken Burns' Jazz?

Come to think of it, probably not. Otherwise, Brokaw's documentary on The History Channel, would not have spent two hours bringing the same sort of precision of insight that Brokaw has on music, to the history of the year I started college. Truth to tell, I'd be much more interested in what he had to say about the group between the "Greatest Generation" and the Boomers. Not because I think it would be accurate, mind you, but it might give us some clues as to how Brokaw managed to become as lame as he is.

Another Essay Starting from the Same Place

In 1784, a special Royal Commission of the King of France conducted a series of tests to determine the therapeutic utility of the use of "animal magnetism" also called "Mesmerism" on human health. The study itself is generally credited as being the first placebo controlled blind clinical trials. The Commissioners concluded that Mesmer's animal magnetism had no existence and that imagination, imitation, and touch were the true causes of the observed effects in the Mesmeric salon.

One infrequently cited (partly because it was secret and never published) addendum to the study expanded on the "touch" part of the Mesmeric protocol. Specifically, Mesmer was in the habit of stroking certain sensitive areas of many of his female patients, who then subsequently found themselves feeling much better. This was, as it happens, a centuries old technique for dealing with female "hysteria."

About one hundred years after the Royal Commission, the mechanical vibrator was invented, more or less as a medical labor saving device, because physicians were finding the manual stimulation of their patients very tiring. What the Commission wrote in 1784, "The more modest the women, the less likely they are to understand the reasons for these effects," applied even more strongly in Victorian times. Those who advocated "lie on your back and think of England" attempted to de-eroticize sex to the point of making an orgasm a medical procedure.

While it's tempting to ascribe all of this to simple misogyny, it's worth noting that male sexuality wasn't immune to pathological categorization. I have an old book (published in 1872) that I found in one of those weird bookstores that can sometimes be found in college towns (Troy, NY in this case), entitled The Transmission of Life, The Nature and Hygiene of the Masculine Function by one George H. Naphys, M.D. which has an entire chapter on the dread disease, spermatorhea, "the excessive and involuntary loss of the secretion peculiar to the male."

Dr. Naphys notes that this is actually a rare condition, and should not be confused with the occasional nocturnal emission or loss of the secretion "while straining at stool," He then goes on to use it in yet another warning against masturbation, of which there are many in the book.

Dr. Naphys was, in his own way, a modern, enlightened sort of fellow; elsewhere in the book he argues for co-education, for example. In writing about spermatorhea, he also warns against "itinerant practitioners" (quacks, in other words), who take advantage of the ignorance of some young men to sell them all sorts of treatments that basically are against having nocturnal emissions. One of the "cures" that is warned against is cauterization.

Damn, but I'm glad I was born in the latter half of the 20th Century.

Imagination

In 1784, a special Royal Commission of the King of France conducted a series of tests to determine the therapeutic utility of the use of “animal magnetism” also called “Mesmerism” on human health. The study itself is generally credited as being the first placebo controlled blind clinical trials. The Commissioners concluded that Mesmer's animal magnetism had no existence and that imagination, imitation, and touch were the true causes of the observed effects in the Mesmeric salon.

One of Mesmer's students, Armand Puysegur, later transformed Mesmer's ideas into what we now know as hypnotism. The reasons for the effects of hypnotism continue to be debated today, with some still holding the entire matter to be the effect of imagination and imitation.

Imagination is powerful stuff; I’ve noted before the insidious judgmentalism of the phrase “mere imagination.” Imagination is seldom “mere,” but it’s often misunderstood.

It’s also easy to overestimate the power of imagination, or even its nature. One gets all sorts of fallacious arguments in philosophy and political science that begin something like “I can imagine…” Imagine, for example, a zombie that behaves exactly like a real human being, but who lacks self-awareness and self-consciousness. That’s a real thought experiment that I’ve seen proposed. The problem is that I can’t imagine such a thing, and I don’t believe anyone else can, either. I can, however, imagine someone imagining that they imagine such a thing.

Imagination has all sorts of powers—in our imagination. But pinning down those imaginings, that’s something else again. Making imagination real, even as real as a work of fiction, that can involve some heavy lifting.

Moreover, most of our imaginings are second-hand or worse, composed of bits and pieces of pop culture images, forgotten memories, things we’ve seen or read, fairy tales told to us when we were young, and the sea spray of foam that has bubbled up from the id. Imagination rarely gives us a new primitive; try imagining a new emotion, or a new color, texture, or smell. I’ve described such things, or at least written words about such things, but I’d hate to be the movie art director given that charge.

Still, imagination is based on experience and that includes both real-world experience and the experience of being exposed to the imagination of others. A writer’s first attempts at fiction are almost invariably directly influenced by someone else’s fiction, usually a single someone else’s fiction. It’s only as we gain more experience that we learn to avoid flagrant copying by stealing from several sources. When we finally learn to steal from real life and make it sound as good as fiction, ah, then there’s progress.

There are those rare cases that seem almost sui generis. That narrative seems most often to follow the arc of the lonely child (though in the case of the Pangborn’s it was the lonely children), who begins to create an entire fantasy realm, a life-long work that consumes all life experience that is fed to it. The strange world of Henry Darger is one such example. Nearer to home is Paul Linebarger, aka Cordwainer Smith, whose Instrumentality stories took decades to tell.

Of course the “lonely child retreating into fantasy” is the story of many lives, most especially including science fiction and fantasy fans. There are, I think, few among us who do not attempt to create our own original works, but the task of writing fiction requires much more than imagination itself, just as the work of being a professional writer of fiction depends less on the quality of the fiction itself and more on perseverance and self-promotion. But that just says that, like everything else in modern life, success is primarily dependant on marketing.

I suspect that the popularity of role-playing games has a great deal to do with lowering the imaginative barriers-to-entry. It’s a lot easier to play a round of World of Warcraft than it is to write your own fantasy trilogy, or even a short story. Whether this adds up to a net plus or minus in the imagination department is an argument similar to whether television’s destruction of the radio play did a disservice to imagination. Eventually somebody gets to longing for the days of the bards, no matter what I happen to think.

But this is all rumination on the high side of imagination; I think it’s safe to say that anyone reading me is likely to have an above average fantasy life, just because of who reads this stuff and how they get here. But there is always another tail of any distribution.

In The Racist Mind, Raphael S. Ezekiel describes his ethnographic study of neo-Nazis and Klansmen in the late 80s and early 90s. He got to know a number of his subjects very well, a tribute to Ezekiel’s dedication to the anthropological approach to his work. He describes the “mental landscapes” of those he got to know as severely limited. Most of them were of low ambition and expectation, and had trouble conceiving of themselves in better circumstances. This echoes a review by SF Chronicle movie critic Mick Lasalle on “Get Rich or Die Tryin’,” the film debut of rapper 50 Cent:

“[T]he movie adopts no distance or irony, and has no point of view about life in the 'hood except Marcus' own. That perspective is limited. At one point, Marcus drives home in a new Mercedes he bought from dealing crack, as 50 comments in voiceover, "I had it all, but something was missing." He had it all? What did he have? He had no career, no purpose, no family, no education, no morality. He had a car.”

Stunted imaginations come from the same source as stunted bodies: the impoverishment of circumstances. We know a lot about physical nutrition, but we know little about what nutrients the imagination needs. It’s easy to imagine how a brutalized childhood can fill a child’s imagination with images of brutality, images that most children will try to shut down and deny. Their interior landscape becomes a desert, and only a rare few walk out of the desert with a higher calling.

But let’s not fall into the trap of thinking that brutality is limited to the physical and that impoverishment of the spirit is synonymous with monetary poverty. There are wealthy people who are as sick and twisted as any crack baby’s mother, and there are plenty of ways to brutalize that leave no marks.

So a sturdy few find themselves despite the aridity of their surroundings. Others make for the thin crack of light offered by the narratives available to them; they escape by talent, luck, and a tenacious grip on opportunity. The rest are easy prey for those selling soma, pleasant dreams, or at least a respite from the nightmares. They will follow other people’s dreams, substitute others’ wills for their own. I think that this is an important root of authoritarianism in our time, with those of stunted soul following the vampires that feed on them.

An overly poetic image perhaps, but then, I was lucky. My mother read to me when I was very young.

Pangborn

I hope to write some more about this in the future, but I've said that before, elsewhere, so don't hold your breath.

The background is this: my wife, Amy, performer, soft sculptor, puppeteer, storyteller, former librarian and inspiration for many a fictional character, used to be married to a fellow then named just Freff, now Connor Freff Cochran. Freff is something of a character himself, but this isn’t about that. A few years ago, Freff became Peter Beagle’s business manager, but this isn’t about Peter Beagle, either.

When Beagle was still a wunderkind, he made contact with Edgar Pangborn, author of Davy, Mirror for Observers, West of the Sun, etc. If you have not read those, it’s because you are young, or because you do not read science fiction. Trust me, science fiction readers Of a Certain Age, have all read Edgar Pangborn.

Edgar died too soon, in 1976, just short of his 67th birthday. He was survived by his sister Mary, with whom he had been very close all his life. Mary was both a chemist who worked for the State of New York, and a writer herself. Indeed, it was a literary family; their mother was Georgia Wood Pangborn, a popular writer of ghost stories and such, who appeared in Harpers, and other “slick” magazines in the first part of the 20th century.

Mary Pangborn lived until 2003. When she died, Peter Beagle became both her heir, and the executor of the literary estate of both Mary, Edgar, and presumably Georgia Wood.

The Pangborns’ literary files were the usual: a mess. The task of organizing and storage was contracted out to a librarian known to Beagle’s business manager, i.e. my wife Amy. So, for the past four years or so, we’ve been host to the Pangborn papers, some of them going all the way back to Georgia Wood. In fact, we have the original, handwritten manuscript of Georgia Wood Pangborn’s only novel, Roman Biznet, among other things.

There is, obviously, far more to all this than I can properly write about here. Eventually, I expect real scholars to have a field day. Until that happens, we keep the stuff safe, dry, and (all praises to Ho-Masubi and Pele, may they not visit us too harshly), unburned.

I can say this, however. There is one unpublished manuscript of Mary Pangborn’s, titled Friar Bacon’s Head, that would, in a just world, be published immediately. But I don’t have a good feel for the publishing world right now, other than to note that a single fantasy/romance by a dead author does not seem to be what publishers are looking for.

I can also say that a great amount of the Edgar Pangborn material is probably not very commercial, in any sense, now or ever. For that matter, I have my doubts that, for example, Mirror for Observers would pass muster on today’s publishing scene.

But, and this chills me to the bone, Edgar Pangborn’s published works are a small fraction of his written output, even granting that he rewrote incessantly. And he was one of our very best.

Wagstaff, Mapplethorpe, and Smith

In among our glamorous life of science, engineering, fiction and technical writing, street performing and puppet shows, and the occasional truck driving/running a thrift store gig, Amy and I do some transcription work. One of them was during the brief existence of Wired Television, and boy, did they pay through the nose for having a short deadline over a major holiday. Another was transcribing interviews for someone's thesis on the psychology of transgendered individuals and I will say absolutely nothing more about that. Whatever the legal limits of confidentiality, some people deserve an absolute respect for their privacy.

Then there was the one from a conference at The Foresight Institute on Nanotechnology, back when nanotechnology meant little robots that would make you immortal rather than carbon nanotubes.

There are also the video projects, which often involve me stripping the audio off of a videotape, then digitizing it so we can use the cool transcription software on it. It's still typing, not voice recognition, but being able to slow the thing down to match your typing speed (just one of the whizbangs for digital transcription software) is a godsend. The first one we did was for a documentary project on a group that tries to keep military recruiters out of high schools, so we got to see Cindy Sheehan before she became famous. I can report that, whatever else has happened to her since, the loss of her son was as devastating as you can imagine, and, as far as I'm concerned, she gets a free pass on anything she's done since then.

Then there was the documentary on Sam Wagstaff.

Wagstaff was the patron and lover of Robert Mapplethorpe, of whom I've written previously. In fact, and this is a little strange to me, recently the Mapplethorpe essay here is the single most viewed essay on this blog. Is there some art course that is studying Mapplethorpe now? Many and mysterious are the ways of Google.

Anyway, Amy did most of the video transcription and I did the timestamping. Having a timestamped transcript allows preliminary editing to be done without having to watch the video. It saves a lot of time, and when you're done, hey, great, you also have the transcript.

The documentary was called Black White + Gray, and it seems to have been quite a success, and good on James Crump, the director and the guy who hired us to do the transcription work. I haven't seen the film yet; I've just seen pretty much everything that went into it, which is weird, isn't it? I do recommend the trailers on the linked web site.

The New York Times review of the film notes:

In particular, Patti Smith, the poet and rock star, offers tender descriptions of her friendship with both men.

Ms. Smith’s friendship with Mr. Mapplethorpe began in 1967 when they were both art students at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. They were living together near the Chelsea Hotel in the early 1970s when Mr. Mapplethorpe first brought Mr. Wagstaff to meet her. “Sam came in and seemed totally at home in my mess,” she recalls. “We liked each other immediately. He had such a great sense of humor and had such a nonpretentious and nonsanctimonious spiritual air.”

Wagstaff was clearly a charmer, as the archive footage of him revealed. You can't help but like him in his interview with Dick Cavett and in the other footage of him in still earlier days. He charmed Mapplethorpe (though his wealth couldn't have hurt), and he charmed Patti Smith as well.

It's Patti Smith that was the revelation to me in viewing the raw video footage. I've been a fan of hers since the 1970s, of course, how could one not be? But seeing her in a simple setting, not performing, just reminiscing about those she loved, those who died, the expansiveness of her humanity seemed to flow from her like the wind from the sea.

I know I may being sappy here. But the only word that I could think of to describe her was "magnificent." The human race cannot be as vile as it sometimes seems, not when it can produce creatures as magnificent as Sam Wagstaff, Robert Mapplethorpe, and Patti Smith.

Inelastic Demand and the Extinction of Species

I thought I might describe an economic mechanism that works specifically toward species endangerment and extinction. That has to do with commodity price inelasticity.

Everyone remembers about price elasticity, right? Well, let’s review anyway.

The demand curve for a commodity is considered elastic if a certain differential percentage increase in supply results in a less than that differential decrease in price. Conversely, if a differential percentage increase in supply results in a greater than differential percentage decrease in price, the commodity is considered inelastic. These relationships also apply on the way down on the supply curve..

This relationship means that, for inelastic demand commodities, increases in total supply result in actual decreases in total income for all aggregated suppliers. For example, if a 1% increase in supply results in a 2% drop in price, all suppliers will receive only 1.01*0.98 income, i.e. slightly less than 99% of their original income. One frequently cited example is farm commodities. As food supplies grow, farmers as a whole receive less and less money. While this may be seen as bad by farmers, it positively benefits the nation as a whole, since less and less must be spent on food, which frees up resources for other things.

Now consider the converse case, where the supply of the commodity is decreasing. Under decreasing supply conditions, the share of gross national income that goes to the suppliers of that commodity increases, in both relative and absolute terms. Thus, it would pay suppliers as a whole to reduce the available supply.

This is the usual argument made against commodity monopoly: if a single (or small number) of suppliers can restrict supply sufficiently, it is possible to increase total income by producing fewer goods. Similarly, even if there are a large number of suppliers, a restriction in supply will actually benefit suppliers as a group. So, for example, minimum wage laws benefit low wage workers as a group, though it may penalize some low wage workers by reducing the number of jobs. The monetary loss from reduced jobs, however, will be less than the monetary increase due to increased wages. Similarly, farmers as a group are benefited by crop restrictions, such as tobacco and peanut allotments.

A naturally restricted commodity does not need a regulatory restriction to achieve monopolistic effects. In the case of a plant or animal species, especially one that is not domesticated, over-harvesting can reduce the future availability of that commodity to all suppliers. Thus, individual suppliers do not need to have price-setting power; all they need to do is to harvest as much as they are able. This results in a restriction of future supply, which leads to higher prices, which increases their own total income.

Presumably, at some point one reaches diminishing returns, where the commodity becomes a luxury good with a more elastic demand curve. However, by that time the species may be endangered, and any “fellow-traveler species” (think dolphins/tuna), may be extinct.

I am reasonably certain that this mechanism is at least as much responsible for the decline in world fish catches as the conventional “tragedy of the commons” phenomenon. In a “tragedy of the commons” scenario, privatizing the commons might have a useful effect. In an inelastic demand scenario, it would not help at all, unless there were a single private entity monopolizing all fisheries.

This, of course, is identical to the case of governments producing a regulatory agency, except that the benefits to private ownership accrue only to the owners of the resource.

TAWK

I've said before that I hate the word "meme," and viral isn't that far behind, but I wouldn't mind if this gets passed around.

I didn't have a favorite Beatle, so John Lennon wasn't my favorite. But I loved him in the way that one loves someone who gave so much to the world and, for that matter, me personally, if one's personal reaction to mass culture is personal, and I've lived my life as if it is. How different, and poorer, would the world have been without Lennon? We'll never know how much poorer the world is for our loss of him.

So I hated the guy, you know, the asshole who killed John Lennon. And one day, I realized that was the only way I was ever again going to refer to him: The Asshole Who Killed John Lennon. It is the only revenge I know how to take.

Part of the creepy little smile is the knowledge of the fame of notoriety. Kill someone famous and you become as famous as they are, if only for a moment, and you'll be famous forever, in some small way. Nobody plus Somebody equals…

Nobody.

The Oklahoma mall gunman is said to have wanted "to go out in style," and told someone that he'd soon be famous. Not from me, sport. Your name is now officially The Asshole Who Killed a bunch of people in Nebraska.

And hey, you, yes, you, 24 hour news cycle TV, print journalism, and every cash-in-on-the-carnage magazine and book publisher. You're just the gawkers at a car wreck. You slow down the traffic of important information to fill the channel with this crap, TAWK news items. People die every day, in all kinds of ways. Why is this kind of death news? Why are you feeding these assholes with exactly what they crave, attention?

And don't give me any crap about how people should be aware of "the warning signs." The "warning signs" amount to being upset and looking peculiar. Yeah, it's really helping the cause to turn every citizen into a spy, ready to turn in anyone with a mental illness, or a perceived drug habit, or a brush with the law. Yeah, we've got enough resources to watch every one of them.

Crap, I'm just glad that no one has figured out a way to put up instant billboards next to traffic accidents, extra premium if it was an injury accident, because blood on the pavement draws more eyeballs.

So screw TAWK John Lennon, and TAWK@ Virginia Tech and TAWK@ the Texas Tower, and all the rest of those losers who have tried to make losers of the rest of us. I'm just trying to maneuver as quickly as I can through the mess of gawkers at the fatality accident.

The Nashville YMCA - Photo

In Jamais Vu, I did some memory recovery on the Downtown Nashville YMCA of my youth. I also spent some time trying to locate a photograph of the building. This is the best I could find:

The black cube was, as I recall, a bank building that went up in the mid-60s, still shorter than the L&C Tower, although there was a building behind the camera (possibly from which this photo was taken), that was taller by the time of this photo in 1972.

The small bit of building you can see in the lower right corner is the roof of the Downtown YMCA.

The photographer was Charles W. Warterfield, and this image is part of a special digital collection of the Nashville Public Library.

The Right Tool for the Right Job

I led a highly compartmentalized existence in high school. At the Downtown Nashville YMCA I was a lifeguard, swam and wrestled competitively, did gymnastics, ran the track, lifted weights, and played pickup basketball. At Donelson High School, I was a dweeby little nerd, or, since those terms were not in use, a brain. Brains were considered to be non-athletic, and I fulfilled that stereotype to the extent that I just didn’t care much for competitive team sports, especially spectator team sports. So I didn’t go out for varsity teams (which would have meant after school practice that would have interfered with my trips to the Y), didn’t attend football/baseball/basketball games or the pep rallies associated with them. In gym class, while I wasn’t the last guy chosen, I wasn’t the first either, and I didn’t really care all that much.

Nevertheless, I did play the games, to the best of my abilities, which may have been why I slipped on the gravel when running to first. Later, there were some jokes about how it’s not correct play to slide into first, but at the time I think that the sight of blood temporarily suppressed the jokes.

And there was blood. We were all dressed in the standard gym attire: tennis shoes, gym shorts and t-shirt. I’d made a three-point landing, both knees and an elbow and they were bad scrapes. The blood began to trickle down my legs pretty much as soon as I stood up. Coach Ellis cocked his head in the direction of the school and said, “Come with me.”

We went to the School Nurse’s office, but she wasn’t there. So I dabbed away the blood, whereupon Coach Ellis took a bottle of iodine and proceeded to pour it directly onto the raw injuries.

I don’t remember if I whined, yelped, said “Oww” or what, but Coach looked at me directly and said, “You’re not real good at handling pain, are you, Pete?” (Note: I was “Pete” until I left Nashville to go to RPI).

I developed some impressive scabs, and I had to curtail swimming for a couple of weeks, but the scrapes healed up without scars, so all turned out okay.

Some twenty-odd years later, I attended my twenty year high school reunion. Not everybody I wanted to see was there, so I made a point of going out to visit Jim and Betty in LaVerne. Jim had been on the football team, so he knew the coaching staff better than I. At one point, he mentioned that he’d seen Coach Ellis a few months back and they’d gone out to have a few beers after work.

“Yeah,” said Jim. “He gave up coaching and went to work for a bank. It’s a lot more money than coaching high school, and he told me that he really enjoys his work.”

“So what does he do there?” I asked.

“He’s the loan foreclosure officer.”

“Oh,” I said, because there really wasn’t anything else to say.

Deck Us All with Boston Charlie

To get us in the holiday spirit.

The song “Vamp in the Middle” (from whose title I take the title of my short story in Helix) come from the album Aereo-Plain by John Hartford. There also appears on that album, this seemingly cryptic spoken-word piece, entitled “Station Break:”

Bill Randall 650, Dorothy S. Ma'm, the Axlewide and Peppermint Endurance Company in Bashful Johnny C, Home of the Grand Ol' Conglomeration, Fannie Hill University and the Bathtub of the South. It's 7:30.

Hartford was a Nashville disk jockey before he found fame and fortune as a singer song-writer, then respect as a flame keeper of “old timey” music, and finally death from non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma at 63, in 2001. The words to “Station Break” decoded:

Clear Channel 650, WSM, the National Life and Accident Insurance Company, in Nashville, Tennessee, home of the Grand Ol’ Opry, Vanderbuilt University, and the Athens of the South. It’s 7:30.

We geezers, of course, all know the Pogo example, sung by Albert Alligator, from which the title of this essay is taken:

Deck us all with Boston Charlie,
Walla Walla, Wash., an' Kalamazoo!
Nora's freezin' on the trolley,
Swaller dollar cauliflower alley-garoo!

Don't we know archaic barrel,
Lullaby Lilla boy, Louisville Lou?
Trolley Molly don't love Harold,
Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo!

The alternate version, somewhat rarer, was performed by Beauregard Chaulmoogra Frontenac de Montmingle Bugleboy, the dog/cop:

Bark us all bow-wows of folly,
Polly wolly cracker n' too-da-loo!
Hunky Dory's pop is lolly gaggin' on the wagon,
Willy, folly go through!

Donkey Bonny brays a carol,
Antelope Cantaloup, 'lope with you!
Chollie's collie barks at Barrow,
Harum scarum five alarum bung-a-loo!

Finally, I was recently moved to recover a memory of this pre-school version of The Pledge:

I pledge our Legions to the Flag, of the United Stakes of America. And Toothery Public for Richard Stands, one Nation, Undergod, Indy visible, with liver tea and just us, for all.

The name for this sort of thing is Mondegreen. Mondegreen's are usually supposed to be accidental, and the intentional versions above don't really pass the "sounds like" test of a true Mondegreen. I just wanted the Johnny Hartford thing to be documented, because apparently the CD/LP is rare, the lyrics hard to locate, and nobody else seems to know what they mean.

A Jack Bauer Moment

I don't watch 24. In fact, I cannot watch 24; I find it offensive beyond measure. It feeds into the idea of finding terrorists under every bed, and into the idea that just a little torture from the right man can make it all turn out okay.

As I note in the Author's Introduction, I wrote Dark Underbelly well before 9/11. It contained some of my notions about authoritarian states and what it can do to people, especially the best people. And, deep in the background, is a vision of an authoritarian state that is necessary, as necessary as the authority of a captain at sea, in vessel that has taken on water, and which only harsh and decisive leadership has a hope of saving the ship and those aboard her.

All this is through the opposite end of the telescope, of course. All you get to really see at first is the wreckage of one human life, someone permanently damaged and trying to act as if his every moment, waking or sleeping, is something other than a fight with himself and his own desire to end it all.

I'm pimping a little for the story at this point because there is now enough of it to grasp, and because the protagonist, Ed Honlin, has just maimed three men (who, at least, did not fail to deserve what was done to them), and has interrogated someone using methods that are, by any reasonable meaning, torture. He has threatened a man's life in order to obtain information.

Is this a paradox? Is this a "Jack Bauer Moment" and have I created just an SF version of 24?"

I do not think so, and I do not think that my reasons are rationalizations, but I recognize that this sort of scene might appeal to those who also find 24 appealing. Still, I know where my own inspiration came from, and a lot of it was Mickey Spillane, whom I have lauded before, and who was more sophisticated than usually given credit for.

Part of the distinction is pretty obvious: Mike Hammer and Ed Honlin (and Dave Robichaux and Matthew Scudder, to name others) are both in the "fallen knight" tradition. They are not government operatives—although Hammer gets what is basically a CIA ticket at one point, and Honlin is operating as a "special consultant" to the police. But no one is really fooled here. They are rogues.

But so was Dirty Harry, and you can still make that case for Jack Bauer. Sure. So the distance isn't that large, still, is it?

However, I will point to the important thing about Chapter 13 in Dark Underbelly, and that is this: very little information is gained in the interrogation. Honlin, the protagonist, is primarily verifying information that he already knew was there, and getting answers to questions that could have been answered by more conventional means. In short, he is terrorizing someone because he wants to, in fact, because he needs to, just as he needed to go out and find a fight in the previous chapter, entitled I'm from the Goddam Planet Krypton.

As I note in the Introduction, Something Very Bad happened to the protagonist before the book begins. It takes rather a long time to find out what happened, and for very good reasons. But there are other questions and other mysteries and other things to discover along the way. And because this is science fiction, rather retro science fiction at that, the protagonist is a wish fulfillment fantasy of a sort, but it is not a "happily ever after" fantasy, because that is not the kind I write. And anyone who thinks that Ed Honlin (or Mike Hammer, or—especially—Jack Bauer), is someone they'd like to be, or even emulate, is mistaking fantasy for reality, and I write the kind of fantasy that tries to make its position very clear, even when it is morally ambiguous.

Three Jokes

#1
Rene Descartes went out for a walk on a fine Parisian spring day. The air was sweet and warm, perfumed with flowering plants and the smells of baking along the boulevards. His stroll went on for some time, and he realized that he was beginning to feel the first pangs of hunger.

But Paris in spring is bountiful, and Descartes stopped into a sidewalk café. Again, the perfection of the day asserted itself. The bread was fresh and tasty, the wine was full-bodied without impertinence, and the pate seemed to melt into his hunger with barely any need for the rigors of digestion.

His appetite nearly sated, Descartes watched the crowd passing on the boulevard, his thoughts turning to philosophy and the graphical mathematics. So lost in thought was he that he almost did not notice the waiter’s return, and he had to ask the man to repeat the question. The waiter again asked if he wished to have dessert, there was a custard of which the chef was particularly proud.

“Yes, yes,” said Descartes. “That sounds excellent.”

“And will monsieur be having coffee with that?” inquired the waiter.

“I think not,” said Rene Descartes, who then disappeared.

__________________________

This is a fairly mild example of an elitist joke, an in-joke that can be told to strangers. If you don’t know that Rene Descartes famously wrote “Cogito Ergo Sum,” “I think, therefore I am,” the joke goes right over your head.

I once told this joke at a gathering of nurses at my in-laws' house; about a third of them laughed, and when I realized the exclusionary nature of the joke, I figured that I’d been ever-so-slightly rude. But I did notice that the laughter tended to be in two parts, the first part when the person laughed, and the second part being when they realized that not everyone had laughed, and what that meant.

___________________________
#2
An airplane leaving from Poland wound up in a storm over the North Atlantic. Everyone was terrified, as the plane was pitching and yawing, and the crew feared that it would break up at any moment. But one young student stood up and called to the passengers, on the right aisle to move across the aisle. The passengers were dubious but the student insisted. “Hurry,” he said. “Our lives depend upon it.”

The passengers complied and the shaking stopped. The plane righted itself, and made its way safely to its destination. Why do you think the student’s plan worked?

Because you need all the Poles on the left side of the plane for stability.

__________________________

That’s an engineering joke. If you’ve never worked with Laplace Transforms, it is almost completely unintelligible. If you’ve sweated through control theory, it can be hilarious. Really.

I was once at a small gathering of fans at the house of a well-known fanzine Editor, and he told that joke. There were no other engineers there, and he didn’t know I was an engineer until I stepped on the punch line. I more or less blurted it out; I hadn’t meant to ruin the joke, and, for that matter I didn’t, not exactly. Because no one else laughed, and no one else was going to laugh, no matter how well the joke was told, because no one else had the background, just me and him. He’d told the joke with every expectation that it would meet with blank stares.

He and I never got along. I have no idea if that incident had anything to do with it.
_________________________

Paul Zuber was a professor of urban studies at RPI, and a little googling finds that he now has an RPI scholarship named after him (he died in 1986). I had a course from him; I think it was Urban Engineering.

One class he reminisced a little about what it was like in the early days of desegregation at the college level and he told a story about it that wasn’t a joke, because he stepped on the punch line.

___________________________
#3
Two of the first southern collegiate athletics departments that were desegregated had a long standing football rivalry. One of them had a single black running back, while the other had two defensive tackles. During the big, annual matchup game, one play had the running back going straight down the middle, where he was cut down by the two tackles.

A loud voice went up from the stands, yelling…

______________________________

Paul then threw the joke away, saying that the voice yelled something to the effect of “get your blacks off of our black.”

I muttered, not quite under my breath, “That isn’t the way I heard it.”

The actual punch line is “Get those n-----s off our colored boy!”

Paul glanced over at me with a little smile and winked.

This joke isn’t a racist joke, of course; it’s a joke about racists. Wanda Sykes has a routine where she notes that the more championships Tiger Woods wins, the less black he is. My father-in-law tells a similar joke about a black college football star, who wins so much that by the end of the season it’s “Go, Dutch, go!”

One of the things I got to think about during my Urban Engineering course was the ways in which jokes can be a means of hidden communication, and how place of origin and shared witness can sometimes trump race in making, as opposed to breaking, connections.