Monday, September 16, 2013
Rudolf Dischinger (German, 1904-1988), Gramophone, 1930. Oil on plywood, 79 x 64 cm. Museum für Neue Kunst, Freiburg.
via:
Storytelling Ads May Be Journalism’s New Peril
When the guy who ruined the Internet with banner ads tells you that a new kind of advertising might destroy journalism, it tends to get your attention.
That’s not entirely fair. Joe McCambley, founder of The Wonderfactory, a digital design firm, helped build the first banner ad back in 1994. It was a much-maligned innovation that grew like kudzu until it had all but overwhelmed the consumer Web, defining its look and economics for years to come.
Now the new rage is “native advertising,” which is to say advertising wearing the uniform of journalism, mimicking the storytelling aesthetic of the host site. Buzzfeed, Forbes, The Atlantic and, more recently, The New Yorker, have all developed a version of native advertising, also known as sponsored content; if you are on Buzzfeed, World of Warcraft might have a sponsored post on, say, 10 reasons your virtual friends are better than your real ones.
It is usually labeled advertising (sometimes clearly, sometimes not), but if the content is appealing, marketers can gain attention and engagement beyond what they might get for say, oh, a banner ad.
Mr. McCambley is wary. He says he thinks native advertising can provide value to both reader and advertiser when properly executed, but he worries that much of the current crop of these ads is doing damage to the contract between consumer and media organizations.
“I completely understand the value of native advertising,” Mr. McCambley said, “but there are a number of publishers who are allowing P.R. firms and advertising agencies direct access to their content management systems and allowing them to publish directly to the site. I think that is a huge mistake.
“It is a very slippery slope and could kill journalism if publishers aren’t careful,” he said.
He’s right. Publishers might build a revenue ledge through innovation of the advertising format, but the confusion that makes it work often diminishes the host publication’s credibility.
Of course, some publishers have already gone flying off the edge, most notoriously The Atlantic, which in January allowed Scientology to create a post that was of a piece with the rest of the editorial content on its site, even if it was differently labeled. They got clobbered, in part because handing the keys to the car to a controversial religion with a reputation for going after journalists was dumb.
“You are gambling with the contract you have with your readers,” Mr. McCambley said. “How do I know who made the content I am looking at and what the value of the information is?”
That’s not entirely fair. Joe McCambley, founder of The Wonderfactory, a digital design firm, helped build the first banner ad back in 1994. It was a much-maligned innovation that grew like kudzu until it had all but overwhelmed the consumer Web, defining its look and economics for years to come.
Now the new rage is “native advertising,” which is to say advertising wearing the uniform of journalism, mimicking the storytelling aesthetic of the host site. Buzzfeed, Forbes, The Atlantic and, more recently, The New Yorker, have all developed a version of native advertising, also known as sponsored content; if you are on Buzzfeed, World of Warcraft might have a sponsored post on, say, 10 reasons your virtual friends are better than your real ones.It is usually labeled advertising (sometimes clearly, sometimes not), but if the content is appealing, marketers can gain attention and engagement beyond what they might get for say, oh, a banner ad.
Mr. McCambley is wary. He says he thinks native advertising can provide value to both reader and advertiser when properly executed, but he worries that much of the current crop of these ads is doing damage to the contract between consumer and media organizations.
“I completely understand the value of native advertising,” Mr. McCambley said, “but there are a number of publishers who are allowing P.R. firms and advertising agencies direct access to their content management systems and allowing them to publish directly to the site. I think that is a huge mistake.
“It is a very slippery slope and could kill journalism if publishers aren’t careful,” he said.
He’s right. Publishers might build a revenue ledge through innovation of the advertising format, but the confusion that makes it work often diminishes the host publication’s credibility.
Of course, some publishers have already gone flying off the edge, most notoriously The Atlantic, which in January allowed Scientology to create a post that was of a piece with the rest of the editorial content on its site, even if it was differently labeled. They got clobbered, in part because handing the keys to the car to a controversial religion with a reputation for going after journalists was dumb.
“You are gambling with the contract you have with your readers,” Mr. McCambley said. “How do I know who made the content I am looking at and what the value of the information is?”
by David Carr, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Yana Paskova for The New York Times
What is Better - A Happy Life or a Meaningful One?
Let’s start with the last question. To be sure, happiness and meaningfulness frequently overlap. Perhaps some degree of meaning is a prerequisite for happiness, a necessary but insufficient condition. If that were the case, people might pursue meaning for purely instrumental reasons, as a step on the road towards happiness. But then, is there any reason to want meaning for its own sake? And if there isn’t, why would people ever choose lives that are more meaningful than happy, as they sometimes do?
The difference between meaningfulness and happiness was the focus of an investigation I worked on with my fellow social psychologists Kathleen Vohs, Jennifer Aaker and Emily Garbinsky, published in the Journal of Positive Psychology this August. We carried out a survey of nearly 400 US citizens, ranging in age from 18 to 78. The survey posed questions about the extent to which people thought their lives were happy and the extent to which they thought they were meaningful. We did not supply a definition of happiness or meaning, so our subjects responded using their own understanding of those words. By asking a large number of other questions, we were able to see which factors went with happiness and which went with meaningfulness.
As you might expect, the two states turned out to overlap substantially. Almost half of the variation in meaningfulness was explained by happiness, and vice versa. Nevertheless, using statistical controls we were able to tease two apart, isolating the ‘pure’ effects of each one that were not based on the other. We narrowed our search to look for factors that had opposite effects on happiness and meaning, or at least, factors that had a positive correlation with one and not even a hint of a positive correlation with the other (negative or zero correlations were fine). Using this method, we found five sets of major differences between happiness and meaningfulness, five areas where different versions of the good life parted company.
The first had to do with getting what you want and need. Not surprisingly, satisfaction of desires was a reliable source of happiness. But it had nothing — maybe even less than nothing — to add to a sense of meaning. People are happier to the extent that they find their lives easy rather than difficult. Happy people say they have enough money to buy the things they want and the things they need. Good health is a factor that contributes to happiness but not to meaningfulness. Healthy people are happier than sick people, but the lives of sick people do not lack meaning. The more often people feel good — a feeling that can arise from getting what one wants or needs — the happier they are. The less often they feel bad, the happier they are. But the frequency of good and bad feelings turns out to be irrelevant to meaning, which can flourish even in very forbidding conditions.
The second set of differences involved time frame. Meaning and happiness are apparently experienced quite differently in time. Happiness is about the present; meaning is about the future, or, more precisely, about linking past, present and future. The more time people spent thinking about the future or the past, the more meaningful, and less happy, their lives were. Time spent imagining the future was linked especially strongly to higher meaningfulness and lower happiness (as was worry, which I’ll come to later). Conversely, the more time people spent thinking about the here and now, the happier they were. Misery is often focused on the present, too, but people are happy more often than they are miserable. If you want to maximise your happiness, it looks like good advice to focus on the present, especially if your needs are being satisfied. Meaning, on the other hand, seems to come from assembling past, present and future into some kind of coherent story.
by Roy F. Baumeister, Aeon | Read more:
Image: Leonard Freed/Magnum
Zen in the Art of Citizen Science
When it comes to online participation in collective endeavors, 99% of us typically take a free ride.
From Wikipedia and YouTube to simple forum discussions, there is a persistent pattern known as the 90-9-1 principle. This means, for example, that of Wikipedia users, 90% only view content, 9% edit existing content, and 1% actually create new content. Inequity in effort, of vastly more people accessing collective information than contributing to it, is a persistent feature of online engagement.
Large-scale citizen-science projects, such as where ordinary people assist in genuine scientific research, when facilitated by the Internet, may not be exempt from the 1% rule of thumb. Despite the promise of app and web development to assist citizen scientists in data submission, the “build it and they will come” approaches fail because not enough people contribute to make such projects useful. Are there examples of online citizen-science projects that succeed on a big scale despite unequal participation? If so, how?
For answers, let’s take a look at eBird, a free, online citizen-science project run by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. eBird began in 2002 and quickly became a global network within which bird watchers contribute their bird observations to a central database. Over 2.5 million people have engaged with eBird. Of those, 150,000 have submitted data (6%) and 25,000 (1%) have submitted 99% of data. The 1% includes the world’s best birders as well as less skilled but highly dedicated backyard bird watchers. For everyone else, eBird is free information, and there is lots of it.
Is eBird successful?
eBird is successful scientifically. Since 2006, eBird has grown 40% ever year, which makes it one of the fastest growing biodiversity datasets in existence. It has amassed over 140 million bird observations, with observations from every country on the planet. Researchers have written over 90 peer-reviewed publications using eBird.
eBird is successful for conservation. The last two State of the Birds reports, which relied on eBird data to examine species occurrence, habitat types, and land ownership at a level of detail never achieved before, inform decisions of the US Fish & Wildlife Service and the US Forest Service. The Nature Conservancy uses eBird data to identify which rice farmers in the Central Valley of California they should ask to flood their fields at the particular right time for migrating waterfowl.
eBird is successfully engaging bird watchers. eBird doesn’t ignore the 99% who don’t submit data. The most frequent use of the eBird database is by handheld apps that people use to figure out where to go birdwatching.
Recently I was scheduled to give an opening provocation for a workshop on technology for citizen science at the British Ecological Society meeting in London. A “provocation” is intended to provoke thoughts, emotions, and epiphanies in order to instigate deep discussion, in this case about how to use technology to make citizen science successful. Are more apps for submitting data really the answer? Should we try to break the 1% rule or engage the 99% in other ways? To prepare, I went to Steve Kelling, the head honcho of eBird. In Jack Nicolson style, he can deliver a one-liner that blankets a room in thought, which is then invariably followed by a succession of light-bulb moments of understanding. When I asked Kelling to explain the success of eBird, he sagely said, “When eBird stopped doing citizen science, it got successful.” (score!).
How could eBird succeed at citizen science by not doing citizen science?
Kelling’s counter-intuitive riddle reveals the Zen in the art of citizen science.
From Wikipedia and YouTube to simple forum discussions, there is a persistent pattern known as the 90-9-1 principle. This means, for example, that of Wikipedia users, 90% only view content, 9% edit existing content, and 1% actually create new content. Inequity in effort, of vastly more people accessing collective information than contributing to it, is a persistent feature of online engagement.Large-scale citizen-science projects, such as where ordinary people assist in genuine scientific research, when facilitated by the Internet, may not be exempt from the 1% rule of thumb. Despite the promise of app and web development to assist citizen scientists in data submission, the “build it and they will come” approaches fail because not enough people contribute to make such projects useful. Are there examples of online citizen-science projects that succeed on a big scale despite unequal participation? If so, how?
For answers, let’s take a look at eBird, a free, online citizen-science project run by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. eBird began in 2002 and quickly became a global network within which bird watchers contribute their bird observations to a central database. Over 2.5 million people have engaged with eBird. Of those, 150,000 have submitted data (6%) and 25,000 (1%) have submitted 99% of data. The 1% includes the world’s best birders as well as less skilled but highly dedicated backyard bird watchers. For everyone else, eBird is free information, and there is lots of it.
Is eBird successful?
eBird is successful scientifically. Since 2006, eBird has grown 40% ever year, which makes it one of the fastest growing biodiversity datasets in existence. It has amassed over 140 million bird observations, with observations from every country on the planet. Researchers have written over 90 peer-reviewed publications using eBird.
eBird is successful for conservation. The last two State of the Birds reports, which relied on eBird data to examine species occurrence, habitat types, and land ownership at a level of detail never achieved before, inform decisions of the US Fish & Wildlife Service and the US Forest Service. The Nature Conservancy uses eBird data to identify which rice farmers in the Central Valley of California they should ask to flood their fields at the particular right time for migrating waterfowl.
eBird is successfully engaging bird watchers. eBird doesn’t ignore the 99% who don’t submit data. The most frequent use of the eBird database is by handheld apps that people use to figure out where to go birdwatching.
Recently I was scheduled to give an opening provocation for a workshop on technology for citizen science at the British Ecological Society meeting in London. A “provocation” is intended to provoke thoughts, emotions, and epiphanies in order to instigate deep discussion, in this case about how to use technology to make citizen science successful. Are more apps for submitting data really the answer? Should we try to break the 1% rule or engage the 99% in other ways? To prepare, I went to Steve Kelling, the head honcho of eBird. In Jack Nicolson style, he can deliver a one-liner that blankets a room in thought, which is then invariably followed by a succession of light-bulb moments of understanding. When I asked Kelling to explain the success of eBird, he sagely said, “When eBird stopped doing citizen science, it got successful.” (score!).
How could eBird succeed at citizen science by not doing citizen science?
Kelling’s counter-intuitive riddle reveals the Zen in the art of citizen science.
by Caren Cooper, Scientific American | Read more:
Image: Tim Lenz
Two-State Illusion
True believers in the two-state solution see absolutely no hope elsewhere. With no alternative in mind, and unwilling or unable to rethink their basic assumptions, they are forced to defend a notion whose success they can no longer sincerely portray as plausible or even possible.
It’s like 1975 all over again, when the Spanish dictator Francisco Franco fell into a coma. The news media began a long death watch, announcing each night that Generalissimo Franco was still not dead. This desperate allegiance to the departed echoes in every speech, policy brief and op-ed about the two-state solution today.
True, some comas miraculously end. Great surprises sometimes happen. The problem is that the changes required to achieve the vision of robust Israeli and Palestinian states living side by side are now considerably less likely than other less familiar but more plausible outcomes that demand high-level attention but aren’t receiving it.
Strong Islamist trends make a fundamentalist Palestine more likely than a small state under a secular government. The disappearance of Israel as a Zionist project, through war, cultural exhaustion or demographic momentum, is at least as plausible as the evacuation of enough of the half-million Israelis living across the 1967 border, or Green Line, to allow a real Palestinian state to exist. While the vision of thriving Israeli and Palestinian states has slipped from the plausible to the barely possible, one mixed state emerging from prolonged and violent struggles over democratic rights is no longer inconceivable. Yet the fantasy that there is a two-state solution keeps everyone from taking action toward something that might work.All sides have reasons to cling to this illusion. The Palestinian Authority needs its people to believe that progress is being made toward a two-state solution so it can continue to get the economic aid and diplomatic support that subsidize the lifestyles of its leaders, the jobs of tens of thousands of soldiers, spies, police officers and civil servants, and the authority’s prominence in a Palestinian society that views it as corrupt and incompetent.
Israeli governments cling to the two-state notion because it seems to reflect the sentiments of the Jewish Israeli majority and it shields the country from international opprobrium, even as it camouflages relentless efforts to expand Israel’s territory into the West Bank.
American politicians need the two-state slogan to show they are working toward a diplomatic solution, to keep the pro-Israel lobby from turning against them and to disguise their humiliating inability to allow any daylight between Washington and the Israeli government.
Finally, the “peace process” industry — with its legions of consultants, pundits, academics and journalists — needs a steady supply of readers, listeners and funders who are either desperately worried that this latest round of talks will lead to the establishment of a Palestinian state, or that it will not.
Conceived as early as the 1930s, the idea of two states between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea all but disappeared from public consciousness between 1948 and 1967. Between 1967 and 1973 it re-emerged, advanced by a minority of “moderates” in each community. By the 1990s it was embraced by majorities on both sides as not only possible but, during the height of the Oslo peace process, probable. But failures of leadership in the face of tremendous pressures brought Oslo crashing down. These days no one suggests that a negotiated two-state “solution” is probable. The most optimistic insist that, for some brief period, it may still be conceivable.
But many Israelis see the demise of the country as not just possible, but probable. The State of Israel has been established, not its permanence. The most common phrase in Israeli political discourse is some variation of “If X happens (or doesn’t), the state will not survive!” Those who assume that Israel will always exist as a Zionist project should consider how quickly the Soviet, Pahlavi Iranian, apartheid South African, Baathist Iraqi and Yugoslavian states unraveled, and how little warning even sharp-eyed observers had that such transformations were imminent.
In all these cases, presumptions about what was “impossible” helped protect brittle institutions by limiting political imagination. And when objective realities began to diverge dramatically from official common sense, immense pressures accumulated.
by Ian S. Lustik, NY Times | Read more:
Images: Oded Balilty/Associated Press and Josh Cochran
Sunday, September 15, 2013
An Intervention for Malibu
Malibu, Calif. -- Cliffside, Summit, Milestones, Seasons. The names suggest New Age spas or, perhaps, recent-vintage vineyards. They sprawl across the scrubby foothills of this storied coastal town and survey its expensive, eroding beaches, their comforts rivaling those of world-class resorts.
They promote their privacy and exclusivity even as they bask in the reflected glory of their celebrated patrons. (Anyone who passed a newsstand last month knows that Lindsay Lohan spent her summer vacation at Cliffside.) And they’re spreading. As of July, there were 35 state-licensed drug and alcohol rehabilitation facilities in this city (population 12,645), in addition to a multiplying number of unlicensed sober-living homes.
Question: What are Malibu’s only growth industries? Answer: Winemaking and sobriety. The locals may have a sense of humor about the situation, but that doesn’t mean they are happy with it. They fret that the playground of the rich and famous is turning into the capital of detox for the rich and famous. “The rehabs are overwhelming our neighborhoods,” Lou La Monte, a Malibu city councilman, recently said. “We have safety issues, noise issues, traffic issues. We’re going to take our city back.”
The largest and most expensive treatment center here is called Passages, which sits on a bluff across the Pacific Coast Highway from the ocean in the Sycamore Park neighborhood. Passages’ 35 clients live in several palatial residences scattered across a 10-acre campus that includes two pools overlooking the ocean, a tennis court and a glass-enclosed gym. Guests receive “integrative holistic treatment” that eschews traditional 12-step recovery methods in favor of such ministrations as hypnosis, life-purpose counseling and sound therapy. Marc Jacobs was a Passages client, as was Mel Gibson. Treatment starts at $64,000 a month. (...)
Blame the Malibu Model for it all. Fifteen years ago, Richard Rogg, a real estate developer who turned to treating substance abuse after kicking a cocaine habit, opened Malibu’s first drug and alcohol rehabilitation center. From the beginning, Promises Malibu, originally housed in two rambling Mediterranean-style residences in the Big Rock area, was meant to serve as an alternative to hard-line traditional programs. Promises offered customized care — drawing on psychotherapy and holistic practices like yoga, meditation, and biofeedback — in vacationland surroundings. Mr. Rogg registered Malibu Model as a service mark for his treatment plan.
Lots of high-octane substance abusers embraced this model. That van containing Mr. Affleck, Mr. Downey and Charlie Sheen belonged to Promises. Britney Spears and Diana Ross are graduates. Promises grew: there are now five houses (and three pools) accommodating 24 rehab patients. Their daily regimen revolves around a therapy session (group or individual) in the morning and two in the afternoon. These are broken up by meals prepared by a chef (specialties include lobster tail and osso bucco) and complemented by optional activities like massage, tennis lessons and equine therapy. There are also excursions to A.A. meetings, a local gym and a beauty salon.
The Malibu Model proved to be a highly marketable paradigm. A surge in prescription drug use, along with a 2000 state statute promoting treatment rather than jail time for drug offenders and lax state licensing procedures, fueled a sharp increase in residential rehab centers. Nowhere was the growth more significant than in Malibu, whose setting and high-profile inhabitants, detoxifying or not, provided free advertising for the programs. By 2007, there were two dozen treatment centers in the city.
“Why Malibu? Because they can charge the big prices here,” Mayor Joan House said. While 85 percent of drug and alcohol treatment programs in the United States are nonprofit ventures, the luxury facilities in Malibu are commercial operations. Room tabs at the better-known centers make the Four Seasons look like a discount chain: rates start at around $60,000 a month and can exceed $100,000 a month for V.I.P. accommodations like private rooms or pet boarding. (By comparison, Hazelden, the 64-year-old treatment center network founded in Minnesota, charges as much as $32,000 a month.)
They promote their privacy and exclusivity even as they bask in the reflected glory of their celebrated patrons. (Anyone who passed a newsstand last month knows that Lindsay Lohan spent her summer vacation at Cliffside.) And they’re spreading. As of July, there were 35 state-licensed drug and alcohol rehabilitation facilities in this city (population 12,645), in addition to a multiplying number of unlicensed sober-living homes.Question: What are Malibu’s only growth industries? Answer: Winemaking and sobriety. The locals may have a sense of humor about the situation, but that doesn’t mean they are happy with it. They fret that the playground of the rich and famous is turning into the capital of detox for the rich and famous. “The rehabs are overwhelming our neighborhoods,” Lou La Monte, a Malibu city councilman, recently said. “We have safety issues, noise issues, traffic issues. We’re going to take our city back.”
The largest and most expensive treatment center here is called Passages, which sits on a bluff across the Pacific Coast Highway from the ocean in the Sycamore Park neighborhood. Passages’ 35 clients live in several palatial residences scattered across a 10-acre campus that includes two pools overlooking the ocean, a tennis court and a glass-enclosed gym. Guests receive “integrative holistic treatment” that eschews traditional 12-step recovery methods in favor of such ministrations as hypnosis, life-purpose counseling and sound therapy. Marc Jacobs was a Passages client, as was Mel Gibson. Treatment starts at $64,000 a month. (...)
Blame the Malibu Model for it all. Fifteen years ago, Richard Rogg, a real estate developer who turned to treating substance abuse after kicking a cocaine habit, opened Malibu’s first drug and alcohol rehabilitation center. From the beginning, Promises Malibu, originally housed in two rambling Mediterranean-style residences in the Big Rock area, was meant to serve as an alternative to hard-line traditional programs. Promises offered customized care — drawing on psychotherapy and holistic practices like yoga, meditation, and biofeedback — in vacationland surroundings. Mr. Rogg registered Malibu Model as a service mark for his treatment plan.
Lots of high-octane substance abusers embraced this model. That van containing Mr. Affleck, Mr. Downey and Charlie Sheen belonged to Promises. Britney Spears and Diana Ross are graduates. Promises grew: there are now five houses (and three pools) accommodating 24 rehab patients. Their daily regimen revolves around a therapy session (group or individual) in the morning and two in the afternoon. These are broken up by meals prepared by a chef (specialties include lobster tail and osso bucco) and complemented by optional activities like massage, tennis lessons and equine therapy. There are also excursions to A.A. meetings, a local gym and a beauty salon.
The Malibu Model proved to be a highly marketable paradigm. A surge in prescription drug use, along with a 2000 state statute promoting treatment rather than jail time for drug offenders and lax state licensing procedures, fueled a sharp increase in residential rehab centers. Nowhere was the growth more significant than in Malibu, whose setting and high-profile inhabitants, detoxifying or not, provided free advertising for the programs. By 2007, there were two dozen treatment centers in the city.
“Why Malibu? Because they can charge the big prices here,” Mayor Joan House said. While 85 percent of drug and alcohol treatment programs in the United States are nonprofit ventures, the luxury facilities in Malibu are commercial operations. Room tabs at the better-known centers make the Four Seasons look like a discount chain: rates start at around $60,000 a month and can exceed $100,000 a month for V.I.P. accommodations like private rooms or pet boarding. (By comparison, Hazelden, the 64-year-old treatment center network founded in Minnesota, charges as much as $32,000 a month.)
by Peter Haldeman, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Gary Hovland
[ed. Rain delay: Seattle vs. 49er's (lightening delay, actually). Despite the general perception that it rains all the time, we've had over two months of hot, beautiful weather this summer in the PNW. Kind of nice to see a little precipitation again (except maybe for the folks at Century Link field tonight.]
via:
Hawaii Tells Woman to Change Her Name to Fit on Driver's License
[ed. Worth watching just to hear the local reporter pronounce her name (flawlessly).]
Janice Keihanaikukauakahihuliheekahaunaele has a really long last name. She got it from her late husband, and the state of Hawaii wants her to change it since it won’t fit on her driver’s license.
by Jon Aravosis, Americablog | Read more:
Saturday, September 14, 2013
The Gift Shift: What's Social About Social Media?
If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the cover art of the July 23rd issue of the New Yorker [ed. 2012] is a critical disquisition. A middle class family poses for a photo on a sunny tropical beach. Given that this is the New Yorker, we can assume that they are Americans citizens, perhaps in Hawaii or the Bahamas. Presumably they are on holiday. The point that is implied by the image is that, whoever and wherever they are, their attention is somewhere else. Instead of celebrating the moment and being together, they have their heads bent over their mobile phones, texting, tweeting, checking status updates… Who knows, perhaps they are checking the weather. Whatever they are doing, they are not engaging with one another.The irony is palpable. To bring it into focus, let’s assume that these folks are using social media. Viewed this way, the image calls to mind a common criticism of social media. Social media, it is said, isolates us from one another even while it brings us together. In my classes on Philosophy and Social Media, I hear versions of this criticism all the time. Social media makes us slaves to our gadgets. It commits us to spending valuable time isolated from the people around us, texting, tweeting, posting, or just surfing feeds. The nub of it is that social media, in practice, is a solitary pursuit. Social media is supposed to bring us together, but in reality it sets us apart.
This criticism has merit. What worries me is how quickly people leap from this observation to the conclusion that social media isn’t social at all. It is true that there is a solitary aspect to social media. Anyone who has shared a train with a troop of early morning commuters knows that in public spaces, people use their mobiles as a means of isolating themselves from the people around them. Still, this shouldn’t lead us to question the social dimension of social media per se. On a behavioural level, tweeting, posting, sharing, commenting and liking are things that we do independently of one another. Understood on a psychological level, however, tweeting, posting, sharing, commenting and liking are not isolated activities at all. Tweeting, posting, sharing, commenting and liking are activities that we undertake in the presence of crowds. Insofar as they are informed by thought and invested with feeling, tweeting, posting, sharing, commenting and liking are intrinsically social activities.
Take another look at the picture of the family on the beach. I want you to imagine that each of these people is enjoying a unique online social experience. We might criticise them for their decision to engage with virtual crowds when they might otherwise be enjoying a special moment with their nearest and dearest. But setting aside this rebuke, think against the grain of the artist’s intentions and imagine that you are looking at four socially engaged individuals. There is no denying that this is a possibility. Why is it, then, that when we see people in the presence of one another using social media, we think first of all of the social experiences that they are missing out on having, rather than wonder what excellent experiences they are enjoying online? Why is it that when we see an image like this one, we immediately assume that we are looking at people who arenot engaged in a fulfilling social pursuit? Why do we devalue online social experiences?
It is true that not all online social experiences are fulfilling. But online social experiences can be fulfilling, and so we shouldn’t dismiss them out of hand. If we do dismiss online social experiences out of hand, it is probably because we don’t understand what makes them fulfilling in the first place. Many people take completely the wrong perspective on online social experiences. They misunderstand the nature of these exchanges. It is no wonder that they take a poor view of them.
Usually when we think about social life, we think about individuals meeting with other individuals in groups. Individuals meet with others to chat, exchange information, and transact with each other in various ways. This way of understanding social life is second nature to us, to the extent that we find it difficult to think about social experiences in any other way. Social media, on this view, provides a virtual space for individuals to meet with other individuals to undertake more or less the same kinds of activities that they conduct face-to-face. But since they are not face-to-face, these experiences can only be less engaging and rewarding than their real world alternatives.
Is this how you understand social media? If the answer is ‘yes’, it’s time for a conceptual upgrade.
by Tim Rayner, Philosophy for Change | Read more:
Image: Mark Ulriksen
From Cat Food to Sushi Counter: The Strange Rise of Bluefin Tuna
But it wasn’t always this way. Several decades ago, the very same fish were essentially worthless worldwide. People caught them for fun along the Atlantic Coast—especially in Nova Scotia, Maine and Massachusetts—and though few ever ate their catch, they didn’t usually let the tuna go, either. During the height of the tuna sport fishing craze in the 1940s, ’50s and ’60s, the big fish were weighed and photographed, then sent to landfills. Others were mashed up into pet food. Perhaps the best of scenarios was when dead bluefin tuna—which usually weighed at least 400 pounds—were dumped back into the sea, where at least their biomass was recycled into the marine food web. But it all amounts to the same point: The mighty bluefin tuna was a trash fish.
The beef-red flesh, many say, is smelly and strong tasting, and, historically, the collective palate of Japan preferred milder species, like the various white-fleshed fishes and shellfish still popular among many sushi chefs. Other tuna species, too—including yellowfin and bigeye—were unpopular in Japan, and only in the 19th century did this begin to change. So says Trevor Corson, author of the 2007 book The Story of Sushi. Corson told Food and Think in an interview that an increase in tuna landings in the 1830s and early 1840s provided Tokyo street vendors with a surplus of cheap tuna. The meat was not a delicacy, by any means. Nor was it even known as a food product. In fact, tuna was commonly called neko-matagi, meaning “fish that even a cat would disdain.” But at least one sidewalk sushi chef tried something new, slicing the raw meat thin, dousing it in soy sauce and serving it as “nigiri sushi.”
The style caught on, though most of the chefs used yellowfin tuna. Occasionally, chefs made use of large bluefins, and one trick they learned to soften the rich flavor of the meat was to age it underground for several days. The way Japanese diners regarded raw, ruddy fish flesh began changing. This marked a turning point in the history of sushi, Corson says—but he points out that the bluefin tuna would remain essentially unwanted for decades more.
by Alastair Bland, Smithsonian | Read more:
Image: Steven Nelson, Flickr
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