The whammy, unpacked

Las Vegas: Shot August 14, 2010Las Vegas: Shot August 14, 2010Late last year a gang of far-flung sports-type writers and editors gathered donations from dedicated Kickstarterers and launched a site that, to date, has done a fine job sounding unlike any other sports journalism/opining in the blabberether. I'm biased toward The Classical in part because it has the boutique feel of a group of writers who are writing for one another, and it doesn't stop to overexplain jokes or to point at itself (WHOA, LOOK! THERE'S MY NAVEL AGAIN!) or really to screw around with much that its authors don't find compelling. The filthy secret of most journalism is that most of it is written by people who don't find the particular topic of the day of particular interest; I mean, what are the odds that every single piece of news fascinates its author? That is, unless you don't ask people to write stories that don't fascinate them. Then you might get original pieces on southeast Asian boxing camps and on Woody Paige's slackadaisical space-cadetism instead of the transactional minutiae that clogs most news feeds.

I'm biased toward the Classical, too, because it ran a piece of mine I'd been kicking around for a while: a look at intimidation, viewed specifically through the lens of "the whammy," a term that stood out to me in the Joseph Heller novel "Something Happened" when I read it in high school. The short version is, some jocks, like the office drones in Heller's book, leverage a bevy of psychological tactics to establish informal hierarchies. The point of doing this is to achieve power, and in sports, it's to better clobber people. If you can get the whammy on an opponent, my thinking goes, it's at least as good as being a step faster.

You can read the original piece here. I want to add that the sports psychologist I spoke with for the piece, Arnold LeUnes, who was quite gracious with his time, sent a coda that should append the piece. I posited that one feature of the whammy is to move an opponent's "locus of control" from internal to external. (This can inspire feelings of helplessness, which is quite a handy thing when you want to kick someone's ass.) LeUnes told me I overshot a bit on my descriptions of internal vs. external locus of control: "While there are some who have found a relationship between an external locus and depression, I am not sure that is a widely endorsed view among psychologists. It is quite adaptive in sports and life to remember that coaches, parents, police, professors, and priests all exert a lot of influence on our lives. An external locus can reflect an awareness of external influences and thus may be a good thing and actually a deterrent to depression. I am not saying that the relationship is not there, but I would not sell it quite as enthusiastically as you have. My 2 cents worth." So carry that in your pocket as you consider the whammy.

I'm also going to add below some of the essay's b-sides, at the unwitting suggestion of writer Patrick Hruby, who listed the whammy piece among his favorite sportswriting of 2011. Hruby wrote: "My only problem with this piece is that it wasn’t longer; I suspect a writer with more time and a bigger travel budget could dig up much more." I did find two other whammy depictions in the course of reporting, but they were discursive enough that they were dropped on the way to the final draft. Here they are:

The whammy is the necktie stain of sports; once you notice it, you cannot unsee it. When Notre Dame’s NCAA-record streak of 43 wins over Navy ended in 2007, Navy linebacker Matt Wimsatt’s post-game quotes were just caked in whammy. “I can’t wait to talk to everybody back home,” he said. “This is definitely bigger than just one football game.”

You can’t explain a number like 43 years as pure whammy. In most of those years, Notre Dame was demonstrably good and Navy was borderline to bad. I count only 14 years during that streak in which Navy even had a winning record. But in nine of those years, the Midshipmen had a final record equal to or better than the Irish, even with that annual matchup always going to the Irish. Even a nine-game win streak between two teams of similar capabilities is approaching whammy territory. Forty-three in a row is desperate.

When that streak finally broke, it took an eventual 8-5 Navy team three overtimes to beat an eventual 3-9 Irish team (coincidentally the worst team in South Bend since that 1963 squad that counted one of its two wins over a 9-2 Navy team, thus launching the streak). In 2008 the Irish beat Navy by 6, apparently righting the balance. Then, in 2009, a decent Navy team rolled into South Bend and beat a ranked Notre Dame squad that was favored by 11. In 2010, with the Irish favored by a touchdown, Navy drilled them by 18.

From 0-43 to 3-1. That’s not coincidence; it’s an exorcism.

***

In hindsight, so much of coaching seems aimed at getting athletes not to learn helplessness. Every great upset in history shows the fruits of that refusal, which is at the heart of avoiding the whammy. As soon as Goliath got his ass beaten at the line of scrimmage in the Valley of Elah, despite his prodigious whammy on the Israelites, coaches have tried to un-teach learned helplessness. The result is that 90 percent of coaching advice is just contra-whammy, trying to undermine doubt and instill bulletproof swagger. (The other 10 percent is partially coaches who do nothing but exert petty whammy-advantage over their players. LeUnes recalls an old A&M coach who treated his subordinates thusly and lost consistently. The coach’s successor remarked, upon taking over the program, that he’d never before seen such a collection of whipped dogs.) Quoth Mark Twain: “Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions.” The whammy corollary: Belittle your opponents’ ambitions.

Confidence is the anti-whammy. Whereas whammy inspires you not to bother, confidence is that quality that doesn’t care that you shouldn’t bother. It, like the whammy, is often irrational but feeds on the rational. Coaches love to talk about confidence, and to get their players talking about it. How better for a grown man to convince a bunch of college kids that running laps will give them magical powers?

John Wooden was just bursting with these hardwood fortune-cookie slogans — gleeful hatcheteer Tommy Craggs once called him a “cornpone oracle” whose every utterance “seemed destined to be cross-stitched on a throw pillow” — about tenacity, ability, hard work and a bunch of other yadda yadda meant to herd 6-foot-6, 20-year-old cats into making the extra pass. Yet we can turn to Wooden for insight into the whammy. Quoth the coach: “Motivating through fear may work in the short term to get people to do something, but over the long run I believe personal pride is a much greater motivator.”

The steps here for you, dear whammymaker, are plain. If you want to outplay or outcoach someone, instill in that person the opposite of what Wooden would want for them. The whammy knows this instinctually, and it attacks pride. One fine illustration of this comes to us via another Los Angeles icon, Marcellus Wallace, who owes his best lines to Quentin Tarantino. When he sits Butch Coolidge down to put the fix in, as Al Green croons in the background, he issues a full-blown whammy to the aging boxer:

Marcellus: I think you gonna find – when all this shit is over and done – I think you gonna find yourself one smilin’ motherfucker. Thing is Butch, right now you got ability. But painful as it may be, ability don’t last. And your days are just about over. Now that's a hard motherfuckin' fact of life, but that's a fact of life your ass is gonna hafta get realistic about. See, this business is filled to the brim with unrealistic motherfuckers. Motherfuckers who thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar? It does. If you mean it gets better with age? It don’t. ’Sides, Butch. How many fights you think you got in you anyway? Hm? Two? Boxers don’t have an old-timers day. You came close, but you never made it. And if you were gonna make it, you would have made it before now. (Holding out an envelope of cash.) You my nigga?

Butch: It certainly appears so.

Marcellus: The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fuckin' wicht you. Fuck. Pride. Pride only hurts. It never helps. You fight through that shit. ’Cause a year from now, when you kickin' it in the Caribbean, you gonna say to yourself, "Marsellus Wallace was right."

Butch: I’ve got no problem with that, Mr. Wallace.

Marcellus: In the fifth, your ass goes down. Say it.

Butch: In the fifth, my ass goes down.

Now, if you watch the scene unfold, Vincent Vega, clad in the UC-Santa Barbara Banana Slugs shirt he cribbed from Jimmy after a morning mopping up Marvin’s brains, ample-bellies up to the bar and gives Butch a hard look as the boxer orders a pack of smokes. Butch looks hard at Vince. “You looking at something, friend?” he says. Vincent corrects him: “You ain’t my friend, Palooka.” When he says it, Vince smacks his lips and lets his head sway a smidge, smug to the point of bratty.

Butch is thrown. “What’s that?” he says. Vincent replies: “I think you heard me just fine, punchy,” and leans forward a few inches.

They stare. Marcellus calls Vince away. Butch stays at the bar, and can only watch Vincent saunter off. For the aging boxer, unaccustomed to having paunchy goons meet his gaze a bar, Vince’s cockiness is an affront. Vince knows Butch has been bought, that he’s a puppet. It’s in this moment that, if I were to guess, Tarantino wants us to see Butch’s double-cross formulating. He’s deciding to reclaim his agency. He’s shaking off the whammy.

Except the whammy isn’t the removal of agency: Only physical domination can truly do that, which is why torture is dehumanizing. The whammy is in fact more seductive. It’s the invisible, weightless thing that sweet-talks the whammee to forfeit agency. It does this by promising defeat. In a certain state of mind and body, this is actually a soothing thought. It’s what Vince Lombardi warns against when he says fatigue makes cowards of us all. The whammy is there to punish struggle. And if I may veer androcentric: Men will recognize this condition as metaphorical castration. People use “testicles” as a metonym for gumption because if any body part is responsible for pushing men into and past situations in which the answer is “no,” it is his reproductive organs. Either sex may claim “backbone” or “intestinal fortitude” in place of “stones.” Yet, as I suspect the whammy is chiefly a phenomenon found in male-dominated hierarchies, we can draw a short line from saying “Green’s got the whammy on me” to saying “Green’s clipped my nuts.”

Actually, It's Perfectly Justifiable to Reject the Duggars' Nightmarish Version of Family Planning

Hillsboro, Tenn.: Shot June 16, 2009Hillsboro, Tenn.: Shot June 16, 2009
The normally sensible Mary Elizabeth Williams, of Salon, posted today an emphatic apologetic for the most fertile family in America, the Duggars. It caught me off-guard, because I thought it was fairly common opinion that their relentless drive to reproduce isn't exactly a terrific plan. Like the Duggars, I’m from northwest Arkansas, where we were reading about this sprawling family long before the rest of the country pressed against the glass to gawk at their reproductive prowess. When my mother sent word yesterday that they’re now expecting their t … w … e … n … t … i … e … t … h child, I wrote her back in a bit of a flurry:

Imagine if each of those kids went and took the same attitude toward reproduction as their parents:

One generation: 20 kids.
Second generation: 20 parents x 20 kids each = 400 grandkids
Third generation: 400 parents x 20 kids each = 8,000 great-grandkids
Fourth generation: 8,000 parents x 20 kids each = 160,000 great-great-grandkids
Fifth generation: 160,000 parents x 20 kids each = 3.2 million great-great-great grandkids (greater than the population of Arkansas)

Now, this assumes that in each of these generations, they continue to find people outside their family to marry. (Obviously when you have 160,000 distant cousins running around, some of these might cancel one another out.) Still, at this rate this family line alone would, assuming a 20-year generation, create a living family that surpasses the current population of China, Canada and California combined by the year 2130.

Aw, letters home to Ma! As admittedly cludgy as these calculations are, they're my attempt to wrap my head around such profligate babymaking. Williams skips that consequence of 20-child families in her piece, “Stop Judging the Duggars,” which carried the infinitely charitable deck, “So what if they're expecting again? A family of 20 is just another side of reproductive choice.” Williams is justified in defending the family against some of the nastiest of the Internet slimers who make cracks about Mrs. Duggar’s anatomy and about the family generally. The Duggars are people, after all — a lot of people, at that — and while the parents are clearly not interested in availing themselves of the advances in modern contraception that have been made over the past 10,000 years, their kids still deserve to be able to Google themselves.

But as we pass 7 billion people on this increasingly hot, increasingly crowded blue marble of ours, this quibble about multiplying the species isn’t academic. It’s one of the great tasks facing humanity: Where in the hell is everyone going to live, and what are they going to eat? What pressures will those demands put on ecosystems, on farmland, on water supplies? What weaker nations will succumb to poverty and war as stronger nations take those essentials by force? Williams would probably not be so amenable to a family famous for driving a singularly spectacular monster truck that got one mile to the gallon. So why’s she feeling so charitable toward a family intent on putting 20 (or 400 or 8,000) more cars and trucks on the roads?

To put it as lightly as possible: We owe the continued existence of human civilization as we know it to the fact that the Duggars do not represent the mainstream of family planning. It's very healthy to acknowledge this fact. You just don't have to act the thorough jackass in doing so.

For a consideration more sober than the Duggars’ on how parents will determine the fate of the frickin’ world, please read Bill McKibben’s essay “The Case for Single-child Families,” about his decision, rooted in considerations of faith and geography alike, to get a vasectomy after his first child. We'll close here with an excerpt:

The beginning of Genesis contains the fateful command, repeated elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, to "be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth." That this was the first commandment gave it special priority. And it was biological, too, a command that echoed what our genes already shouted.

But there is something else unique about it—it is the first commandment we have fulfilled. There’s barely a habitable spot on the planet without a human being; in our lifetimes we’ve filled every inch of the planet with our presence. Everywhere the temperature climbs, the ultraviolet penetrates more deeply. … There’s not a creature anywhere on earth whose blood doesn’t show the presence of our chemicals, not an ocean that isn’t higher because of us. For better and for worse, we are everywhere. We can check this commandment off the list.

And we can check it off for happier reasons as well. There’s no denying that we’ve done great environmental damage, but it’s also true that we’ve spread wondrous and diverse cultures, full of love and song, across the wide earth. We should add a holiday to the calendar of every church to celebrate this achievement.

But when you check something off a list, you don’t just throw the list away. You look further down the list, see what comes next. And the list, of course, is long. The Gospels, the Torah, the Koran and a thousand other texts sacred and profane give us plenty of other goals toward which to divert some of the energy we’ve traditionally used in raising large families, goals on which we’ve barely begun. Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, comfort the oppressed; love your neighbor as yourself; heal the earth. We live on a planet where 3 billion people don’t have clean water, where species die by the score each day, where kids grow up without fathers, where violence overwhelms us, where people judge each other by the color of their skin, where a hypersexualized culture poisons the adolescence of girls, where old people and young people need each other’s support. And the energy freed by having smaller families may be some of the energy needed to take on these next challenges. To really take them on, not just to announce that they’re important, or to send a check, or to read an article, but to make them central to our lives.

Class, Reunion

Perryville, Arkansas: Shot May 21, 2010Perryville, Arkansas: Shot May 21, 2010The 10-year reunion this weekend at Northwestern University underscored a few things about the college experience that awkward, arbitrarily spaced group gatherings have a way of bringing into focus. Herewith, a few:

• June of 2001 was possibly the strangest time in the past 50 years in which to receive a college degree. George W. Bush was still a compassionate conservative, the World Trade Center towers were comfortably vertical, there was no war in Afghanistan … and within six months, the '90sesque world we prepared for had rejoined history.

• No one looks the same after 10 years. We’re fatter, greyer, wrinklier, splotchier — and calmer. More confident. Better-acquainted with successes and failures alike. Whole people, in many regards. Yet certainly none the comelier.

• Football’s a nice centerpiece to a reunion weekend. But it can’t be the only reason people come back to visit the university. Northwestern (and other major research institutions) find they typically have far lower alumni giving rates than liberal arts schools. One reason, I venture, is that big research institutions have no ostensible raison d'etre other than to make their matriculants employable and get them into law/med/business schools. It’s a mechanistic approach to education, and uninspiring. They’d be better off setting out to sculpt and equip the next generation of troublemakers, hellraisers, firebrands and malcontents.

Of course, I’m the fink who inadvertently assisted in turning my j-school graduation into a circus that the Chronicle of Higher Education later saw fit to cover. And even I donate to the school these days. So what do I know.

On Gene Sharp and Alfred Nobel's peace

Manchester, Tennessee: Shot June 14, 2009Manchester, Tennessee: Shot June 14, 2009
. . . . . . . . . . . .

I know it’s just one cryptic article, but there were enough hints dropped in this Associated Press interview with the chairman of the Nobel Peace prize committee that I believe it could just wind up being one of my intellectual heroes, the nonviolence theoretician, historian and back-seat activist, Gene Sharp.

Here’s what the AP reported:

STRASBOURG, France (AP) -- This year's Nobel Peace prize winner is "obvious," the chairman of the prize committee says, and he's surprised that "commentators and experts" haven't picked up on it.

With upheaval in the Arab world and Europe's spiraling debt crisis among the top issues in a turbulent year, Thorbjoern Jagland didn't name the much-anticipated winner who will be announced Friday in Oslo.

But in an interview Wednesday with The Associated Press, Jagland did give a few clues into the thinking of the Norwegian Nobel Committee that awards the prize.

The deadline for nominations was Feb. 1, and committee members could add their own suggestions until Feb. 28. Jagland said it was "not necessarily" too late for consideration of leaders of the Arab Spring revolutions, which toppled Tunisia's longtime autocrat in January and then spread from there.

"We saw many of the (Arab Spring) actors at the time, but that doesn't mean that the prize goes in that direction, because there are many other positive developments in the world," he said.

"The most positive development will get the prize," Jagland said. "So I'm a little bit surprised that it has not been already seen by many commentators and experts and all this because for me it's obvious."

Who the hell knows what “obvious” means. If you look at this odds chart (bless the British, that nation of degenerates) it would seem that “obvious” is Burmese opposition politician and activist Aung San Suu Kyi, who already won a Nobel in 1991. Second on the list is Sima Samar, a human rights advocate in Afghanistan. Sharp is somewhat further down the list.

From my admittedly narrow perspective, Sharp makes an ideal candidate. He refined his analysis of past nonviolent struggles into slender volumes that operate as handbooks for revolt: “From Dictatorship to Democracy” is the gold standard; the subtitle on his 2009 book is “A Guide for Strategic Planning for Action to End a Dictatorship or Other Oppression.” Translated versions of these guides have been shown to influence just about every successful nonviolent and popular uprising of the past quarter-century, at least. For a primer on Sharp, check out this Wall Street Journal profile of him from 2008 and this New York Times piece from earlier this year, when it became clear that the Arab Spring, like the Colour Revolutions before it, were following tactics and patterns described and prescribed by Sharp. A documentary on his work and the ripples it has had on this extraordinary 2011 is just out: “How to Start a Revolution,” by Ruaridh Arrow, posits that Sharp’s recipe for nonviolent revolution is now the dominant approach in overturning dictators today.

Sharp is famous for having distilled the history of nonviolence into a list of 198 discrete varieties of action (although when I met with him last year, he deflected some credit for that catalog by pointing out it’s almost certainly incomplete, now almost 40 years after its creation). That he’s an American is a relief to anyone concerned that America’s projection of power worldwide is primarily via predator drones and SEAL teams. Truly his philosophy is one America was founded upon: that all political power rests ultimately with the consent of the governed, and that dictators, of any size or stripe, can only achieve what their minions carry out. The greatest force for peace in the world may then be sheer disobedience, and in Sharp, resistance has not only its muse but its architect. I wish him luck this Friday, betting odds be damned.

Tarry Nights, City Lights

Suncor Athabasca Tar Sands Operations: shot May 21, 2011Suncor Athabasca Tar Sands Operations: shot May 21, 2011

One of the major advantages student life has over real life, whatever the hell that is, arrives around May and tapers off circa late August or early September. It’s an annual epoch that most people know from childhood as “summer vacation” for so many years that “summer” and “vacation” become synonymous. Kids don’t understand the meaning of the word “vacation” so much — or, at least, we didn’t in my house, where out-of-state trips were rare, camp was something the church crowd did, and I got to see salt water exactly once, during a road trip to Pensacola, before the age of 13. My parents were self-employed, which translates to “always working,” and most of that just to keep a roof overhead and cereal in the pantry. The summer for us, the vacation, was for departures less outward than inner — for reading books and rotting our brains on Nintendo and firing guns and home-making fireworks and watching gameshows and picking ticks out from the waistband of your briefs after a day in the woods. It wasn’t until God invented the driver’s license that summer took on different shades of freedom, but by then, it was a short hop to the perpetual year, in which vacation was haggled for and wrested from employers who would count the very hours of your life and expect you to explore on your own time. The pity of that approach is that there are more corners of the planet than days in which to see ’em. Imagination needs fuel. For that, you gotta leave the office.

So last summer it was a migration from Arkansas to Vancouver (required road miles: 2,200; road miles driven: 6,400). This summer started with a 1,000-mile drive from Vancouver east to Calgary, then north to Edmonton and Fort McMurray, Alberta, the capital of the tar/oil sands development (above) that’s going to keep North America snuggly in carbon-laden fuel long after we should have been forced to come up with better ideas; then back to Vancouver, to Seattle, by air to Oakland, then to Arkansas, then to New York. There I couch-surfed through a monthlong stint on the Times’ video desk before flying back west for Year 2 of grad school. Between May 1, when my previous Vancouver lease ended, and Sept. 6, when I found a new home, I slept in 20 different beds and paid six weeks’ worth of rent. It wouldn’t have been possible if I didn’t know generous, beautiful people scattered across the continent.

The clips that came out of this gallivanting were, per usual, unpredictable. Here’s an example of the sort of thing I was helping with at the Times. In the leadup to the 10th anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001, I assisted the videographer Dave Frank through five shoots of various artists who responded to 9/11 in some fashion. I was responsible for the rough cut of three of those pieces, and after further edits these two emerged most like the draft I put down:

And then there was this piece, for Grantland, about the Calgary Stampede, an event I frankly doubted I’d ever get to attend (too far north) but which, to my humble shock, was actually on my way back to Vancouver (hot damn, straight south!) from the hinterlands of upper Alberta. The final piece came out shorter than I sent it, and one scene in particular I was sorry to lose, because it felt so Stampedey to me. My friends Calyn and Dan and I were knocking back beers in a ginormous tent/venue called Nashville North on the Stampede grounds, mostly feeling three-dude awkward in the midst of this rompin’, stompin’, pearl-snappy country party going on around us. It was too loud to make casual conversation, and none of us were carrying any inclination to have a yell-session with strangers. So we were mostly just schlubbing it, ruminating on how funny it was that all the professional rodeo cowboys we’d interviewed were humble, while all the cowboy hangers-on and hangers-out were nothing more than douchebags from smaller towns, guys clearly as obsessed with image and status as any urban twerp, but with chips on their shoulders to boot.

Actually we were trying to come up with another setting in which a major North American city (population of metro Calgary: 1.3 million, just shy of actual Nashville) turns itself over to cowboy culture for an entire week. Everyone in jeans. Everyone in boots. Everyone in wide-brimmed hats. It works out to a rather large tribute to all things country. That’s when Dan noticed a girl dancing beside us. She was wearing a feather on one earring and a patterned sun dress, and was mouthing the lyrics to the Zac Brown Band’s “Chicken Fried” (which at that moment was drowning out much hope of conversation) while letting her hands surf above her head. He asked her, sort of redundantly, “Do you like this song?”

Then a guy standing beside her stepped up to us and got snitty. “Do you think any of these three guys can saddle a horse?” he asked the girl and her friends, yelling. We were struck dumb. He was a wiry, sharp-faced young man in a red western shirt, with chin whiskers and cluttered teeth both a shade of dirty blond. He had pegged us, not unfairly, as city mice. He jabbed a finger toward at each of us in turn. “Can you?” he asked me, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Can you? Can you?” He spun, herded his lady friends ahead, and barked to us, with no hint of apology, “Sorry.”

We stood and looked at one another. I was more amused than anything — we had just been talking about these very poseurs! — but Calyn was sore: “I’ve saddled a horse. I should have put him in his place.” Out of sheer surprise or maybe a bit of stoic cowboy code, we lived out our indignity in silence. Blake Shelton’s “Kiss My Country Ass” came on, and the whole place sang along: “You can find me in my camouflage hat / My T-shirt an' cowboy boots / If that don't fit your social class / You can kiss my country ass.” We hung around, finished our beers, and gathered ourselves to head to the train. Outside, rain fell on a Tender Beef stand. I took this crappy picture of it because, well, sometimes you know this is where a story will take a breath, or maybe come to rest altogether.
Calgary, Alberta: shot July 10, 2011Calgary, Alberta: shot July 10, 2011

Hubris, justified

Cypress Mountain: shot March 27, 2011Cypress Mountain: shot March 27, 2011The signs posted at the border when you drive into British Columbia dub this province "The Best Place on Earth." It's the cockiest slogan anywhere outside of South Dakota calling itself "The Sunshine State." But on certain days, when a couple of bridges, a winding mountain pass and a few ski lifts are all that separate the heart of Vancouver from this ridiculous view, the boast seems modest, for it does confine its scope to a single planet.

Ah, science

Eugene, Oregon: Shot Dec. 18, 2010Eugene, Oregon: Shot Dec. 18, 2010

If only we could abandon the conceit that teaching Biblical estimations on the origins of everything belongs anywhere near a science classroom. Kids might as well watch "Star Wars" in our international studies class, or read "The Joy of Cooking" in archaeology.

Quoth the inestimable Wikipedia's entry on "Science," and by extension its myriad editors since it began in October of 2001: "Science (from the Latin scientia, meaning 'knowledge') is an enterprise that builds and organizes knowledge in the form of testable explanations and predictions about the world."

Evidence grounded in faith is untestable. It is not scientific. But gather 'round, and we'll discuss the rules of badminton to prep for our trigonometry midterm.

Bayh and the top fiftieth

Tupelo, Mississippi.: Shot May 30, 2010Tupelo, Mississippi.: Shot May 30, 2010

Evan Bayh, the recently retired Indiana Senator, has taken a thumping this week from the likes of the WaPo’s Ezra Klein and Salon’s Alex Pareene for his life after Congress: not as a professor or philanthropist, as he'd predicted, but as a lobbyist and Fox News cast member.

The latter is a depressingly suitable job for a man who has proven, at least on one occasion, to grease up the truth a bit before rolling it out on cable. Far as I know, nobody called out Bayh for a fact he mangled during an appearance on MSNBC last year, but it’s never too late to start.

On Sept. 13, Bayh went on MSNBC to argue against the expiration of the Bush tax cuts, saying that we need to focus on growth. As evidence for this view, he stated that the top 2 percent of earners, who would stand to pay more if the tax rates revert, "account for 30 percent of consumption." (1:15 mark on)

I sputtered when I saw it, yet the hosts said nothing. The big tell in this isn’t the lunatic ratio of earning to share of the economy, exactly; it’s that Bayh conflates income with consumption. The top 2 percent might earn 30 percent of the nation's income but the Bureau of Labor Statistics shows that people who earn that much tend to spend far less of their annual income than poorer people do (on the order of half).

I called Bayh's office in the fall to ask whether he had a source for his could provide a source. A press officer there took my digits, but I never heard back from him. I suspect it’s because there is no accurate source for those numbers. If anyone does knows otherwise, HMU.

Here's why I think he's off, and substantially. A Wall Street Journal story last summer quoted another Democrat arguing for extending the tax cuts:

"I think given the fragility of the recovery, the timing is wrong for any kind of tax increase of this nature," Rep. Gerry Connolly (D., Va.) said. "I know that puts me out of step with many in my own caucus, but it's important for members to remember the top 5% [of earners] generates 30% of consumer spending."

That the top 5 percent (not 2) generates 30 percent of consumer spending seems more in line with reality (see fig. 2 in this 2006 paper). But I don't believe people in those brackets don't actually consume anywhere near their income levels relative to lower earners. Compare the lines "income after taxes" and, a bit further down, "average annual expenditures" on these two .pdf charts from 2008: normal-people income vs. made-good-choices-and-caught-some-breaks income.

It's evident, looking at those figures, that people in the lower brackets are spending nearly everything they take in. Intuitively, too, that makes sense: A family making $30,000 and a family making $300,000 pay the same amount for a gallon of gas, for a 12-pack of Bud, for a hot shower, for a movie ticket, for a large Domino's pizza. Accordingly, people making more than $150k a year are only spending about half of what they have left after taxes. (This is, of course, why they are rich. They spend less than they earn.) Bayh’s argument is specious on several levels. Tops is the implication that high earners are proportionately high consumers, when in fact the rich manage to sack away well more than the rest of us.

Bayh's line was brief, and perhaps innocuous, but the fact that he's conflating consumption (in the name of economic activity) and income does not seem, to me, accidental: He's rounding greatly in his favor, to the point that he virtually writes the counterargument to his point. A 2 percent that can afford to chug one-third of the economy would seem to be in fine position to also chip in for these these enormous loans the U.S. is taking out to help run this semi-functional modern economy of ours.

Of Flourishes Intended and -Un


This week, when writing a review of the Sylvain Chomet animated feature “The Illusionist,” it occurred to me the difference between Pixar-style animation and traditional hand-drawn animation lies largely in the level of spontaneity the latter allows. It’s not just in the storytelling, but in the application of the actual physical image to a surface. For as much as I fuss over the masonry of writing — each word a discrete unit plucked from a finite galaxy, eyeballed, blown off, polished on my shirttail and then nested among its cousins — I lightheart giddythump at spontaneous imagery. Anything arranged may be arranged a second time, or a third; anything captured at the moment of inspiration owes only to the moment. Every moment dies as surely as a living thing. Moreso than a "The Lacemaker""The Lacemaker" glossy Buzz Lightyear conceived on a Mac hard drive, the look of watercolor and pencil on a screen gives me more of a feeling of shared experience with humans.

Vermeer plays with that contrast in “The Lacemaker.” Across 98 percent of his canvass, the old Dutch master arranges each brushstroke with the care of a surgeon. Yet compare the divine filament of thread the woman draws through her work with the smattering of thread that suppurates from her kit. The red and white of that thread isn’t purely Vermeer’s intellect. Rather, it is a moment at which he gave his wrist permission to feel for him what that thread should be. Every time I see this painting, that gout of red strikes me like a yowl in a chorale. The rest of the painting is Vermeer for the ages; that burst of color is Vermeer at that single, defiant heartbeat. Had he painted that thread five minutes later, how different it might have been.

All of this is entree to a few snapshots a friend of mine sent me of the solar cells she’s painstakingly nurturing on the way to a chemistry Ph.D. By way of description, I’ll include excerpts of our Google chat on the photos. They, too, are evidence that some of nature’s finest images owe to marvelous happenstance, and a willingness to accept time and events as they find us.


me: It's like the eye from "Lord of the Rings" crossed with a pile of marijuana.
Laura: i know, right! the pot of mordor. our best guess: a skin cell that acted as a nucleation site
me: Whoa.
Laura: pretty freakish

me: So a skin cell falls on your solar cell ... and what happens?
Laura: creates a big defect. the first pic is of the MOSFET; the 3 gold rectangles are gold contact electrodes.

the second is a pn junction solar cell; the "fish bone" pattern is also a gold conducting contact. the third is of an array of MOSFET devices (the far away shot of image 1) on a probe station.

as for the defects...not entirely sure how they form. or what they are.
likely our solvents didn't evaporate off the area, and burrowed in during heating or casting an overlay. in general, where the eye of mordor arises, you have a worthless cell. ah, and the overlay grid is 70x70 microns, to give you scale
me: Holy shit. How big is that? Period-sized?
Laura: you wouldn't be able to clearly see a period that size. it's around the width of human hair.

Fight AIDS, not drug users

Rural Montana: Shot Aug. 24, 2010Rural Montana: Shot Aug. 24, 2010
I don't do this often, but I'm writing here to stump for something. I want you to take 30 seconds and go sign the Vienna Declaration, because I think it's important and I think if enough people do it, we might make a dent in our expensive, destructive drug policies. So you can do that right here. (In fact, go ahead and do that, please.) Then I want you to invite more people to sign. It's free, it's fast, it's easy.

Now. If you haven't signed, here's my spiel. The very short version is, Sane drug policy fights AIDS. The longer version is longer.

I know a couple back in Arkansas – nice folks with cute kids – who used to cook a lot of meth. They decided it wasn't the best career path once they became parents, but when they talk about those days, you get the sense that they miss the life, at least a little. They were skinny. They were productive. They turned into chainsmoking paranoiacs, but really, when your cheekbones are jutting out fetchingly and you get to clean your truck at an empty carwash at 3:30 a.m. because you're obsessive and insomniac, a smidgen of cardiovascular damage seems a low price to pay, no?

I'd sooner drink a highball of kerosene than smoke meth. But it's fascinating to me that some people disagree, and ingest a recipe that calls for hydrochloric acid. Drug preferences are personal and yet do follow some predictable trajectories. You probably scratch your itch with some socially acceptable fix – nicotine, caffeine or alcohol. You have also, guessing by the latest surveys, probably broken a law by using other drugs – marijuana, prescription drugs, mushrooms or coke. You likely did so without any overriding concern that you would be arrested, though the potential was there.

You probably haven't injected yourself with heroin, other opiates or cocaine, though worldwide there might be 16 million or so who do. People who do undertake a great deal of risk. They risk becoming zombified addicts. They risk getting sick from the fillers that dealers use to cut those drugs (I'm told baby laxative is common in heroin). They risk imprisonment, they risk physical violence, they risk hepatitis, and worse. As a group, intravenous drug users account for perhaps 10 percent of the world's 33 million HIV cases.

Downtown Eastside Vancouver: Shot Sept. 8, 2010Downtown Eastside Vancouver: Shot Sept. 8, 2010The risks are enormous, but most of those users are self-medicating in some fashion, just as you and I do. Only they do it to a degree many of us would call suicidal.

But it's not the same as suicide. It's reversible. People come back from heroin addictions. It happens all the time.

On Tuesday, I was at Insite, the Vancouver facility where users can shoot up under the watch of a medical staff. Europe has several safe-injection (or supervised-injection, if you prefer) facilities; Insite is the only one in North America. Now, Insite doesn't hand out drugs, so you gotta BYO. A friend of mine sent an exchange she had with her brother who wrote that “Vancouver administers opiates to its vast population of addicts” – which, though a common misconception, is pretty far from the truth. What you can get, free, is sterile paraphernalia, a working sink, a tourniquet. You're not using pothole puddlewater to cook your hit, as a professor of mine has witnessed. You're not sharing needles. You're not shooting up around people who will rape you or rob you once you're high. You're not going to die from an overdose: Insite to date has resuscitated everyone who has OD'ed there. What you do get is a clean, well-lighted place to do your business, and maybe get some medical care. And you get to go where everybody knows your name. That's important. Because when you decide you're tired of being high all the time, you can walk in and say, “I want to talk about getting clean,” which I saw a young man do on Tuesday morning. And they can connect you to social services that specialize in dealing with drug users – something not everyone in the medical or social welfare is willing to do.

Maybe, too, when you come back from addiction, you won't have shredded your veins. Maybe you won't have hep C. Maybe you won't have AIDS.

Then again, maybe you will. HIV is sexually transmitted, but it moves even quicker via dirty needles. This should concern everyone. You, I and everyone we know are six degrees from Kevin Bacon, and I think it's a fair assumption that he has had sex with a drug user. Frankly we're all in a big planetary orgy here, and at least 3 million of the people at the party have shown up with HIV only because they didn't have a clean needle.

I'm not trying to be flip. You have a stake in this, even beyond the duty to watch over the most vulnerable among us. Think about the issue without the moral baggage we bring to discussions of drug use. Don't think of Insite as a hard-drug rec room, or even as a drug treatment center. It's neither. It is much more accurately described as an infection- and violence-prevention facility.

Insite is just one way to address the big problem. The war on drugs is a fiasco. I say that in the company of such reactionary leftists as the U.S. Conference of American Mayors (“the war on drugs has failed”), former presidents of Brazil, Mexico and Colombia (“The war on drugs has failed. And it's high time to replace an ineffective strategy with more humane and efficient drug policies,” in the Wall Street Journal), U.S. Drug Czar Gil Kerliokowske (“[I]t has not been successful”) and at least 65 percent of Americans.

So here's why the Vienna Declaration is worth a glance. It's a call by leading AIDS and public health authorities to recast drug policy to account for the massive harm that drug prohibition wreaks. It calls for science, not ideology, to drive drug policy. It has a whole slew of endorsements from organizations and scientists and Nobel laureates. It aims to carry the weight of those endorsements, including yours, to the next International AIDS Conference, in 2012, in Washington D.C. It looks for ways to keep the stigma of drugs from overriding our better judgment.

Can it shift American policy? Hell, why don't we find out?
Eastern Oregon: Shot Aug. 22, 2010Eastern Oregon: Shot Aug. 22, 2010