The Patent System Isn't Broken - We Are

[ed.  Two patent articles in one day (you might conclude that I've been sensitized to patent and copyright issues lately, and you would be right - see the Note and Interesting Article link on the sidebar).  But, wow, this article is impressive.  Great essay on the history, function and use of patents and how they affect intellectual property and technical innovation.]

by Nilay Patel

There is a fundamental problem with patents in the United States.

It is us.

By that I mean all of us: the companies and people who directly interact with the patent system, the media that reports on those interactions, the analysts and experts who inform the media, and finally the large, active, and vocal readership that we try and service with our reporting. As a group, we have accepted and let lie the lazy conventional wisdom that the patent system is broken beyond repair, a relic of a previous time that has been obsoleted by the rapid pace of technical innovation, particularly in software, and that it should perhaps be scrapped altogether.

In the past few months, this rhetoric has grown to a furious roar, as the patent system seems to be affecting more and more of the technology industry in a negative way: small mobile app developers have been targeted with spurious lawsuits from companies that make nothing, major players like Apple, HTC, and Samsung are locked in patent-related litigation, and a pair of multibillion-dollar patent auctions has sparked an unprecedented war of words between Microsoft and Google. The most passionate critics loudly argue that whatever benefits our current patent system might offer have now been exceeded by its costs; that resources that should otherwise go to the development of new ideas are instead being misspent on the overzealous protection of the old.

This line of thinking has been so forcefully and insistently repeated that it has become almost axiomatic, an intellectual and rhetorical cheat that is rarely (if ever) questioned. But it’s also wrong — painfully wrong, in ways that sabotage any real attempt at reform. Being loud and angry is a great way to get attention, but it’s a terrible way to actually get anything done — especially since most of the emphatic chest-pounding sounds like a slightly dumber version of an argument we’ve been having in this country since Thomas Jefferson was appointed the first head of the Patent Office.

So let’s start over, shall we? Let’s actually look at how the patent system works, where it’s specifically malfunctioning, and how we can fix it. Ready? Let’s go.

The patent exchange

The core public policy behind the patent system is widely ignored, even though it’s extremely simple and really quite clever. Patents are more than just a simple incentive for people to develop new inventions — they’re actually an exchange between inventors and the public. In exchange for a time-limited monopoly on their inventions, inventors must fully disclose the invention itself in the patent specification, and agree to release their work into the public domain once their monopoly runs out. The rules for disclosure are laid out in 35 U.S.C. § 112, and they’re fairly strict: the specification must be detailed enough so that anyone with “ordinary skill in the art” of the invention can build the claimed technology, and they must also disclose the “best mode” of building the invention. Breaking the rules can have severe consequences, since a patent that doesn’t adequately disclose the claimed invention can be ruled invalid. And since patent specifications fall into the public domain once the patent expires, we get a huge and constantly-growing vault of fully-disclosed technology that anyone can use to build new products.

Let’s think about what that means in practice. Here’s US patent #6,285,999, which is Larry Page’s patent on PageRank, the core algorithm that powers Google search. Because getting a patent means Page had to fully disclose the technology, we can go right ahead and look at some of the math behind one of the most important and disruptive inventions in the history of the world.

(Remember, this isn’t what’s actually patented — it’s just the required specification that supports the patent claims.) Because getting a patent means accepting a time-limited monopoly on your invention, anyone will be able to use this specification to build their own search engine when the patent expires in 2018. In the meantime, you’re free to look at Google’s work and attempt to design around the specific claims in the patent. That’s an important way the patent system encourages innovation, actually: it forces inventors to build alternative ways to do things. You can bet Microsoft’s Bing team has spent hours studying the PageRank patent in an attempt to build something that works differently — and hopefully better.

Seu Jorge

[ed.  Sorry, no video, but this has the best sound quality.  David Bowie's Rebel Rebel.  Why does everything sound more sensuous in French?]

Inside Pfizer's Palace Coup

by Peter Elkind and Jennifer Reingold

For Jeff Kindler, it was a humiliating moment. The CEO of Pfizer, the world's largest pharmaceutical company, had been summoned to the airport in Fort Myers, Fla., on Saturday, Dec. 4, 2010, for a highly unusual purpose: to plead for his job.

Three stone-faced directors, representing the company's board, sat inside a drab airport conference room as the CEO, trained as a trial lawyer, struggled to argue his most important case. Alerted to this meeting less than 24 hours earlier, Kindler detailed his accomplishments, speaking nonstop for the better part of an hour. He touted his bold reorganizations, praised his administration's sweeping cost reductions, and rhapsodized about his reinvention of Pfizer's crucial research-and-development operations.

But the three board members, Constance Horner, a former deputy secretary at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services; George Lorch, an ex-CEO of Armstrong World Holdings; and Bill Gray, a former Philadelphia congressman, weren't there to debate the direction of the company. The board had spent a frantic week in an urgent investigation: A revolt had erupted against Kindler among a handful of senior managers, and the directors were trying to figure out what was going on. One possibility: an internal power grab. Another: a CEO who was unraveling.

As the meeting continued -- it lasted more than two hours -- it became clear that Kindler had little chance of saving his job. Perhaps, he finally said, it was time for him to resign. The directors, who seemed ready for this suggestion, told Kindler they were prepared to give him a far more generous settlement package if he didn't take the fight to the full board. Kindler agreed to think it over and flew home.

A day later, in an unusual Sunday night announcement, the 55-year-old CEO retired, effective immediately. Pfizer's press release offered a surprisingly candid explanation, which was inserted by Kindler himself: "The combination of meeting the requirements of our many shareholders around the world and the 24/7 nature of my responsibilities has made this period extremely demanding on me personally."

As revealing as it was, that statement only hinted at the turmoil inside Pfizer (PFE). Indeed, what has occurred at the company -- whose $68 billion in annual sales are built on blockbuster drugs such as Lipitor and Viagra -- is extraordinary. Once a Wall Street darling and corporate icon, Pfizer has tumbled into disarray. In the decade that ended with Kindler's departure, its stock price sagged from a high of $49 down to $17 and its drug pipeline dried up (problems the company continues to grapple with today). Pfizer lost its way, stumbling through a frantic series of zigzags in the hopes of finding new blockbusters to sustain its prodigious profits in the future.

Meanwhile, its managers descended into behavior that would do Shakespeare -- or Machiavelli -- proud. There was the ex-CEO who couldn't relinquish his power and quietly maneuvered to undercut two successors he had helped install. Then there was the human resources chief who divided the staff rather than uniting it. Most of all, there was Kindler himself, a bright man with some fresh ideas for reforming Pfizer but a person who agonized over decisions even as he second-guessed everybody else's actions. The story of Jeff Kindler's tumultuous tenure at Pfizer is a saga of ambition, intrigue, backstabbing, and betrayal -- all of it exacerbated by a board that allowed the problems to fester for years.

The full story of Kindler's downfall has never before been told. Fortune reported this article for four months, interviewing 102 people, including executives and directors who worked closely with him at Pfizer and at previous stages of his career. For their parts, both Kindler and the company say that they are bound by a confidentiality agreement they signed as part of Kindler's departure.

Kindler declined to speak about Pfizer, but a representative provided a written statement: "Pfizer is a great company I was privileged to serve for nine years. I am proud of what our team accomplished and delighted to see [new CEO Ian Read], together with the business and scientific leaders we brought together, continue to build on these achievements." In its own statement, the drug company told Fortune: "We thank Jeff Kindler for his many years of service to Pfizer," noting that "Jeff came into the industry at a tumultuous time and faced significant challenges such as patent expirations of some of our major products .… We wish Jeff well in all of his future endeavors."

In the end, the story of Jeff Kindler's time at Pfizer provides a window into the challenges facing a mammoth company in an essential industry -- and the people who aspire to govern it. Pfizer is an enterprise with the noble calling of easing pain and curing disease. Yet its leaders spent much of their time in the tawdry business of turf wars and political scheming.

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The Motorcycle Gangs

[ed.  Slow news day today: just stuff about rioting, revolutions, collapsing economies, starving multitudes, endless wars, venal politicians and rapacious bankers. Ho hum, eh?  So here's an essay from Hunter S. Thompson, circa 1965, about the Hell's Angels. What makes this seem relevant today is how easy it is to substitute our current bogeymen - terrorists, illegal immigrants, minorities in general - and feel the same dynamic playing out in our media, over and over again.]   

by Hunter S. Thompson

Last Labor Day weekend newspapers all over California gave front-page reports of a heinous gang rape in the moonlit sand dunes near the town of Seaside on the Monterey Peninsula. Two girls, aged 14 and 15, were allegedly taken from their dates by a gang of filthy, frenzied, boozed-up motorcycle hoodlums called "Hell's Angels," and dragged off to be "repeatedly assaulted."

A deputy sheriff, summoned by one of the erstwhile dates, said he "arrived at the beach and saw a huge bonfire surrounded by cyclists of both sexes. Then the two sobbing, near-hysterical girls staggered out of the darkness, begging for help. One was completely nude and the other had on only a torn sweater."

Some 300 Hell's Angels were gathered in the Seaside-Monterey area at the time, having convened, they said, for the purpose of raising funds among themselves to send the body of a former member, killed in an accident, back to his mother in North Carolina. One of the Angels, hip enough to falsely identify himself as "Frenchy of San Bernardino," told a reporter who came out to meet the cyclists: "We chose Monterey because we get treated good here; most other places we get thrown out of town."

But Frenchy spoke too soon. The Angels weren't on the peninsula twenty-four hours before four of them were in jail for rape, and the rest of the troop was being escorted to the county line by a large police contingent. Several were quoted, somewhat derisively, as saying: "That rape charge against our guys is phony and it won't stick."

It turned out to be true, but that was another story and certainly no headliner. The difference between the Hell's Angels in the paper and the Hell's Angels for real is enough to make a man wonder what newsprint is for. It also raises a question as to who are the real hell's angels.

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Eat More Fiber

Level 3 Communications, a fiber network company with 84,000 miles of cable, comes clean about the real danger to its business 

By Alexis Madrigal

Among the enemies of the future, we should count the common squirrel. According to Level 3 Communications, which maintains an 84,000-mile fiber network, the cute rodents do 17 percent of the damage to their fiber optic network.

Fred Lawler, a company vice president who "is passionate about fiber protection," wrote about the "furry little nut eater" problem in a blog post for Level 3.

Of all the animals in the whole world, almost all of our animal damage comes from this furry little nut eater. Squirrel chews account for a whopping 17% of our damages so far this year! But let me add that it is down from 28% just last year and it continues to decrease since we added cable guards to our plant. Honestly, I don't understand what the big attraction is or why they feel compelled to gnaw through cables. Our guys in the field have given this some thought and jokingly suspect the cable manufacturers of using peanut oil in the sheathing. If you have any new ideas on how we can combat these wayward rodents, I'd love to hear from you. We are always looking for ways to improve.

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Edward Kienholz. Back Seat Dodge ‘38. 1964

Kienholz’s decision to preserve the grimy, used quality of this truncated 1938 Dodge is typical of his assemblages, which are made of found materials and often explore sensitive social topics. The artist chose to incorporate this particular model of car into the work because he recalled a similar teenage experience in the back of his father’s ’38 Dodge. When this work was shown in an exhibition here at LACMA in 1966, the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors demanded that the sculpture be removed from view because it was “pornographic.” Though the sculpture ultimately remained in the show, the controversy surrounding its exhibition echoed public obscenity cases heard in the Supreme Court throughout the 1960s.

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Rudi Hurzlmeier.
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Patent Trolls

by Rob Beschizza

News aggregator Fark, targeted by a company owning a patent covering "news releases", settled its case for $0. Fark proprietor Drew Curtis writes about what sounds like an unusually callous and disinterested shakedown.

The patent troll realized we were going to fight them instead of settle, so they asked for our best offer. I said how about you get nothing and drop the lawsuit? They accepted. 

The patent covered a method for inputting news releases into a web form, which would then compile the news release and email it to media outlets. Now, aside from the fact that a ton of prior art exists and that the patent should never have been awarded in the first place, Fark and all the other websites named in the lawsuit don't produce "news releases". In the world of journalism, the term "news release" is equivalent to "press release" - the patent itself equates the two in the opening description. Could a judge have ruled otherwise? Sure. They've been known to rule that the sky is green - which is why this lawsuit was dangerous.

News release, news story, blog post ... what's the difference? Curtis notes that it's already cost a lot of money, and that it would cost millions to try and recover it.

The patent troll, Gooseberry Natural Resources, also sued TechCrunch and many others; Reddit and Yahoo have settled, but AOL is apparently fighting on.

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More here:  Patent Trolls Come in All Shapes and Sizes 

And here:  When Startups Fail

It’s the Economy, Dummkopf!

With Greece and Ireland in economic shreds, while Portugal, Spain, and perhaps even Italy head south, only one nation can save Europe from financial Armageddon: a highly reluctant Germany. The ironies—like the fact that bankers from Düsseldorf were the ultimate patsies in Wall Street’s con game—pile up quickly as Michael Lewis investigates German attitudes toward money, excrement, and the country’s Nazi past, all of which help explain its peculiar new status.

by Michael Lewis

By the time I arrived in Hamburg the fate of the financial universe seemed to turn on which way the German people jumped. Moody’s was set to downgrade the Portuguese government’s debt to junk-bond status, and Standard & Poor’s had hinted darkly that Italy might be next. Ireland was about to be downgraded to junk status, too, and there was a very real possibility that the newly elected Spanish government might seize the moment to announce that the old Spanish government had miscalculated, and owed foreigners a lot more money than they previously imagined. Then there was Greece. Of the 126 countries with rated debt, Greece now ranked 126th: the Greeks were officially regarded as the least likely people on the planet to repay their debts. As the Germans were not only the biggest creditor of the various deadbeat European nations but their only serious hope for future funding, it was left to Germans to act as moral arbiter, to decide which financial behaviors would be tolerated and which would not. As a senior official at the Bundesbank put it to me, “If we say ‘no,’ it’s ‘no.’ Nothing happens without Germany. This is where the losses come to live.” Just a year ago, when German public figures called Greeks cheaters, and German magazines ran headlines like WHY DON"T YOU SELL YOUR ISLANDS, YOU BANKRUPT GREEKS? ordinary Greeks took it as an outrageous insult. In June of this year the Greek government started selling islands or at any rate created a fire-sale list of a thousand properties—golf courses, beaches, airports, farmlands, roads—that they hoped to sell, to help repay their debts. It was safe to say that the idea for doing this had not come from the Greeks.

To no one but a German is Hamburg an obvious place to spend a vacation, but it happened to be a German holiday, and Hamburg was overrun by German tourists. When I asked the hotel concierge what there was to see in his city, he had to think for a few seconds before he said, “Most people just go to the Reeperbahn.” The Reeperbahn is Hamburg’s red-light district, the largest red-light district in Europe, according to one guidebook, though you have to wonder how anyone figured that out. And the Reeperbahn, as it happens, was why I was there.

Perhaps because they have such a gift for creating difficulties with non-Germans, the Germans have been on the receiving end of many scholarly attempts to understand their collective behavior. In this vast and growing enterprise, a small book with a funny title towers over many larger, more ponderous ones. Published in 1984 by a distinguished anthropologist named Alan Dundes, Life Is Like a Chicken Coop Ladder set out to describe the German character through the stories that ordinary Germans liked to tell one another. Dundes specialized in folklore, and in German folklore, as he put it, “one finds an inordinate number of texts concerned with anality. Scheisse (shit), Dreck (dirt), Mist (manure), Arsch (ass).… Folksongs, folktales, proverbs, riddles, folk speech—all attest to the Germans’ longstanding special interest in this area of human activity.”

The Hamburg red-light district had caught Dundes’s eye because the locals made such a big deal of mud-wrestling. Naked women fought in a metaphorical ring of filth while the spectators wore plastic caps, a sort of head condom, to avoid being splattered. “Thus,” wrote Dundes, “the audience can remain clean while enjoying dirt!” Germans longed to be near the shit, but not in it. This, as it turns out, was an excellent description of their role in the current financial crisis.

The Scheisse Hits the Fan

A week or so earlier, in Berlin, I had gone to see Germany’s deputy minister of finance, a 44-year-old career government official named Jörg Asmussen. The Germans are now in possession of the only Finance Ministry in the big-time developed world whose leaders don’t need to worry whether their economy will collapse the moment investors stop buying their bonds. As unemployment in Greece climbs to the highest on record (16.2 percent at last count), it falls in Germany to 20-year lows (6.9 percent). Germany appears to have experienced a financial crisis without economic consequences. They’d donned head condoms in the presence of their bankers, and so they had avoided being splattered by their mud. As a result, for the past year or so the financial markets have been trying and failing to get a bead on the German people: they can probably afford to pay off the debts of their fellow Europeans, but will they actually do it? Are they now Europeans, or are they still Germans? Any utterance or gesture by any German official anywhere near this decision for the past 18 months has been a market-moving headline, and there have been plenty, most of them echoing German public opinion, and expressing incomprehension and outrage that other peoples can behave so irresponsibly. Asmussen is one of the Germans now being obsessively watched. He and his boss, Wolfgang Schäuble, are the two German officials present in every conversation between the German government and the deadbeats.

The Finance Ministry, built in the mid-1930s, is a monument to both the Nazis’ ambition and their taste. A faceless butte, it is so big that if you circle it in the wrong direction it can take you 20 minutes to find the front door. I circle it in the wrong direction, then sweat and huff to make up for lost time, all the while wondering if provincial Nazis in from the sticks had had the same experience, wandering outside these forbidding stone walls and trying to figure out how to get in. At length I find a familiar-looking courtyard: the only difference between it and famous old photographs of it is that Hitler is no longer marching in and out of the front door, and the statues of eagles perched atop swastikas have been removed. “It was built for Göring’s Air Ministry,” says the waiting Finance Ministry public-relations man, who is, oddly enough, French. “You can tell from the cheerful architecture.” He then explains that the building is so big because Hermann Göring wanted to be able to land planes on its roof.

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Luli Sanchez
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Screw Optimism and Screw “Sanity”

by Ian Welsh

I recently stumbled across a book on the link between leadership and what we call madness.  From the Amazon review:

Take realism, for instance: study after study has shown that those suffering depression are better than “normal” people at assessing current threats and predicting future outcomes. Looking at Lincoln and Churchill among others, Ghaemi shows how depressive realism helped these men tackle challenges both personal and national. Or consider creativity, a quality psychiatrists have studied extensively in relation to bipolar disorder. A First-Rate Madness shows how mania inspired General Sherman and Ted Turner to design and execute their most creative-and successful-strategies.

Ghaemi’s thesis is both robust and expansive; he even explains why eminently sane men like Neville Chamberlain and George W. Bush made such poor leaders. Though sane people are better shepherds in good times, sanity can be a severe liability in moments of crisis. A lifetime without the cyclical torment of mood disorders, Ghaemi explains, can leave one ill equipped to endure dire straits. He also clarifies which kinds of insanity-like psychosis-make for despotism and ineptitude, sometimes on a grand scale.

Now, I’m not depressive, strictly speaking.  I don’t stay in bed all day, and so on. But the Welsh family motto, no kidding, is this:

An optimist and a damn fool are the same thing.

Ordinary people, what we call “sane” in our society, are really shitty analysts.  Really, really shitty analysts.

Their bias to the upside is tiresome, predictable and makes them wrong, over and over and over again.  They don’t know what real threats are, they constantly are confused about what is really dangerous.  They think stranger pedophiles are a big danger to their kids, while it’s their family members or their own driving.  They think terrorism is dangerous, when almost no one dies from it, as opposed to crossing the street or eating too many Big Macs.  They fear “Osama” when the men who are most likely to cause their death or impoverishment have names like Bush, Paulson, Geithner, Obama and so on.

I walked through Calcutta’s slums, as a teenager, by myself.  I know what’s actually dangerous, and what isn’t.  But my parents didn’t coddle me, didn’t think their job was to make sure I never faced any danger, no matter how minor, so that when released as an adult I wouldn’t know how to evaluate threats.  They also didn’t think my self-esteem should outrun my ability.

Of course optimism is wonderfully adaptive as long as optimists aren’t your leaders or analysts, and don’t run your nuclear power plants, or plan your economies, or make any decisions about anything which if it goes wrong can go catastrophically wrong.  Optimists are happier, they live longer, they’re healthier, they “get up and go”, blah, blah, blah.  Optimism is good for optimists and hey, they’re generally more pleasant to be around, too.  There are time periods when they’re even right a lot (say during the 50s).  But basically, they’re blind.  One imagines conversations between cows. “Hey, they feed us every day, we get free health care, no real responsibility!  The dog makes sure the wolves don’t bother us.  This is great!  I do wonder what happened to Thelma and Fred, when they took them away in that truck?  But I’m sure it wasn’t anything bad, and if it was they must have deserved it, and anyway, that’d never happen to me, because I’m a good cow and this is the best herd in the whole world!”

And you can tell people what will happen, in advance, and be right, over and over and over again.  And what that will do is get you marginalized.  “Oh, he’s so negative! Such a downer. He should make us feel good about ourselves and our future, and if he doesn’t, we won’t listen. Let’s watch some TV!”

Obsessives: Soda Pop

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Kerry James Marshall, Nude (Spotlight), 2009
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Marvin Gaye

The Cult of Cats

Cats first decided to live among humans over 9,000 years ago. A burial site in Cyprus dating from 7,500BC provides the earliest evidence, with the corpse of an eight-month-old cat carefully laid out in its own tiny plot less than two feet away from its companion human. This gives human-feline cohabitation a more recent pedigree than human-canine, with dogs having lived alongside humans for well over 10,000 years, but puts cats comfortably ahead of such lesser beasts as chickens, ducks, horses, silkworms and ferrets. And among all domestic animals cats boast a unique distinction: to the best of our knowledge, it was them who chose us.

Or rather, cats chose what humans represented: the plentiful supply of tasty vermin that lived among the stock and refuse of early civilisation. In this, the central dynamic of human-feline relations has altered little over ten millennia: food and shelter are welcome, and the bipeds who come packaged with these lie somewhere between a nuisance and a bonus. As I type these words, a well-fed feline called Jacob is lying across my forearms, where he spends much of the day when I’m writing. I know that he appreciates the stroking as well as the feeding; but I’m equally certain that, if our sizes were reversed, the only thing that would stop him from eating me instantly would be the pleasure of hunting me first.

Vermin-catching skills aside, cats are not useful to humans in any instrumental sense, nor much inclined to put themselves at our service. In contrast to the empathetic, emphatically useful dog, a cat’s mind is an alien and often unsympathetic mix of impulses. And it’s perhaps this combination of indifference and intimacy that has made it a beast of such ambivalent fascination throughout our history. Felines have been gods, demons, spirits and poppets to humankind over the centuries—and that’s before you reach the maelstrom of the internet and its obsessions. They are, in effect, a blank page onto which we doodle our dreams, fears and obsessions.

Thanks to a new book from independent London publishers Merrell, we now have a lavish and delightfully illustrated synopsis of the role of cats in our visual culture. Titled The Cat, and rather more helpfully subtitled 3500 Years of the Cat in Art, it gets off to a bad start by misdating the origins of cats in human history by some 5,000 years, but from then on improves into a thorough monument to feline fascination. Under ten chapter headings, ranging from “early” and “religious” cats to “legendary,” “eastern” and “portrait” examples, author Caroline Bugler dashes through the years with a rich store of anecdotes and antecedents.

Throughout history, the domestication of a species has typically involved humans remoulding the world to suit themselves. In cats, though, we meet the gaze of an alien but equal opportunism; of the only mammal to have invited itself into our homes, persuaded us to feed it, then got us cleaning up the mess afterwards.

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Is That All There Is?

The disappearance of God is often considered elegiacally, as a loss. But secularism can also be an affirmation of the here and now.

by James Wood

I have a friend, an analytic philosopher and convinced atheist, who told me that she sometimes wakes in the middle of the night, anxiously turning over a series of ultimate questions: “How can it be that this world is the result of an accidental big bang? How could there be no design, no metaphysical purpose? Can it be that every life—beginning with my own, my husband’s, my child’s, and spreading outward—is cosmically irrelevant?” In the current intellectual climate, atheists are not supposed to have such thoughts. We are locked into our rival certainties—religiosity on one side, secularism on the other—and to confess to weakness on this order is like a registered Democrat wondering if she is really a Republican, or vice versa.

These are theological questions without theological answers, and, if the atheist is not supposed to entertain them, then, for slightly different reasons, neither is the religious believer. Religion assumes that they are not valid questions because it has already answered them; atheism assumes that they are not valid questions because it cannot answer them. But as one gets older, and parents and peers begin to die, and the obituaries in the newspaper are no longer missives from a faraway place but local letters, and one’s own projects seem ever more pointless and ephemeral, such moments of terror and incomprehension seem more frequent and more piercing, and, I find, as likely to arise in the middle of the day as the night. I think of these anxieties as the Virginia Woolf Question, after a passage in that most metaphysical of novels “To the Lighthouse,” when the painter Lily Briscoe is at her easel, mourning her late friend Mrs. Ramsay. Next to her sits the poet, Augustus Carmichael, and suddenly Lily imagines that she and Mr. Carmichael might stand up and demand “an explanation” of life:

For one moment she felt that if they both got up, here, now on the lawn, and demanded an explanation, why was it so short, why was it so inexplicable, said it with violence, as two fully equipped human beings from whom nothing should be hid might speak, then, beauty would roll itself up; the space would fill; those empty flourishes would form into shape; if they shouted loud enough Mrs. Ramsay would return. “Mrs. Ramsay!” she said aloud, “Mrs. Ramsay!” The tears ran down her face.

Why is life so short, why so inexplicable? These are the questions Lily wants answered. More precisely, these are the questions she needs to ask, ironically aware that an answer cannot be had if there is no one to demand it from. We may hope that “nothing should be hid” from us, but certain explanations can only ever be hidden. Just as Mrs. Ramsay has died, and cannot be shouted back to life, so God is dead, and cannot be reimplored into existence. And, as Terrence Malick’s oddly beautiful film “The Tree of Life” reminds us, the answers are still hidden even if we believe in God. Lily Briscoe’s “Why?” is not very different from Job’s “Why, Lord?”

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Overdone

Why are restaurant web sites so horrifically bad?

by Farhad Manjoo

The first thing that pops up when you visit the website of the San Francisco restaurant Fleur de Lys is a nearly full-screen animation of celebrity chef Hubert Keller's autograph. That makes sense—when I'm choosing a restaurant, the first thing I want to know is, Can the chef sign his name?

Wait a second, though. What does Chef Keller look like? You're not going to bother with this place if the chef doesn't have a good headshot. Good news! After the signature, the site fades into a snappy photo of Keller. Fortunately, he's a looker—think Peter Fonda with Fabio's hair.

After the autograph and headshot, the site transitions to a "main menu," which presents you with links to Keller's other restaurants and his PBS TV show. Tempted though you are, you stay focused and click for the San Francisco restaurant. One bit of advice: If you've got a subwoofer attached to your computer, now's the time to crank it up, because you're in for some auto-playing, royalty-free, ambient techno smooth jazz! As you stifle your urge to get up and dance, you click around in search of information about the restaurant. (The page emits a friendly beep every time you click.) If you spend the better part of your lunch hour scouring the site, you'll eventually find the menu. What you won't find is the price—it takes a Web search to determine that the tasting menu at Fleur de Lys costs $72 a person.

By this point, you've likely been so beaten down by the music, the nested menus, and the interminable "Loading …" prompts that you're considering Taco Bell for dinner (though it too has a terrible site). Still, I'm not arguing that Hubert Keller is responsible for the worst restaurant website ever created. That's a bit like trying to decide on the most awful serial killer in history. The head-poundingly awful Fleur de Lys site is just one of many in an industry whose collective crimes against Web design are as routine as they are horrific. If you think Fleur de Lys is ugly, check out the site for New York's Buddakan, which launches a full-screen window, auto-plays sitar-heavy technopop, and subjects you to a series of flying panels every time you click. (Eater NY described the site as "like the Inception trailer, but with summer rolls.") Next, check out Cavatore, an Italian restaurant in Houston that hired Web designers who were either a) on a Monty Python-besotted acid trip, or b) looking to induce epileptic seizures. Seriously, this site is so bad it's evil.

While lots of people have noted the general terribleness of restaurant sites, I haven't ever seen an explanation for why this industry's online presence is so singularly bruising. The rest of the Web long ago did away with auto-playing music, Flash buttons and menus, and elaborate intro pages, but restaurant sites seem stuck in 1999. The problem is getting worse in the age of the mobile Web—Flash doesn't work on Apple's devices, and while some of these sites do load on non-Apple smartphones, they take forever to do so, and their finicky navigation makes them impossible to use.

Over the last few weeks I've spent countless hours, now lost forever, plumbing the depths of restaurant Web hell. I also spoke to several industry experts about the reasons behind all these maliciously poorly designed pages. I heard several theories for why restaurant sites are so bad—that they can't afford to pay for good designers, that they don't understand what people want from a site, and that they don't really care what's on their site. But the best answer I found was this: Restaurant sites are the product of restaurant culture. These nightmarish websites were spawned by restaurateurs who mistakenly believe they can control the online world the same way they lord over a restaurant. "In restaurants, the expertise is in the kitchen and in hospitality in general," says Eng San Kho, a partner at the New York design firm Love and War, which has created several unusually great restaurant sites (more on those in a bit). "People in restaurants have a sense that they want to create an entertainment experience online—that's why disco music starts, that's why Flash slideshows open. They think they can still play the host even here online."

But it'd be a mistake to blame the chefs for these sites. They were all aided by Web designers who were either too unscrupulous or unsophisticated to disabuse them of their ideas. In fact, when you dig into some of the worst restaurant sites, you notice that they share the same designers. The Inception-like Buddakan site was built by a firm called 160over90, whose portfolio also includes New York's Morimoto (10-second load time, obnoxious bass-heavy music, a cut-out snapshot of the chef that constantly hovers on the screen) and Philadelphia's Butcher and Singer (flashes an old-movie-reel countdown while it loads, then plays old-timey music that will drive you mad). I tried to contact 160over90 and the designers behind other sites mentioned in this article to ask them, essentially, why they sucked. Not surprisingly, I got no response.

I did get a plausible-sounding explanation of the design process from Tom Bohan, who heads up Menupages, the fantastic site that lists menus of restaurants in several large cities. "Say you're a designer and you've got to demo a site you've spent two months creating," Bohan explains. "Your client is someone in their 50s who runs a restaurant but is not very in tune with technology. What's going to impress them more: Something with music and moving images, something that looks very fancy to someone who doesn't know about optimizing the Web for consumer use, or if you show them a bare-bones site that just lists all the information? I bet it would be the former—they would think it's great and money well spent."

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Kristian Schuller - Fashion by c.neeon
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Frank Zappa - Decline of the Music Industry

[ed.  Seems like this has broader applications than just the music industry.]