Saturday, December 17, 2016
Finding North America’s Lost Medieval City
A thousand years ago, huge pyramids and earthen mounds stood where East St. Louis sprawls today in Southern Illinois. This majestic urban architecture towered over the swampy Mississippi River floodplains, blotting out the region's tiny villages. Beginning in the late 900s, word about the city spread throughout the southeast. Thousands of people visited for feasts and rituals, lured by the promise of a new kind of civilization. Many decided to stay.
At the city's apex in 1050, the population exploded to as many as 30 thousand people. It was the largest pre-Columbian city in what became the United States, bigger than London or Paris at the time. Its colorful wooden homes and monuments rose along the eastern side of the Mississippi, eventually spreading across the river to St. Louis. One particularly magnificent structure, known today as Monk’s Mound, marked the center of downtown. It towered 30 meters over an enormous central plaza and had three dramatic ascending levels, each covered in ceremonial buildings. Standing on the highest level, a person speaking loudly could be heard all the way across the Grand Plaza below. Flanking Monk’s Mound to the west was a circle of tall wooden poles, dubbed Woodhenge, that marked the solstices.
Despite its greatness, the city’s name has been lost to time. Its culture is known simply as Mississippian. When Europeans explored Illinois in the 17th century, the city had been abandoned for hundreds of years. At that time, the region was inhabited by the Cahokia, a tribe from the Illinois Confederation. Europeans decided to name the ancient city after them, despite the fact that the Cahokia themselves claimed no connection to it.
Centuries later, Cahokia's meteoric rise and fall remain a mystery. It was booming in 1050, and by 1400 its population had disappeared, leaving behind a landscape completely geoengineered by human hands. Looking for clues about its history, archaeologists dig through the thick, wet, stubborn clay that Cahokians once used to construct their mounds. Buried beneath just a few feet of earth are millennia-old building foundations, trash pits, the cryptic remains of public rituals, and in some places, even, graves.
To find out what happened to Cahokia, I joined an archaeological dig there in July. It was led by two archaeologists who specialize in Cahokian history, Sarah Baires of Eastern Connecticut State University and Melissa Baltus of University of Toledo. They were assisted by Ph.D. candidate Elizabeth Watts of Indiana University, Bloomington, and a class of tireless undergraduates with the Institute for Field Research. Together, they spent the summer opening three large trenches in what they thought would be a sleepy little residential neighborhood southwest of Monk's Mound.
They were wrong. The more they dug, the more obvious it became that this was no ordinary place. The structures they excavated were full of ritual objects charred by sacred fires. We found the remains of feasts and a rare earthen structure lined with yellow soils. Baires, Baltus, and their team had accidentally stumbled on an archaeological treasure trove linked to the city's demise. The story of this place would take us back to the final decades of a great city whose social structure was undergoing a radical transformation.
East St. Louis palimpsest
Finding a lost city in the modern world isn’t exactly like playing Tomb Raider. Instead of hacking through jungle and fighting a dragon, I drove to Cahokia on a road that winds through the depressed neighborhoods of East St. Louis and into Collinsville, Illinois. As recently as the 1970s, the ancient city’s elevated walkways and mounds were covered over by suburban developments. Just west of Monk's Mound was the Mounds Drive-In Theater. Farmers often plowed over Cahokia’s smaller landmarks.
All that changed 40 years ago when Illinois declared Cahokia a state historic site, and UNESCO granted it World Heritage status. The state bought 2,200 acres of land from residents, clearing away the drive-in and a small subdivision. Now the Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site and Visitors’ Center is devoted to preserving what remains of the ancient city’s monumental downtown architecture.
At the city's apex in 1050, the population exploded to as many as 30 thousand people. It was the largest pre-Columbian city in what became the United States, bigger than London or Paris at the time. Its colorful wooden homes and monuments rose along the eastern side of the Mississippi, eventually spreading across the river to St. Louis. One particularly magnificent structure, known today as Monk’s Mound, marked the center of downtown. It towered 30 meters over an enormous central plaza and had three dramatic ascending levels, each covered in ceremonial buildings. Standing on the highest level, a person speaking loudly could be heard all the way across the Grand Plaza below. Flanking Monk’s Mound to the west was a circle of tall wooden poles, dubbed Woodhenge, that marked the solstices.
Despite its greatness, the city’s name has been lost to time. Its culture is known simply as Mississippian. When Europeans explored Illinois in the 17th century, the city had been abandoned for hundreds of years. At that time, the region was inhabited by the Cahokia, a tribe from the Illinois Confederation. Europeans decided to name the ancient city after them, despite the fact that the Cahokia themselves claimed no connection to it.Centuries later, Cahokia's meteoric rise and fall remain a mystery. It was booming in 1050, and by 1400 its population had disappeared, leaving behind a landscape completely geoengineered by human hands. Looking for clues about its history, archaeologists dig through the thick, wet, stubborn clay that Cahokians once used to construct their mounds. Buried beneath just a few feet of earth are millennia-old building foundations, trash pits, the cryptic remains of public rituals, and in some places, even, graves.
To find out what happened to Cahokia, I joined an archaeological dig there in July. It was led by two archaeologists who specialize in Cahokian history, Sarah Baires of Eastern Connecticut State University and Melissa Baltus of University of Toledo. They were assisted by Ph.D. candidate Elizabeth Watts of Indiana University, Bloomington, and a class of tireless undergraduates with the Institute for Field Research. Together, they spent the summer opening three large trenches in what they thought would be a sleepy little residential neighborhood southwest of Monk's Mound.
They were wrong. The more they dug, the more obvious it became that this was no ordinary place. The structures they excavated were full of ritual objects charred by sacred fires. We found the remains of feasts and a rare earthen structure lined with yellow soils. Baires, Baltus, and their team had accidentally stumbled on an archaeological treasure trove linked to the city's demise. The story of this place would take us back to the final decades of a great city whose social structure was undergoing a radical transformation.
East St. Louis palimpsest
Finding a lost city in the modern world isn’t exactly like playing Tomb Raider. Instead of hacking through jungle and fighting a dragon, I drove to Cahokia on a road that winds through the depressed neighborhoods of East St. Louis and into Collinsville, Illinois. As recently as the 1970s, the ancient city’s elevated walkways and mounds were covered over by suburban developments. Just west of Monk's Mound was the Mounds Drive-In Theater. Farmers often plowed over Cahokia’s smaller landmarks.
All that changed 40 years ago when Illinois declared Cahokia a state historic site, and UNESCO granted it World Heritage status. The state bought 2,200 acres of land from residents, clearing away the drive-in and a small subdivision. Now the Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site and Visitors’ Center is devoted to preserving what remains of the ancient city’s monumental downtown architecture.
by Annalee Newitz, Ars Technica | Read more:
Image: Artist Rendering uncredited
Sex in Silicon Valley
When I turned 30, in 2011, I envisioned my sexual experience eventually reaching a terminus, like a monorail gliding to a stop. I would disembark, find myself face-to-face with another human being, and there we would remain in our permanent station in life: the future.
I was single and straight. I had not chosen to be single, but love is rare and frequently unreciprocated. Without love, I saw no reason to form a permanent attachment to any particular place. My friends expressed a religious belief that it would arrive for me one day, as if love were something the universe owed to each of us, which no human could escape.
I had known love but, having known it, I knew how powerless I was to instigate it or ensure its duration. I knew that it did not arrive for everyone, and as I got older I began to worry it would not arrive for me.
On a Monday in April 2012, I stood in line at JFK airport to board a plane to California. I had decided to visit San Francisco because my desires and my reality had diverged beyond the point of reconciliation. I wanted to picture a different future, one aligned with the freedom of my present, and in those years San Francisco was where the future was going to be figured out, or at least it was the city designated for people who still believed in free love. They gave their choices names and they conceived of their actions as social movements. They saw in new technology an opportunity to refashion society, including ideas about sexuality.
By 2012, the young people who came to San Francisco were neither dropouts nor misfits. They were children who had grown up eating sugar-free cereal, swaddled in polar fleece jackets made from recycled plastic bottles. They had studied abroad, knew their favourite kinds of sashimi and were friends with their parents. Unlike their parents, they commuted to the suburbs and lived in the cities. As they arrived, the cities reshaped to receive their disposable income.
In San Francisco, the young people went to coffee shops where the production of espresso was ritualised to resemble a historic re-enactment of the hardships of 19th-century pioneer life. Nobody smoked cigarettes. They honed their bodies with the aim of either perfect homeostasis or eternal life. They ate red meat only once a month, to time their consumption of iron with the end of their menstrual cycles. They started companies whose names referenced fantasy fiction. They were adults, but they could seem like children. Their sex lives were impossible to fathom, because they seemed never to have lived in darkness. They had grown up observing foreign wars, economic inequality and ecological catastrophe, crises that they earnestly discussed on their digital feeds, but avoided internalising as despair.
I’m not saying Elizabeth was all of these things, but she described herself as an optimist. Elizabeth had a membership at a rock-climbing gym; she meditated and practised yoga. She organised hot-air balloon rides and weekend trips. She worked long, punishing hours, but had the energy to stay up all night at weekends, go on cycling excursions or attend silent retreats. A friend of mine had met her at a circus arts class and suggested I meet her.
Elizabeth had moved to San Francisco after college. Her boyfriend had moved to the south to go to medical school. No matter how much she loved him, or how much her mother, an infertility specialist, urged her to have children as a young woman, she was not yet ready to start a family. She had a job offer as a consultant at an economics firm. So, in 2010, when she was 22, she moved west and they broke up.
Elizabeth had never before lived in a city. She knew the suburbs in Virginia where she had grown up, and the small New England town where she had attended college. She arrived in San Francisco and made friends, some through internet dating.
She met Wes one night in late 2010, when he accompanied one of her co-workers to a boardgame party at her house. For their first date, they attended Nerd Night at a local bar. They watched a lecture about the future of teledildonics. On the walk home, they kissed. Then Wes, with the transparency he thought of as mature and fair, gave a speech of pre-emptive relationship indemnity. He was still getting over his last girlfriend, he said. He did not want to be in a relationship. Elizabeth tried not to roll her eyes – it was the first date! They said goodnight and parted ways.
Wes had grown up in San Francisco, studied computer science at Harvard and returned west after graduation to work at Google. Somewhere along the upward incline of his precocious youth, he had skipped a grade and was still only 21, tall and handsome.
Wes’s previous serious relationship, the one before he met Elizabeth, had ended during his senior year of college. At the time he met Elizabeth, the discovery of how much he liked casual sex was still new to him.
Still, Elizabeth and Wes lived near each other. They began meeting once a week for drinks, dates and sleeping over, always with a show of nonchalance. Given the choice, Elizabeth would have wanted a more serious commitment. She was only 23, but she had one reaction to Wes’s lack of interest in their relationship: he was acting like a baby. Fine, she decided. She would also see other people.
A few weeks later, she met Brian, a graduate of Stanford who also worked in tech. Soon Elizabeth had two non-boyfriends. Neither relationship had the expectation of exclusivity, or any defined path into the future. She kept the two separate and never saw the men together. They balanced each other, one providing security against the possible failure of the other.
One day in May 2011, six months after they met, Elizabeth introduced Wes to psilocybin mushrooms. The trip shifted their relationship. They still did not use the word “love”, but they now acknowledged what they referred to as “emotional involvement”.
Elizabeth was hired at Google. They took the bus to its Mountain View complex and ate in the cafeteria together. When they went for dinner with Wes’s family, Elizabeth was presented as a friend.
Elizabeth did not describe what she was doing – having sex with two men on a regular basis over an extended period of time, with the occasional extra-relationship dalliance besides – as polyamory. The word had cultural connotations for her, of swinging married people or creepy old men.
Although, like most people her age, she had friends whose partnerships allowed for sex with others, those friends tended to use the term “open relationship”, which was somehow less infused with the stigma of intentional weirdness, and did not amount to a proclamation of sexual identity. (...)
They were not bothered, as I was, by the evidence that nonmonogamous arrangements had been rejected by the last generation of straight people who had tried them. I looked at the experiments of the 60s and 70s, and felt they had taught us that communes and other alternative arrangements that celebrated sexual freedom generally ended in jealousy and hurt feelings. We obedient children of the 80s and 90s saw the failures of the counterculture, and held ourselves in thrall to drug laws, health insurance, student loan payments, internships, condoms, skin protection factors, antidepressants, designated smoking areas, politically correct language, child safety locks, gym memberships, cancer screenings and career advancement. We had a nuanced understanding of risk.
I was single and straight. I had not chosen to be single, but love is rare and frequently unreciprocated. Without love, I saw no reason to form a permanent attachment to any particular place. My friends expressed a religious belief that it would arrive for me one day, as if love were something the universe owed to each of us, which no human could escape.
I had known love but, having known it, I knew how powerless I was to instigate it or ensure its duration. I knew that it did not arrive for everyone, and as I got older I began to worry it would not arrive for me.On a Monday in April 2012, I stood in line at JFK airport to board a plane to California. I had decided to visit San Francisco because my desires and my reality had diverged beyond the point of reconciliation. I wanted to picture a different future, one aligned with the freedom of my present, and in those years San Francisco was where the future was going to be figured out, or at least it was the city designated for people who still believed in free love. They gave their choices names and they conceived of their actions as social movements. They saw in new technology an opportunity to refashion society, including ideas about sexuality.
By 2012, the young people who came to San Francisco were neither dropouts nor misfits. They were children who had grown up eating sugar-free cereal, swaddled in polar fleece jackets made from recycled plastic bottles. They had studied abroad, knew their favourite kinds of sashimi and were friends with their parents. Unlike their parents, they commuted to the suburbs and lived in the cities. As they arrived, the cities reshaped to receive their disposable income.
In San Francisco, the young people went to coffee shops where the production of espresso was ritualised to resemble a historic re-enactment of the hardships of 19th-century pioneer life. Nobody smoked cigarettes. They honed their bodies with the aim of either perfect homeostasis or eternal life. They ate red meat only once a month, to time their consumption of iron with the end of their menstrual cycles. They started companies whose names referenced fantasy fiction. They were adults, but they could seem like children. Their sex lives were impossible to fathom, because they seemed never to have lived in darkness. They had grown up observing foreign wars, economic inequality and ecological catastrophe, crises that they earnestly discussed on their digital feeds, but avoided internalising as despair.
I’m not saying Elizabeth was all of these things, but she described herself as an optimist. Elizabeth had a membership at a rock-climbing gym; she meditated and practised yoga. She organised hot-air balloon rides and weekend trips. She worked long, punishing hours, but had the energy to stay up all night at weekends, go on cycling excursions or attend silent retreats. A friend of mine had met her at a circus arts class and suggested I meet her.
Elizabeth had moved to San Francisco after college. Her boyfriend had moved to the south to go to medical school. No matter how much she loved him, or how much her mother, an infertility specialist, urged her to have children as a young woman, she was not yet ready to start a family. She had a job offer as a consultant at an economics firm. So, in 2010, when she was 22, she moved west and they broke up.
Elizabeth had never before lived in a city. She knew the suburbs in Virginia where she had grown up, and the small New England town where she had attended college. She arrived in San Francisco and made friends, some through internet dating.
She met Wes one night in late 2010, when he accompanied one of her co-workers to a boardgame party at her house. For their first date, they attended Nerd Night at a local bar. They watched a lecture about the future of teledildonics. On the walk home, they kissed. Then Wes, with the transparency he thought of as mature and fair, gave a speech of pre-emptive relationship indemnity. He was still getting over his last girlfriend, he said. He did not want to be in a relationship. Elizabeth tried not to roll her eyes – it was the first date! They said goodnight and parted ways.
Wes had grown up in San Francisco, studied computer science at Harvard and returned west after graduation to work at Google. Somewhere along the upward incline of his precocious youth, he had skipped a grade and was still only 21, tall and handsome.
Wes’s previous serious relationship, the one before he met Elizabeth, had ended during his senior year of college. At the time he met Elizabeth, the discovery of how much he liked casual sex was still new to him.
Still, Elizabeth and Wes lived near each other. They began meeting once a week for drinks, dates and sleeping over, always with a show of nonchalance. Given the choice, Elizabeth would have wanted a more serious commitment. She was only 23, but she had one reaction to Wes’s lack of interest in their relationship: he was acting like a baby. Fine, she decided. She would also see other people.
A few weeks later, she met Brian, a graduate of Stanford who also worked in tech. Soon Elizabeth had two non-boyfriends. Neither relationship had the expectation of exclusivity, or any defined path into the future. She kept the two separate and never saw the men together. They balanced each other, one providing security against the possible failure of the other.
One day in May 2011, six months after they met, Elizabeth introduced Wes to psilocybin mushrooms. The trip shifted their relationship. They still did not use the word “love”, but they now acknowledged what they referred to as “emotional involvement”.
Elizabeth was hired at Google. They took the bus to its Mountain View complex and ate in the cafeteria together. When they went for dinner with Wes’s family, Elizabeth was presented as a friend.
Elizabeth did not describe what she was doing – having sex with two men on a regular basis over an extended period of time, with the occasional extra-relationship dalliance besides – as polyamory. The word had cultural connotations for her, of swinging married people or creepy old men.
Although, like most people her age, she had friends whose partnerships allowed for sex with others, those friends tended to use the term “open relationship”, which was somehow less infused with the stigma of intentional weirdness, and did not amount to a proclamation of sexual identity. (...)
They were not bothered, as I was, by the evidence that nonmonogamous arrangements had been rejected by the last generation of straight people who had tried them. I looked at the experiments of the 60s and 70s, and felt they had taught us that communes and other alternative arrangements that celebrated sexual freedom generally ended in jealousy and hurt feelings. We obedient children of the 80s and 90s saw the failures of the counterculture, and held ourselves in thrall to drug laws, health insurance, student loan payments, internships, condoms, skin protection factors, antidepressants, designated smoking areas, politically correct language, child safety locks, gym memberships, cancer screenings and career advancement. We had a nuanced understanding of risk.
by Emily Witt, The Guardian | Read more:
Image: Stephan Schmitz
Friday, December 16, 2016
North Carolina GOP Strips Some Power From Incoming Democratic Governor
[ed. Liberals are forever bringing flowers and peace signs to a knife fight. When will they ever learn? See also: Trump has a life many aspire to. That's one reason people voted for him.]
North Carolina Republicans stripped the incoming Democratic governor of some of his authority on Friday and were on the verge of an even greater power grab, an extraordinary move critics said flies in the face of voters.
Just last week, it appeared Republicans were ready to finally accept Democrats’ narrow win in a contentious governor’s race. As it turns out, they weren’t done fighting. In a surprise special session in the dying days of the old administration, some say the Republican-dominated legislature has thrown the government into total disarray, approving at least one bill aimed at emasculating incoming governor Roy Cooper’s administration.
Cooper, the current attorney general, has threatened to sue. And many in the state are accusing Republicans of letting sour grapes over losing the governor’s mansion turn into a legislative coup.
“I believe fervently in democracy. I’m watching it be undermined … by people who seem unwilling to consider or to listen,” said Margaret Toman, who was among hundreds of protesters rallying inside the legislative building this week, demanding that Republicans leave Cooper’s authority alone.
The protesters were so loud that the senate and house cleared the galleries – a highly unusual move – and more than two dozen people were arrested this week. Some protesters chanted “all political power comes from the people” as demonstrators were escorted from the legislative building by authorities. Those who remained could only watch the debate through glass windows or listen to it online.
Governor Pat McCrory, a Republican who lost to Cooper by about 10,000 votes, quickly signed into law a bill that merges the state board of elections and state ethics commission into one board composed equally of Democrats and Republicans, according to documents from general assembly staff. The previous state elections board law would have allowed Cooper to put a majority of Democrats on the panel.
The law would also make elections for appellate court judgeships officially partisan again.
Another bill nearing final legislative approval would force Cooper’s cabinet choices to be subject to senate confirmation.
McCrory’s office did not respond to phone calls and texts about the bills.
by AP via: The Guardian | Read more:
North Carolina Republicans stripped the incoming Democratic governor of some of his authority on Friday and were on the verge of an even greater power grab, an extraordinary move critics said flies in the face of voters.
Just last week, it appeared Republicans were ready to finally accept Democrats’ narrow win in a contentious governor’s race. As it turns out, they weren’t done fighting. In a surprise special session in the dying days of the old administration, some say the Republican-dominated legislature has thrown the government into total disarray, approving at least one bill aimed at emasculating incoming governor Roy Cooper’s administration.Cooper, the current attorney general, has threatened to sue. And many in the state are accusing Republicans of letting sour grapes over losing the governor’s mansion turn into a legislative coup.
“I believe fervently in democracy. I’m watching it be undermined … by people who seem unwilling to consider or to listen,” said Margaret Toman, who was among hundreds of protesters rallying inside the legislative building this week, demanding that Republicans leave Cooper’s authority alone.
The protesters were so loud that the senate and house cleared the galleries – a highly unusual move – and more than two dozen people were arrested this week. Some protesters chanted “all political power comes from the people” as demonstrators were escorted from the legislative building by authorities. Those who remained could only watch the debate through glass windows or listen to it online.
Governor Pat McCrory, a Republican who lost to Cooper by about 10,000 votes, quickly signed into law a bill that merges the state board of elections and state ethics commission into one board composed equally of Democrats and Republicans, according to documents from general assembly staff. The previous state elections board law would have allowed Cooper to put a majority of Democrats on the panel.
The law would also make elections for appellate court judgeships officially partisan again.
Another bill nearing final legislative approval would force Cooper’s cabinet choices to be subject to senate confirmation.
McCrory’s office did not respond to phone calls and texts about the bills.
by AP via: The Guardian | Read more:
Image: Jonathan Drake/Reuters
Seattle Wins NFC West Title
Image: Dean Rutz
[ed. They gotta lose the uniforms though. I told my son they looked like the Seattle Geckos (or Kermit the Frog).]
Thursday, December 15, 2016
Moving Stars
[ed. See also: My President Was Black (Ta-Nehisi Coates)]
The truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to watch that first strange meeting.
I knew President Obama would rise to the occasion, would do what needed to be done. But I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see him humbled, didn’t want to watch a dignified and decent president, the first black one the United States has known, forced to welcome a race-baiting demagogue to the People’s House.
But one can only turn so long from history.
So when Obama held a post-election press conference a few days later, I poured myself a glass of wine and buckled up, prepared to be depressed. But no—Obama came out smiling. Not the forced grimace of the defeated nor the smirk of the victor but a warm and genuine smile. He joked with the press corps about their question-stacking habits and spoke movingly about the death of journalist Gwen Ifill. He covered issues ranging from Syria to climate change, and for over an hour fielded questions about the election, the state of the nation, the President-elect. He calmly and understatedly made clear the difference between the man going out and the man coming in:
“This office is bigger than any one person. And that’s why ensuring a smooth transition is so important. It’s not something that the Constitution explicitly requires, but it is one of those norms that are vital to a functioning democracy—similar to norms of civility and tolerance, and a commitment to reason and facts and analysis. It’s part of what makes this country work. And as long as I’m President, we are going to uphold those norms and cherish and uphold those ideals.”
Hey, what’s the temperature there, in the presidential shade?
What was most striking during that hour-long exercise in leadership and maturity was not his steadiness, his tact and diplomacy in the face of defeat. What was most striking was just how undefeated Barack Obama really was.
Of all the accomplishments of Michelle and Barack Obama, individually and together, this may be their greatest: They leave the White House not only strong, but actually stronger than when they entered. All visible evidence points to two people utterly centered, at perfect peace with themselves, each other and their place in history.
See Michelle’s ease as she oversees the arrival of the White House Christmas tree or shushes yet another desperate voter calling for her to run for president. See her joke with James Corden and dance with Jimmy Fallon. See her going peacefully to bed on Election Night: “Once you do what you can do, you rest easy. It was in the hands of the American people. Anything I felt about the election, I said, and I stand by.” See her leave the White House more toned, more glamourous, and utterly, utterly self-assured.
See Barack smile as he serenades a child dressed like Prince for Halloween. See him stand side-by-side with Angela Merkel, world leaders on the world stage. See him politely welcome the man who unrelentingly and unceasingly promoted lies about his birth.
See the Obamas’ easy self-assurance despite eight years not only of Republican political obstruction, but personal vilification. See their glowing contentment despite a relentless questioning of their legitimacy as citizens, as leaders—and most pointedly as representatives of the United States. See their Gibraltar-like centeredness despite threats and public rantings, US congressmen screaming out “you lie” during a joint address, bumper stickers praying for their deaths, public officials comparing them to monkeys and apes, people working themselves into a frenzy because Michelle Obama pushed for healthier school lunches and reduced childhood obesity (Ted Cruz promised that his wife would bring French fries back to school lunches if he was elected).
The Clintons left the White House embattled and defensive, grimly plotting their return. George H. W. Bush evacuated to Texas to lick his one-term wounds while his son, done but dampened, ambled home to paint, leaving behind a nation on the verge of economic collapse. Jimmy Carter retreated south of the Mason-Dixie line utterly defeated, though later he resurrected himself. Even mild-mannered Gerald Ford left Washington vanquished, too hoarse to give his concession speech, bowing his head to the anger at pardoning his crooked former boss. Only Ronald Reagan departed the furnace as sunny and raven-haired and Teflon-coated as he entered (despite the assassination attempt), but Teflon eventually deteriorates.
The Obamas are not Teflon. The Obamas are Lonsdaleite. Even as our nation convulses and writhes, a king snake biting itself, the Obamas stand calm. America may well be broken. The Obamas are not.
Of course it is this very unassailable, meteorite-hard sense of self that so infuriates Obama’s enemies. That sends the Joe Wilsons into paroxysms of anger. That rankles the Ted Nugents and makes the small-town, public official racists in Indiana and Pennsylvania and West Virginia and Kentucky smack the send button on their ranting Facebook posts. Obama’s sense of self rankles and frightens not because his enemies really believe he “has a deep-seated hatred of white people,” (to quote a pre-enlightened Glenn Beck) but because they fear, deep in their little hearts, that Obama doesn’t much care about white people either way. Which is to say: Michelle and Barack Obama clearly love and respect many human beings, including close friends and family members, who happen to be white (which sets them apart from the 75 percent of white Americans who report that their core social network includes no people of a race different from their own). But with whiteness itself they are unimpressed.
This is their real crime.
This is their real crime, and every black American knows it: how many times have we ourselves stood accused. All it takes is a perceived “unfriendliness,” a declined lunch invitation, a disinterest in being the Best Black Friend. I’ve been labeled angry, aloof, and even uppity at institutions from Phillips Exeter Academy to the New York Times, and not once could the people who really knew me understand the origins of such projections. Once a friend (who happens to be white) pulled me aside at her dinner party to ask why the absent husband of one of the other guests had reacted with snarky anger to the mention of my name. I did not know this man, had never spoken to him, had seen him only in passing on the local school playgrounds and soccer fields. But he told my friend, “She walks around this town like she owns it!”
My friend was bewildered; she didn’t know what he meant. But I knew. He meant I engaged that town and those people as though I belonged there, as though, in my confidence of my right to be, I could focus my attention where I liked. Which was not on him. (...)
The Obamas leave Washington intact because they internalized none of the hatred which swirled around them. They were never victims, even when being viciously victimized. This may be their greatest legacy to us, if we allow it. We can all learn something from them. If it’s not already too late.
I knew President Obama would rise to the occasion, would do what needed to be done. But I didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see him humbled, didn’t want to watch a dignified and decent president, the first black one the United States has known, forced to welcome a race-baiting demagogue to the People’s House.
But one can only turn so long from history.
So when Obama held a post-election press conference a few days later, I poured myself a glass of wine and buckled up, prepared to be depressed. But no—Obama came out smiling. Not the forced grimace of the defeated nor the smirk of the victor but a warm and genuine smile. He joked with the press corps about their question-stacking habits and spoke movingly about the death of journalist Gwen Ifill. He covered issues ranging from Syria to climate change, and for over an hour fielded questions about the election, the state of the nation, the President-elect. He calmly and understatedly made clear the difference between the man going out and the man coming in:“This office is bigger than any one person. And that’s why ensuring a smooth transition is so important. It’s not something that the Constitution explicitly requires, but it is one of those norms that are vital to a functioning democracy—similar to norms of civility and tolerance, and a commitment to reason and facts and analysis. It’s part of what makes this country work. And as long as I’m President, we are going to uphold those norms and cherish and uphold those ideals.”
Hey, what’s the temperature there, in the presidential shade?
What was most striking during that hour-long exercise in leadership and maturity was not his steadiness, his tact and diplomacy in the face of defeat. What was most striking was just how undefeated Barack Obama really was.
Of all the accomplishments of Michelle and Barack Obama, individually and together, this may be their greatest: They leave the White House not only strong, but actually stronger than when they entered. All visible evidence points to two people utterly centered, at perfect peace with themselves, each other and their place in history.
See Michelle’s ease as she oversees the arrival of the White House Christmas tree or shushes yet another desperate voter calling for her to run for president. See her joke with James Corden and dance with Jimmy Fallon. See her going peacefully to bed on Election Night: “Once you do what you can do, you rest easy. It was in the hands of the American people. Anything I felt about the election, I said, and I stand by.” See her leave the White House more toned, more glamourous, and utterly, utterly self-assured.
See Barack smile as he serenades a child dressed like Prince for Halloween. See him stand side-by-side with Angela Merkel, world leaders on the world stage. See him politely welcome the man who unrelentingly and unceasingly promoted lies about his birth.
See the Obamas’ easy self-assurance despite eight years not only of Republican political obstruction, but personal vilification. See their glowing contentment despite a relentless questioning of their legitimacy as citizens, as leaders—and most pointedly as representatives of the United States. See their Gibraltar-like centeredness despite threats and public rantings, US congressmen screaming out “you lie” during a joint address, bumper stickers praying for their deaths, public officials comparing them to monkeys and apes, people working themselves into a frenzy because Michelle Obama pushed for healthier school lunches and reduced childhood obesity (Ted Cruz promised that his wife would bring French fries back to school lunches if he was elected).
The Clintons left the White House embattled and defensive, grimly plotting their return. George H. W. Bush evacuated to Texas to lick his one-term wounds while his son, done but dampened, ambled home to paint, leaving behind a nation on the verge of economic collapse. Jimmy Carter retreated south of the Mason-Dixie line utterly defeated, though later he resurrected himself. Even mild-mannered Gerald Ford left Washington vanquished, too hoarse to give his concession speech, bowing his head to the anger at pardoning his crooked former boss. Only Ronald Reagan departed the furnace as sunny and raven-haired and Teflon-coated as he entered (despite the assassination attempt), but Teflon eventually deteriorates.
The Obamas are not Teflon. The Obamas are Lonsdaleite. Even as our nation convulses and writhes, a king snake biting itself, the Obamas stand calm. America may well be broken. The Obamas are not.
Of course it is this very unassailable, meteorite-hard sense of self that so infuriates Obama’s enemies. That sends the Joe Wilsons into paroxysms of anger. That rankles the Ted Nugents and makes the small-town, public official racists in Indiana and Pennsylvania and West Virginia and Kentucky smack the send button on their ranting Facebook posts. Obama’s sense of self rankles and frightens not because his enemies really believe he “has a deep-seated hatred of white people,” (to quote a pre-enlightened Glenn Beck) but because they fear, deep in their little hearts, that Obama doesn’t much care about white people either way. Which is to say: Michelle and Barack Obama clearly love and respect many human beings, including close friends and family members, who happen to be white (which sets them apart from the 75 percent of white Americans who report that their core social network includes no people of a race different from their own). But with whiteness itself they are unimpressed.
This is their real crime.
This is their real crime, and every black American knows it: how many times have we ourselves stood accused. All it takes is a perceived “unfriendliness,” a declined lunch invitation, a disinterest in being the Best Black Friend. I’ve been labeled angry, aloof, and even uppity at institutions from Phillips Exeter Academy to the New York Times, and not once could the people who really knew me understand the origins of such projections. Once a friend (who happens to be white) pulled me aside at her dinner party to ask why the absent husband of one of the other guests had reacted with snarky anger to the mention of my name. I did not know this man, had never spoken to him, had seen him only in passing on the local school playgrounds and soccer fields. But he told my friend, “She walks around this town like she owns it!”
My friend was bewildered; she didn’t know what he meant. But I knew. He meant I engaged that town and those people as though I belonged there, as though, in my confidence of my right to be, I could focus my attention where I liked. Which was not on him. (...)
The Obamas leave Washington intact because they internalized none of the hatred which swirled around them. They were never victims, even when being viciously victimized. This may be their greatest legacy to us, if we allow it. We can all learn something from them. If it’s not already too late.
by Kim McLarin, TMN | Read more:
Image: Obama, Pink, 2010. Nicola Green
They Have, Right Now, Another You
A few months ago The Washington Post reported that Facebook collects ninety-eight data points on each of its nearly two billion users. Among this ninety-eight are ethnicity, income, net worth, home value, if you are a mom, if you are a soccer mom, if you are married, the number of lines of credit you have, if you are interested in Ramadan, when you bought your car, and on and on and on.
How and where does Facebook acquire these bits and pieces of one’s personal life and identity? First, from information users volunteer, like relationship status, age, and university affiliation. They also come from Facebook posts of vacation pictures and baby pictures and graduation pictures. These do not have to be photos one posts oneself: Facebook’s facial recognition software can pick you out of a crowd. Facebook also follows users across the Internet, disregarding their “do not track” settings as it stalks them. It knows every time a user visits a website that has a Facebook “like” button, for example, which most websites do.
The company also buys personal information from some of the five thousand data brokers worldwide, who collect information from store loyalty cards, warranties, pharmacy records, pay stubs, and some of the ten million public data sets available for harvest. Municipalities also sell data—voter registrations and motor vehicle information, for example, and death notices, foreclosure declarations, and business registrations, to name a few. In theory, all these data points are being collected by Facebook in order to tailor ads to sell us stuff we want, but in fact they are being sold by Facebook to advertisers for the simple reason that the company can make a lot of money doing so.
Not long ago I dug into the depths of Facebook to see what information it was using to tailor ads for me. This is a different set of preferences and a different algorithm—a set of instructions to carry out an operation—than the one Facebook uses to determine which stories it is going to display on my so-called news feed, the ever-changing assortment of photos and posts from my Facebook friends and from websites I’ve “liked.” These ad preferences are the coin of the Facebook realm; the company made $2.3 billion in the third quarter of 2016 alone, up from about $900 million in the same three months last year.
And here is some of what I discovered about myself according to Facebook:
That I am interested in the categories of “farm, money, the Republican Party, happiness, gummy candy, and flight attendants” based on what Facebook says I do on Facebook itself. Based on ads Facebook believes I’ve looked at somewhere—anywhere—in my Internet travels, I’m also interested in magnetic resonance imaging, The Cave of Forgotten Dreams, and thriller movies. Facebook also believes I have liked Facebook pages devoted to Tyrannosaurus rex, Puffy AmiYumi, cookie dough, and a wrestler named the Edge.
But I did not like any of those pages, as a quick scan of my “liked” pages would show. Until I did this research, I had never heard of the Edge or the Japanese duo Puffy AmiYumi, and as someone with celiac disease, I am constitutionally unable to like cookie dough. I did “like” the page of the Flint, Michigan, female boxing sensation Claressa Shields, whose nickname is “T-Rex.” And that is as close as Facebook got to matching my actual likes to the categories it says—to advertisers—that I’m keen on.
And this is odd, because if there is one incontrovertible thing that Facebook knows about me, it’s the Facebook pages that I have actively liked. But maybe I am more valuable to Facebook if I am presented as someone who likes Puffy AmiYumi, with its tens of thousands of fans, rather than a local band called Dugway, which has less than a thousand. But I will never know, since the composition of Facebook’s algorithms, like Google’s and other tech companies’, is a closely guarded secret. (...)
Advertisements show up on our Internet browser or Facebook page or Gmail and we tend to think they are there because some company is trying to sell us something it believes we want based on our browsing history or what we’ve said in an e-mail or what we were searching for on Google. We probably don’t think they are there because we live in a particular neighborhood, or hang out with certain kinds of people, or that we have been scored a particular and obscure way by a pointillist rendering of our lives. And most likely, we don’t imagine we are seeing those ads because an algorithm has determined that we are losers or easy marks or members of a particular ethnic or racial group.
As O’Neil points out, preferences and habits and zip codes and status updates are also used to create predatory ads, “ads that pinpoint people in great need and sell them false or overpriced promises.” People with poor credit may be offered payday loans; people with dead-end jobs may be offered expensive courses at for-profit colleges. The idea, O’Neil writes, “is to locate the most vulnerable people and then use their private information against them. This involves finding where they suffer the most, which is known as the ‘pain point.’”
We have known for years that Internet commerce sites like Amazon and travel companies like Orbitz and Expedia price items according to who they say we are—where we live, our incomes, our previous purchases. And often, paradoxically, the rich pay less. Or in the case of Asian high school students signing up for Princeton Review college testing courses, or Orbitz patrons logging in on Mac computers, they pay more. Such dynamic pricing is getting more sophisticated and even more opaque. A British retailer, for example, is testing electronic price tags that display an item’s price based on who is looking at it, which it knows from the customer’s mobile phone, just as it knows that customer’s previous spending habits, also from the phone. Facebook may have ninety-eight data points on each user, but the data brokerage Acxiom has 1,500, and they are all for sale to be aggregated and diced and tossed into formulas beyond our reach.
We give our data away. We give it away in drips and drops, not thinking that data brokers will collect it and sell it, let alone that it will be used against us. There are now private, unregulated DNA databases culled, in part, from DNA samples people supply to genealogical websites in pursuit of their ancestry. These samples are available online to be compared with crime scene DNA without a warrant or court order. (Police are also amassing their own DNA databases by swabbing cheeks during routine stops.) In the estimation of the Electronic Frontier Foundation, this will make it more likely that people will be implicated in crimes they did not commit.
Or consider the data from fitness trackers, like Fitbit. As reported in The Intercept:
Meanwhile, every time you hail an Uber car or use Google Maps, to name two mobile applications, you are revealing your location and leaving a trail for others—certainly the police, possibly hackers and other criminals, and definitely commercial interests—to follow and exploit. Not long ago I was at a restaurant in New York when I got a message congratulating me for my choice of dining venues and informing me of the day’s specials. Though I hadn’t used Google Maps to get there, just by having location services activated on my phone I was fair game—a sitting duck.
Aside from the creepy factor, does it matter? That’s the question we need to ask ourselves and one another.
Chances are, if you query most people who use Facebook or Google products or ride in Uber cars or post selfies on Twitter if they mind that their personal information is being sold like the commodity it is, they will tell you that this is a small and largely inconsequential price to pay for the convenience of free turn-by-turn directions or e-mail or staying in touch with old friends. Chances are they will tell you that handing over bits and pieces of personal information is the cost of doing business, even when the real business is not what they are getting but what they are handing over.
If it is true, as Mark Zuckerberg has said, that privacy is no longer a social norm, at what point does it also cease to be a political norm? At what point does the primacy of the individual over the state, or civil liberties, or limited government also slip away? Because it would be naive to think that governments are not interested in our buying habits, or where we were at 4 PM yesterday, or who our friends are. Intelligence agencies and the police buy data from brokers, too. They do it to bypass laws that restrict their own ability to collect personal data; they do it because it is cheap; and they do it because commercial databases are multifaceted, powerful, and robust. (...)
It would be naive to think that there is a firewall between commercial surveillance and government surveillance. There is not.
How and where does Facebook acquire these bits and pieces of one’s personal life and identity? First, from information users volunteer, like relationship status, age, and university affiliation. They also come from Facebook posts of vacation pictures and baby pictures and graduation pictures. These do not have to be photos one posts oneself: Facebook’s facial recognition software can pick you out of a crowd. Facebook also follows users across the Internet, disregarding their “do not track” settings as it stalks them. It knows every time a user visits a website that has a Facebook “like” button, for example, which most websites do.
The company also buys personal information from some of the five thousand data brokers worldwide, who collect information from store loyalty cards, warranties, pharmacy records, pay stubs, and some of the ten million public data sets available for harvest. Municipalities also sell data—voter registrations and motor vehicle information, for example, and death notices, foreclosure declarations, and business registrations, to name a few. In theory, all these data points are being collected by Facebook in order to tailor ads to sell us stuff we want, but in fact they are being sold by Facebook to advertisers for the simple reason that the company can make a lot of money doing so.Not long ago I dug into the depths of Facebook to see what information it was using to tailor ads for me. This is a different set of preferences and a different algorithm—a set of instructions to carry out an operation—than the one Facebook uses to determine which stories it is going to display on my so-called news feed, the ever-changing assortment of photos and posts from my Facebook friends and from websites I’ve “liked.” These ad preferences are the coin of the Facebook realm; the company made $2.3 billion in the third quarter of 2016 alone, up from about $900 million in the same three months last year.
And here is some of what I discovered about myself according to Facebook:
That I am interested in the categories of “farm, money, the Republican Party, happiness, gummy candy, and flight attendants” based on what Facebook says I do on Facebook itself. Based on ads Facebook believes I’ve looked at somewhere—anywhere—in my Internet travels, I’m also interested in magnetic resonance imaging, The Cave of Forgotten Dreams, and thriller movies. Facebook also believes I have liked Facebook pages devoted to Tyrannosaurus rex, Puffy AmiYumi, cookie dough, and a wrestler named the Edge.
But I did not like any of those pages, as a quick scan of my “liked” pages would show. Until I did this research, I had never heard of the Edge or the Japanese duo Puffy AmiYumi, and as someone with celiac disease, I am constitutionally unable to like cookie dough. I did “like” the page of the Flint, Michigan, female boxing sensation Claressa Shields, whose nickname is “T-Rex.” And that is as close as Facebook got to matching my actual likes to the categories it says—to advertisers—that I’m keen on.
And this is odd, because if there is one incontrovertible thing that Facebook knows about me, it’s the Facebook pages that I have actively liked. But maybe I am more valuable to Facebook if I am presented as someone who likes Puffy AmiYumi, with its tens of thousands of fans, rather than a local band called Dugway, which has less than a thousand. But I will never know, since the composition of Facebook’s algorithms, like Google’s and other tech companies’, is a closely guarded secret. (...)
Advertisements show up on our Internet browser or Facebook page or Gmail and we tend to think they are there because some company is trying to sell us something it believes we want based on our browsing history or what we’ve said in an e-mail or what we were searching for on Google. We probably don’t think they are there because we live in a particular neighborhood, or hang out with certain kinds of people, or that we have been scored a particular and obscure way by a pointillist rendering of our lives. And most likely, we don’t imagine we are seeing those ads because an algorithm has determined that we are losers or easy marks or members of a particular ethnic or racial group.
As O’Neil points out, preferences and habits and zip codes and status updates are also used to create predatory ads, “ads that pinpoint people in great need and sell them false or overpriced promises.” People with poor credit may be offered payday loans; people with dead-end jobs may be offered expensive courses at for-profit colleges. The idea, O’Neil writes, “is to locate the most vulnerable people and then use their private information against them. This involves finding where they suffer the most, which is known as the ‘pain point.’”
We have known for years that Internet commerce sites like Amazon and travel companies like Orbitz and Expedia price items according to who they say we are—where we live, our incomes, our previous purchases. And often, paradoxically, the rich pay less. Or in the case of Asian high school students signing up for Princeton Review college testing courses, or Orbitz patrons logging in on Mac computers, they pay more. Such dynamic pricing is getting more sophisticated and even more opaque. A British retailer, for example, is testing electronic price tags that display an item’s price based on who is looking at it, which it knows from the customer’s mobile phone, just as it knows that customer’s previous spending habits, also from the phone. Facebook may have ninety-eight data points on each user, but the data brokerage Acxiom has 1,500, and they are all for sale to be aggregated and diced and tossed into formulas beyond our reach.
We give our data away. We give it away in drips and drops, not thinking that data brokers will collect it and sell it, let alone that it will be used against us. There are now private, unregulated DNA databases culled, in part, from DNA samples people supply to genealogical websites in pursuit of their ancestry. These samples are available online to be compared with crime scene DNA without a warrant or court order. (Police are also amassing their own DNA databases by swabbing cheeks during routine stops.) In the estimation of the Electronic Frontier Foundation, this will make it more likely that people will be implicated in crimes they did not commit.
Or consider the data from fitness trackers, like Fitbit. As reported in The Intercept:
During a 2013 FTC panel on “Connected Health and Fitness,” University of Colorado law professor Scott Peppet said, “I can paint an incredibly detailed and rich picture of who you are based on your Fitbit data,” adding, “That data is so high quality that I can do things like price insurance premiums or I could probably evaluate your credit score incredibly accurately.”Consider, too, that if you take one of the random personality quizzes that consistently show up on Facebook—“What your handwriting says about you”—there’s a good chance it will be used by a company called Cambridge Analytica to gain access not only to your OCEAN score but to your Facebook profile, including your name. (According to The New York Times, Cambridge Analytica was advising the Trump campaign.)
Meanwhile, every time you hail an Uber car or use Google Maps, to name two mobile applications, you are revealing your location and leaving a trail for others—certainly the police, possibly hackers and other criminals, and definitely commercial interests—to follow and exploit. Not long ago I was at a restaurant in New York when I got a message congratulating me for my choice of dining venues and informing me of the day’s specials. Though I hadn’t used Google Maps to get there, just by having location services activated on my phone I was fair game—a sitting duck.
Aside from the creepy factor, does it matter? That’s the question we need to ask ourselves and one another.
Chances are, if you query most people who use Facebook or Google products or ride in Uber cars or post selfies on Twitter if they mind that their personal information is being sold like the commodity it is, they will tell you that this is a small and largely inconsequential price to pay for the convenience of free turn-by-turn directions or e-mail or staying in touch with old friends. Chances are they will tell you that handing over bits and pieces of personal information is the cost of doing business, even when the real business is not what they are getting but what they are handing over.
If it is true, as Mark Zuckerberg has said, that privacy is no longer a social norm, at what point does it also cease to be a political norm? At what point does the primacy of the individual over the state, or civil liberties, or limited government also slip away? Because it would be naive to think that governments are not interested in our buying habits, or where we were at 4 PM yesterday, or who our friends are. Intelligence agencies and the police buy data from brokers, too. They do it to bypass laws that restrict their own ability to collect personal data; they do it because it is cheap; and they do it because commercial databases are multifaceted, powerful, and robust. (...)
It would be naive to think that there is a firewall between commercial surveillance and government surveillance. There is not.
by Sue Halpern, NYRB | Read more:
Image: Stephen Crowley/The New York Times/Redux
I Hate My Dogs (I Love My Dogs)
People react differently to our canine situation. From what they say, I glean information about their natures. Of course, one way or another, they judge us—our dogs provide a morality play all their own.
We’re a family of four, or of six: two adults and two kids (ages fourteen and eleven), with two dogs. They’re relatively small dogs, although not (we like to believe) obscenely so. Myshkin is a standard-sized, red, short-haired dachshund whose antiquity is in some dispute: she came to us as a puppy in the fall either of 1998 or of 1999, so long ago we can’t remember. Her junior consort, Bear, a rescue mutt, joined the family back in 2009, at which point he was said to be about eighteen months old. Part terrier and part min-pin, he’s toffee-colored, scruffy and professorial in aspect, with wiry legs and, once upon a time, amazing speed and agility. (Myshkin, incidentally, means “little mouse” in Russian, so we have, in name at least, two non-canine creatures; though only the first was named after the protagonist of The Idiot.)
At this point, Myshkin the matriarch, still silky and fine-featured, is deaf, blind, intermittently incontinent and increasingly weak on her pins. Her sturdy front legs splay and slide with the effort of standing, and her back legs have a way of collapsing. She ends up reclining—like the Queen of Sheba or a beached whale, depending on your perspective—in unlikely places, occasionally almost in her own excrement, which makes constant vigilance imperative. She’s so demented that half the time when you take her outside, she remains immobile but for her wagging tail, apparently unclear why she’s there.
Oh, and did I mention that she reeks? Not just a bit of dog-breath, or even the comparatively pleasant scent of wet dog. It’s a holistic foulness, emanating not just from her mouth, which smells like the garbage can behind the fishmonger’s (hence her nickname: Fishbin), but at this point from her entire body, which, in spite of frequent bathing, carries about it the odor of a dung-heap in hot weather. Her stench precedes her, and lingers in a room after she’s left. It’s hard to sit next to her, let alone take her on your lap, without gasping at the fecal, fishy gusts.
The worst of it, though, is her constant state of existential crisis, which has her either moaning or, more unnervingly, barking, for hours at a stretch. Dachshunds, though small dogs, have big dog barks: they bark loudly, deeply and resonantly, in a way that can’t be ignored. Our house isn’t big, so we’re never far from her barking. She’s barking right now, in fact. If the phone rings, you can’t hear what the caller says. If the radio or television is on, you won’t catch that either. But you can’t stop the barking: lift her onto the sofa; take her off again; check her water dish; take her outside; through it all, with but a few minutes’ respite, she will bark, and bark, and bark. And bark. Like a metronome. Sometimes, when we have dinner guests, we stash her, barking, in the car.
She was supercute as a puppy. We chose her from the litter because she was the first to run to us and nuzzle our ankles; though we quickly came to understand that food is her first and abiding passion, and she may simply have thought we had some to offer. Scent is the one sense really left to her, and she can still sniff out a candy bar in a closed handbag, or a cookie crumb underneath the fridge. It pleases her enormously to do so—the thrill of the hunt! And she can still thump her tail magnificently when caressed. We have adored her, and made much of her, lo these many years, and have overlooked some significant disadvantages (e.g., a lamentable penchant for coprophagia). Before we had kids, she slept on our bed; and latterly, in her great age, as she has taken up existential barking in the dead of night, she sleeps on our bed all over again, although now on a special (smelly) blanket at its foot, with a towel over her head. Myshkin rules the roost; but Bear, too, has his ways. He was, when first he came to us, runty but beautiful, and restless. He could run like a gazelle, and, in the early months, skittish, took any chance to do so: he chomped through leashes and harnesses, he opened doors with his snout, he darted and feinted and fled. Half a dozen times we had to enlist bands of strangers—at the reservoir; on our block; in the parking lot at Target—to help catch him. You felt you got him in the end only because he let you. He could jump, too: one leap up onto the kitchen table, if you weren’t looking, to eat a stick of butter. A single bound onto a wall, or down again. He was fearless.
I loved to walk him. I’ll confess: I was vain about it. He was so dapper and elegant, so handsome and swift. After years of plodding along beside the plump-breasted dowager Myshkin, whose little legs and long body have dignity and power but not much élan (I’ve always maintained that dachshunds really do understand the absurdity of life), I was delighted to dash around the block in minutes, witness to his graceful sashays. And I loved the compliments—he got so many compliments! A certain type of person loves a dachshund (“My grandmother used to have one of those; his name was Fritzie”); but anyone who tolerates dogs was taken by Bear. He had something about him, a star quality.
One late January evening in 2009, when my husband was out of town and a cousin was visiting, when I was in charge of the kids (then eight and five), the dinner, the dogs and life, I took Bear for his twilight round. (It should be said that we’ve never been able to walk both dogs simultaneously, because their ideas of “a walk” differ so vastly.) Regrettably, I was multitasking: I had the dog, the bag of poo, and some letters to mail, and I was on the phone to my parents, who were then alive but ailing, and to whom I spoke every evening without fail. I’d almost finished the round of the block, was up on the main road at the mailbox, when, while trying to manipulate the leash, the poo, the phone, the letters and the handle to the mailbox, I dropped the leash. It was the stretchy kind, its handle a large slab of red plastic; it made a noisy thud on the icy pavement.
Bear panicked, and bolted. I slammed my foot down on the leash. I was wearing clogs with ridged soles; the icy ground was uneven; and the leash, being the stretchy kind, was thin as a wire. I didn’t catch it with my shoe. I stomped again, and again: too late. Bear dashed out into the rush hour traffic. All my parents could hear down the dropped cell phone line was my long wail. (...)
I didn’t mention earlier that the handsome Bear came to us with a fatal flaw. We suspect it may be why he ended up in that kill shelter in Georgia in the first place, when someone had clearly bothered to teach him to sit, to stay, even to stand on his hind legs. Bear is a widdler. When the postman comes—or the UPS guy, or the FedEx truck; and because we’re book people, they, too, come almost daily—Bear erupts: he dashes to the door, hopping up and down in a fury; the hair on the back of his neck stands up; he roars for all he’s worth and bares his tiny fangs. Unlike Myshkin, who has a grown-up bark, Bear has an awful, little-dog shriek, an indignity. And then, when he’s danced around in his rage for a while, he all too often lifts his leg against a chair or sofa leg and sprinkles a few rebellious drops, just to make a point, sort of like flipping the finger at the guy at the door. (...)
So, to recap: we have the obstreperous, incessantly barking, stinky old deaf and blind dog who can’t really stand up; and the completely blind pisser. Whenever we travel anywhere, they stay in a wonderful (spectacularly smelly) old house in Reading, where dogs are free to roam and a bevy of loving young women tend to their needs. It’s like paying for a spa vacation for two extra kids. But we couldn’t ask anyone else to take care of them: one animal virtually can’t walk, the other ambles at his own sniffy pace (where once he looked always ahead and darted onward, Bear can now take half an hour to circle the block). One risks incontinence at unforeseen moments; the other, highly predictable in his incontinence, is virtually unstoppable. Myshkin needs to sleep with humans at night; Bear needs to go outside every three hours in the daytime. Who, we say, who could possibly put up with them?
As you can tell, we complain about our dogs. We berate the barking, perorate about the pissing, lament our enslavement, and throw up our hands at the bad smells. We curse when on our knees cleaning carpets; we curse when trying to quell the crazed barking at four in the morning; we curse when one or other of the dogs vomits yet again. My husband always jokes that a true vacation is when the dogs are in the kennel and we’re at home without them. But we also stroke them and kiss them and hug them and worry about them. (My husband is always concerned that they’re bored. Bear has grown quite stout from the snacks provided to alleviate his boredom, a beneficence I can’t condone.) When we’re in the house without them, we’re baffled by the silence, and amazed by the free space and time (separate walks amount to seven or eight outings a day). We have, it’s fair to say, a love-hate relationship with the animals.
This is where people have opinions. When you tell people about our canine situation, many can’t believe it. They see it as our moral failing that the dogs are still alive. “Get rid of them,” they urge scornfully. “What are you thinking?” We’ve been told that the dogs’ behavior is a reflection upon our characters, that were we better alpha dogs ourselves, our pack wouldn’t misbehave as they do. We’ve been told that we are weak, and that we owe it to our children to have these dogs put down. One friend even suggested that we’re heartless to keep Myshkin going when she’s lost so many of her faculties; although the vet, whom we visit repeatedly in hopes that she’ll tell us when it’s time, will give us divine dispensation, assures us that Myshkin is doing just great.
Then there are those on the other side. They don’t just forgive us, they pat us gently on the back, offer quiet encouragement—“Good for you” or “It must be tough.” Or they see it as hilarious, part of life’s wondrous absurdity. Sometimes people even see it as an act of Christian charity. Or as a case of do-as-you-would-be-done-by. Or just plain old love. We prefer this, needless to say, to contempt and derision.
Really, of course, the difference is between those who believe that each of us controls our destiny and has a right to freedom; and those who don’t. The former contend that we have the right, even the responsibility, to exert our wills, certainly over dumb animals, in order to maintain order and keep healthy boundaries. It’s the only path to sanity, righteousness and good action; and keeping these dogs in our lives is just sentimental claptrap. On the other hand are those who feel that life is a mucky muddle, in which unforeseen situations arise, and possibly endure; and that we must care as best we can for those around us, whatever befalls them, with faith that a similar mercy may be shown us in due course.
by Claire Messud, LitHub | Read more:
Image: uncredited
We’re a family of four, or of six: two adults and two kids (ages fourteen and eleven), with two dogs. They’re relatively small dogs, although not (we like to believe) obscenely so. Myshkin is a standard-sized, red, short-haired dachshund whose antiquity is in some dispute: she came to us as a puppy in the fall either of 1998 or of 1999, so long ago we can’t remember. Her junior consort, Bear, a rescue mutt, joined the family back in 2009, at which point he was said to be about eighteen months old. Part terrier and part min-pin, he’s toffee-colored, scruffy and professorial in aspect, with wiry legs and, once upon a time, amazing speed and agility. (Myshkin, incidentally, means “little mouse” in Russian, so we have, in name at least, two non-canine creatures; though only the first was named after the protagonist of The Idiot.)
At this point, Myshkin the matriarch, still silky and fine-featured, is deaf, blind, intermittently incontinent and increasingly weak on her pins. Her sturdy front legs splay and slide with the effort of standing, and her back legs have a way of collapsing. She ends up reclining—like the Queen of Sheba or a beached whale, depending on your perspective—in unlikely places, occasionally almost in her own excrement, which makes constant vigilance imperative. She’s so demented that half the time when you take her outside, she remains immobile but for her wagging tail, apparently unclear why she’s there.Oh, and did I mention that she reeks? Not just a bit of dog-breath, or even the comparatively pleasant scent of wet dog. It’s a holistic foulness, emanating not just from her mouth, which smells like the garbage can behind the fishmonger’s (hence her nickname: Fishbin), but at this point from her entire body, which, in spite of frequent bathing, carries about it the odor of a dung-heap in hot weather. Her stench precedes her, and lingers in a room after she’s left. It’s hard to sit next to her, let alone take her on your lap, without gasping at the fecal, fishy gusts.
The worst of it, though, is her constant state of existential crisis, which has her either moaning or, more unnervingly, barking, for hours at a stretch. Dachshunds, though small dogs, have big dog barks: they bark loudly, deeply and resonantly, in a way that can’t be ignored. Our house isn’t big, so we’re never far from her barking. She’s barking right now, in fact. If the phone rings, you can’t hear what the caller says. If the radio or television is on, you won’t catch that either. But you can’t stop the barking: lift her onto the sofa; take her off again; check her water dish; take her outside; through it all, with but a few minutes’ respite, she will bark, and bark, and bark. And bark. Like a metronome. Sometimes, when we have dinner guests, we stash her, barking, in the car.
She was supercute as a puppy. We chose her from the litter because she was the first to run to us and nuzzle our ankles; though we quickly came to understand that food is her first and abiding passion, and she may simply have thought we had some to offer. Scent is the one sense really left to her, and she can still sniff out a candy bar in a closed handbag, or a cookie crumb underneath the fridge. It pleases her enormously to do so—the thrill of the hunt! And she can still thump her tail magnificently when caressed. We have adored her, and made much of her, lo these many years, and have overlooked some significant disadvantages (e.g., a lamentable penchant for coprophagia). Before we had kids, she slept on our bed; and latterly, in her great age, as she has taken up existential barking in the dead of night, she sleeps on our bed all over again, although now on a special (smelly) blanket at its foot, with a towel over her head. Myshkin rules the roost; but Bear, too, has his ways. He was, when first he came to us, runty but beautiful, and restless. He could run like a gazelle, and, in the early months, skittish, took any chance to do so: he chomped through leashes and harnesses, he opened doors with his snout, he darted and feinted and fled. Half a dozen times we had to enlist bands of strangers—at the reservoir; on our block; in the parking lot at Target—to help catch him. You felt you got him in the end only because he let you. He could jump, too: one leap up onto the kitchen table, if you weren’t looking, to eat a stick of butter. A single bound onto a wall, or down again. He was fearless.
I loved to walk him. I’ll confess: I was vain about it. He was so dapper and elegant, so handsome and swift. After years of plodding along beside the plump-breasted dowager Myshkin, whose little legs and long body have dignity and power but not much élan (I’ve always maintained that dachshunds really do understand the absurdity of life), I was delighted to dash around the block in minutes, witness to his graceful sashays. And I loved the compliments—he got so many compliments! A certain type of person loves a dachshund (“My grandmother used to have one of those; his name was Fritzie”); but anyone who tolerates dogs was taken by Bear. He had something about him, a star quality.
One late January evening in 2009, when my husband was out of town and a cousin was visiting, when I was in charge of the kids (then eight and five), the dinner, the dogs and life, I took Bear for his twilight round. (It should be said that we’ve never been able to walk both dogs simultaneously, because their ideas of “a walk” differ so vastly.) Regrettably, I was multitasking: I had the dog, the bag of poo, and some letters to mail, and I was on the phone to my parents, who were then alive but ailing, and to whom I spoke every evening without fail. I’d almost finished the round of the block, was up on the main road at the mailbox, when, while trying to manipulate the leash, the poo, the phone, the letters and the handle to the mailbox, I dropped the leash. It was the stretchy kind, its handle a large slab of red plastic; it made a noisy thud on the icy pavement.
Bear panicked, and bolted. I slammed my foot down on the leash. I was wearing clogs with ridged soles; the icy ground was uneven; and the leash, being the stretchy kind, was thin as a wire. I didn’t catch it with my shoe. I stomped again, and again: too late. Bear dashed out into the rush hour traffic. All my parents could hear down the dropped cell phone line was my long wail. (...)
I didn’t mention earlier that the handsome Bear came to us with a fatal flaw. We suspect it may be why he ended up in that kill shelter in Georgia in the first place, when someone had clearly bothered to teach him to sit, to stay, even to stand on his hind legs. Bear is a widdler. When the postman comes—or the UPS guy, or the FedEx truck; and because we’re book people, they, too, come almost daily—Bear erupts: he dashes to the door, hopping up and down in a fury; the hair on the back of his neck stands up; he roars for all he’s worth and bares his tiny fangs. Unlike Myshkin, who has a grown-up bark, Bear has an awful, little-dog shriek, an indignity. And then, when he’s danced around in his rage for a while, he all too often lifts his leg against a chair or sofa leg and sprinkles a few rebellious drops, just to make a point, sort of like flipping the finger at the guy at the door. (...)
So, to recap: we have the obstreperous, incessantly barking, stinky old deaf and blind dog who can’t really stand up; and the completely blind pisser. Whenever we travel anywhere, they stay in a wonderful (spectacularly smelly) old house in Reading, where dogs are free to roam and a bevy of loving young women tend to their needs. It’s like paying for a spa vacation for two extra kids. But we couldn’t ask anyone else to take care of them: one animal virtually can’t walk, the other ambles at his own sniffy pace (where once he looked always ahead and darted onward, Bear can now take half an hour to circle the block). One risks incontinence at unforeseen moments; the other, highly predictable in his incontinence, is virtually unstoppable. Myshkin needs to sleep with humans at night; Bear needs to go outside every three hours in the daytime. Who, we say, who could possibly put up with them?
As you can tell, we complain about our dogs. We berate the barking, perorate about the pissing, lament our enslavement, and throw up our hands at the bad smells. We curse when on our knees cleaning carpets; we curse when trying to quell the crazed barking at four in the morning; we curse when one or other of the dogs vomits yet again. My husband always jokes that a true vacation is when the dogs are in the kennel and we’re at home without them. But we also stroke them and kiss them and hug them and worry about them. (My husband is always concerned that they’re bored. Bear has grown quite stout from the snacks provided to alleviate his boredom, a beneficence I can’t condone.) When we’re in the house without them, we’re baffled by the silence, and amazed by the free space and time (separate walks amount to seven or eight outings a day). We have, it’s fair to say, a love-hate relationship with the animals.
This is where people have opinions. When you tell people about our canine situation, many can’t believe it. They see it as our moral failing that the dogs are still alive. “Get rid of them,” they urge scornfully. “What are you thinking?” We’ve been told that the dogs’ behavior is a reflection upon our characters, that were we better alpha dogs ourselves, our pack wouldn’t misbehave as they do. We’ve been told that we are weak, and that we owe it to our children to have these dogs put down. One friend even suggested that we’re heartless to keep Myshkin going when she’s lost so many of her faculties; although the vet, whom we visit repeatedly in hopes that she’ll tell us when it’s time, will give us divine dispensation, assures us that Myshkin is doing just great.
Then there are those on the other side. They don’t just forgive us, they pat us gently on the back, offer quiet encouragement—“Good for you” or “It must be tough.” Or they see it as hilarious, part of life’s wondrous absurdity. Sometimes people even see it as an act of Christian charity. Or as a case of do-as-you-would-be-done-by. Or just plain old love. We prefer this, needless to say, to contempt and derision.
Really, of course, the difference is between those who believe that each of us controls our destiny and has a right to freedom; and those who don’t. The former contend that we have the right, even the responsibility, to exert our wills, certainly over dumb animals, in order to maintain order and keep healthy boundaries. It’s the only path to sanity, righteousness and good action; and keeping these dogs in our lives is just sentimental claptrap. On the other hand are those who feel that life is a mucky muddle, in which unforeseen situations arise, and possibly endure; and that we must care as best we can for those around us, whatever befalls them, with faith that a similar mercy may be shown us in due course.
by Claire Messud, LitHub | Read more:
Image: uncredited
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Platforms
A platform is a system that enables other systems: A machine provides a platform for software; the software provides a platform for other software; that software might provide a platform for yet more software; and so on. The iPhone platform lets outside parties build and market apps like Uber; the Uber platform lets outside parties sign up to drive other Uber users for money. (...)
Somewhere between media and social media — between familiar ideas about politics and the news and the ones that underpin the world we live in today — platforms changed from responsibilities into abdications of responsibility. Claiming to provide a platform, in Silicon Valley, doesn’t demand defense. It is the defense. Platforms don’t cause problems; people do.
The closest thing the new world of platforms has to a foundational text is a business book called “Invisible Engines,” published in 2006, which examined and tried to define a nascent form of business: one that doesn’t just sell a good or service, but instead creates value by spawning entire ecosystems and economies. Nintendo and Sega, for example, allowed game developers to create and sell games that ran on their machines; smartphones let software companies connect with customers through app stores; eBay connects merchants and sellers, creating transactions but selling nothing itself. The book makes the prescient case that platforms will come to redefine our economy.
“The platform’s value is not necessarily what it does,” says Andrei Hagiu, a visiting associate professor at M.I.T. and one of the book’s authors, “but what it enables.” And what it enables can be enormous. It would be difficult to overstate the zeal that exists for platform companies in Silicon Valley. They represent staggering opportunities, the chance to create or remake entire industries and to preside over them indefinitely, with maximum control and minimum participation or liability. Airbnb has created a marketplace that overlaps substantially with the hotel business, but the properties it rents to users are owned by other users. (The company recently filed a federal lawsuit challenging a New York law that could result in fines against Airbnb for illegally listed properties; it agreed to drop the suit on the condition that fines be levied only against people listing property, not the company itself.) Uber created a sort of marketplace for transportation but doesn’t own its vehicles nor — it claims, over and over, in courts all across the globe — does it employ its drivers.
But the platform economies that are most developed and that have captured the most people — the ones that transact on attention, advertising and communication — are not immediately recognizable to their users as marketplaces. Facebook is not primarily understood among its billion and a half users as an attention brokerage, but that’s exactly what it is: a middleman between users and other users; between advertisers and users; between developers and users; between publishers and advertisers and their viewers and readers.
Participants successfully contribute to the broader marketplace by inducing other participants to engage more; beyond shares and followers, success is rewarded off-platform, with the conversion of attention into relationships, into advertising on websites, into sales or into influence and political power. Social platforms are the most extreme and advanced expression of what may be the defining corporate strategy of our time.
by John Herrman, NY Times | Read more:
Somewhere between media and social media — between familiar ideas about politics and the news and the ones that underpin the world we live in today — platforms changed from responsibilities into abdications of responsibility. Claiming to provide a platform, in Silicon Valley, doesn’t demand defense. It is the defense. Platforms don’t cause problems; people do.
The closest thing the new world of platforms has to a foundational text is a business book called “Invisible Engines,” published in 2006, which examined and tried to define a nascent form of business: one that doesn’t just sell a good or service, but instead creates value by spawning entire ecosystems and economies. Nintendo and Sega, for example, allowed game developers to create and sell games that ran on their machines; smartphones let software companies connect with customers through app stores; eBay connects merchants and sellers, creating transactions but selling nothing itself. The book makes the prescient case that platforms will come to redefine our economy.“The platform’s value is not necessarily what it does,” says Andrei Hagiu, a visiting associate professor at M.I.T. and one of the book’s authors, “but what it enables.” And what it enables can be enormous. It would be difficult to overstate the zeal that exists for platform companies in Silicon Valley. They represent staggering opportunities, the chance to create or remake entire industries and to preside over them indefinitely, with maximum control and minimum participation or liability. Airbnb has created a marketplace that overlaps substantially with the hotel business, but the properties it rents to users are owned by other users. (The company recently filed a federal lawsuit challenging a New York law that could result in fines against Airbnb for illegally listed properties; it agreed to drop the suit on the condition that fines be levied only against people listing property, not the company itself.) Uber created a sort of marketplace for transportation but doesn’t own its vehicles nor — it claims, over and over, in courts all across the globe — does it employ its drivers.
But the platform economies that are most developed and that have captured the most people — the ones that transact on attention, advertising and communication — are not immediately recognizable to their users as marketplaces. Facebook is not primarily understood among its billion and a half users as an attention brokerage, but that’s exactly what it is: a middleman between users and other users; between advertisers and users; between developers and users; between publishers and advertisers and their viewers and readers.
Participants successfully contribute to the broader marketplace by inducing other participants to engage more; beyond shares and followers, success is rewarded off-platform, with the conversion of attention into relationships, into advertising on websites, into sales or into influence and political power. Social platforms are the most extreme and advanced expression of what may be the defining corporate strategy of our time.
by John Herrman, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Javier Jaén
The Perfect Weapon: How Russian Cyberpower Invaded the U.S.
When Special Agent Adrian Hawkins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation called the Democratic National Committee in September 2015 to pass along some troubling news about its computer network, he was transferred, naturally, to the help desk.
His message was brief, if alarming. At least one computer system belonging to the D.N.C. had been compromised by hackers federal investigators had named “the Dukes,” a cyberespionage team linked to the Russian government.
The F.B.I. knew it well: The bureau had spent the last few years trying to kick the Dukes out of the unclassified email systems of the White House, the State Department and even the Joint Chiefs of Staff, one of the government’s best-protected networks.
Yared Tamene, the tech-support contractor at the D.N.C. who fielded the call, was no expert in cyberattacks. His first moves were to check Google for “the Dukes” and conduct a cursory search of the D.N.C. computer system logs to look for hints of such a cyberintrusion. By his own account, he did not look too hard even after Special Agent Hawkins called back repeatedly over the next several weeks — in part because he wasn’t certain the caller was a real F.B.I. agent and not an impostor.
“I had no way of differentiating the call I just received from a prank call,” Mr. Tamene wrote in an internal memo, obtained by The New York Times, that detailed his contact with the F.B.I.
It was the cryptic first sign of a cyberespionage and information-warfare campaign devised to disrupt the 2016 presidential election, the first such attempt by a foreign power in American history. What started as an information-gathering operation, intelligence officials believe, ultimately morphed into an effort to harm one candidate, Hillary Clinton, and tip the election to her opponent, Donald J. Trump.
Like another famous American election scandal, it started with a break-in at the D.N.C. The first time, 44 years ago at the committee’s old offices in the Watergate complex, the burglars planted listening devices and jimmied a filing cabinet. This time, the burglary was conducted from afar, directed by the Kremlin, with spear-phishing emails and zeros and ones.
What is phishing?
Phishing uses an innocent-looking email to entice unwary recipients to click on a deceptive link, giving hackers access to their information or a network. In “spear-phishing,” the email is tailored to fool a specific person.
An examination by The Times of the Russian operation — based on interviews with dozens of players targeted in the attack, intelligence officials who investigated it and Obama administration officials who deliberated over the best response — reveals a series of missed signals, slow responses and a continuing underestimation of the seriousness of the cyberattack.
The D.N.C.’s fumbling encounter with the F.B.I. meant the best chance to halt the Russian intrusion was lost. The failure to grasp the scope of the attacks undercut efforts to minimize their impact. And the White House’s reluctance to respond forcefully meant the Russians have not paid a heavy price for their actions, a decision that could prove critical in deterring future cyberattacks.
The low-key approach of the F.B.I. meant that Russian hackers could roam freely through the committee’s network for nearly seven months before top D.N.C. officials were alerted to the attack and hired cyberexperts to protect their systems. In the meantime, the hackers moved on to targets outside the D.N.C., including Mrs. Clinton’s campaign chairman, John D. Podesta, whose private email account was hacked months later. (...)
In recent days, a skeptical president-elect, the nation’s intelligence agencies and the two major parties have become embroiled in an extraordinary public dispute over what evidence exists that President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia moved beyond mere espionage to deliberately try to subvert American democracy and pick the winner of the presidential election.
Many of Mrs. Clinton’s closest aides believe that the Russian assault had a profound impact on the election, while conceding that other factors — Mrs. Clinton’s weaknesses as a candidate; her private email server; the public statements of the F.B.I. director, James B. Comey, about her handling of classified information — were also important.
While there’s no way to be certain of the ultimate impact of the hack, this much is clear: A low-cost, high-impact weapon that Russia had test-fired in elections from Ukraine to Europe was trained on the United States, with devastating effectiveness. For Russia, with an enfeebled economy and a nuclear arsenal it cannot use short of all-out war, cyberpower proved the perfect weapon: cheap, hard to see coming, hard to trace.
“There shouldn’t be any doubt in anybody’s mind,” Adm. Michael S. Rogers, the director of the National Security Agency and commander of United States Cyber Command, said at a postelection conference. “This was not something that was done casually, this was not something that was done by chance, this was not a target that was selected purely arbitrarily,” he said. “This was a conscious effort by a nation-state to attempt to achieve a specific effect.”
His message was brief, if alarming. At least one computer system belonging to the D.N.C. had been compromised by hackers federal investigators had named “the Dukes,” a cyberespionage team linked to the Russian government.
The F.B.I. knew it well: The bureau had spent the last few years trying to kick the Dukes out of the unclassified email systems of the White House, the State Department and even the Joint Chiefs of Staff, one of the government’s best-protected networks.Yared Tamene, the tech-support contractor at the D.N.C. who fielded the call, was no expert in cyberattacks. His first moves were to check Google for “the Dukes” and conduct a cursory search of the D.N.C. computer system logs to look for hints of such a cyberintrusion. By his own account, he did not look too hard even after Special Agent Hawkins called back repeatedly over the next several weeks — in part because he wasn’t certain the caller was a real F.B.I. agent and not an impostor.
“I had no way of differentiating the call I just received from a prank call,” Mr. Tamene wrote in an internal memo, obtained by The New York Times, that detailed his contact with the F.B.I.
It was the cryptic first sign of a cyberespionage and information-warfare campaign devised to disrupt the 2016 presidential election, the first such attempt by a foreign power in American history. What started as an information-gathering operation, intelligence officials believe, ultimately morphed into an effort to harm one candidate, Hillary Clinton, and tip the election to her opponent, Donald J. Trump.
Like another famous American election scandal, it started with a break-in at the D.N.C. The first time, 44 years ago at the committee’s old offices in the Watergate complex, the burglars planted listening devices and jimmied a filing cabinet. This time, the burglary was conducted from afar, directed by the Kremlin, with spear-phishing emails and zeros and ones.
What is phishing?
Phishing uses an innocent-looking email to entice unwary recipients to click on a deceptive link, giving hackers access to their information or a network. In “spear-phishing,” the email is tailored to fool a specific person.
An examination by The Times of the Russian operation — based on interviews with dozens of players targeted in the attack, intelligence officials who investigated it and Obama administration officials who deliberated over the best response — reveals a series of missed signals, slow responses and a continuing underestimation of the seriousness of the cyberattack.
The D.N.C.’s fumbling encounter with the F.B.I. meant the best chance to halt the Russian intrusion was lost. The failure to grasp the scope of the attacks undercut efforts to minimize their impact. And the White House’s reluctance to respond forcefully meant the Russians have not paid a heavy price for their actions, a decision that could prove critical in deterring future cyberattacks.
The low-key approach of the F.B.I. meant that Russian hackers could roam freely through the committee’s network for nearly seven months before top D.N.C. officials were alerted to the attack and hired cyberexperts to protect their systems. In the meantime, the hackers moved on to targets outside the D.N.C., including Mrs. Clinton’s campaign chairman, John D. Podesta, whose private email account was hacked months later. (...)
In recent days, a skeptical president-elect, the nation’s intelligence agencies and the two major parties have become embroiled in an extraordinary public dispute over what evidence exists that President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia moved beyond mere espionage to deliberately try to subvert American democracy and pick the winner of the presidential election.
Many of Mrs. Clinton’s closest aides believe that the Russian assault had a profound impact on the election, while conceding that other factors — Mrs. Clinton’s weaknesses as a candidate; her private email server; the public statements of the F.B.I. director, James B. Comey, about her handling of classified information — were also important.
While there’s no way to be certain of the ultimate impact of the hack, this much is clear: A low-cost, high-impact weapon that Russia had test-fired in elections from Ukraine to Europe was trained on the United States, with devastating effectiveness. For Russia, with an enfeebled economy and a nuclear arsenal it cannot use short of all-out war, cyberpower proved the perfect weapon: cheap, hard to see coming, hard to trace.
“There shouldn’t be any doubt in anybody’s mind,” Adm. Michael S. Rogers, the director of the National Security Agency and commander of United States Cyber Command, said at a postelection conference. “This was not something that was done casually, this was not something that was done by chance, this was not a target that was selected purely arbitrarily,” he said. “This was a conscious effort by a nation-state to attempt to achieve a specific effect.”
by Eric Lipton, David E. Sanger and Scott Shane, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Watergate file cabinet and DNC server, Justin T. Gellerson
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
What The Camembert Rind Does For The Cheese Inside
For lovers of Camembert, the downy white rind is the tart bite that balances out the fat-laden, oozing, pungent layer inside.
For a group of Swiss bioengineers, that moldy rind is one of nature's greatest living surfaces, doing double duty as a shield and a cleaner. The rind allows the cheese's deep flavor and aroma to mature, but also defends it against microorganisms that could spoil it. The cheese repays the fungi on the rind by supplying it with nutrients.
So amazing is the rind that the scientists, who are interested in designing "smart," functional materials, used it as an inspiration to build their own living material. The researchers describe their work in a paper published this week in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.
"We were interested in how the fungi claims the whole cheese for itself," Lukas Gerber, a researcher at the Institute for Chemical and Bio-Engineering in Zurich and an author of the paper, tells The Salt. "So we took this concept of the fungi defending its food and combined it for the first time with artificial materials."
Gerber says that living materials modeled off cheese rinds could be useful to make products with self-sterilizing surfaces.
But how does Camembert even get its rind in the first place?
The cheese hails from the French province of Normandy, where various legends claim it came into being sometime between 1680 and 1791. (Normandy is "the mecca of bloomy white rinds," like Brie and Camembert, according to the famed Murray's cheese shop in New York.)
Its inventors, whoever they were, figured out that if you take whole, raw milk, curdle it with rennet, and then hand-ladle it into small, single molds without breaking the curd, you get an exceptional cheese.
When the cheeses come out of the the mold, they are coated with Penicillium candidum mold and put on the shelf to age for a few weeks. At 30 to 35 days, the cheese has reached "a point," the French expression for perfect ripeness.
I've never tasted a true, raw milk Camembert — one made for the French. Here in the U.S. we only import Camembert that has been pasteurized — a requirement by U.S. food safety officials for cheese to be sold here. But I'm intrigued by the mushroom aroma the real thing is said to have. One cheese columnist poetically described a superior Camembert as having "hints of garlic, barnyard and ripe laundry."
[ed. Been on a Camembert kick lately.]
For a group of Swiss bioengineers, that moldy rind is one of nature's greatest living surfaces, doing double duty as a shield and a cleaner. The rind allows the cheese's deep flavor and aroma to mature, but also defends it against microorganisms that could spoil it. The cheese repays the fungi on the rind by supplying it with nutrients.
So amazing is the rind that the scientists, who are interested in designing "smart," functional materials, used it as an inspiration to build their own living material. The researchers describe their work in a paper published this week in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences."We were interested in how the fungi claims the whole cheese for itself," Lukas Gerber, a researcher at the Institute for Chemical and Bio-Engineering in Zurich and an author of the paper, tells The Salt. "So we took this concept of the fungi defending its food and combined it for the first time with artificial materials."
Gerber says that living materials modeled off cheese rinds could be useful to make products with self-sterilizing surfaces.
But how does Camembert even get its rind in the first place?
The cheese hails from the French province of Normandy, where various legends claim it came into being sometime between 1680 and 1791. (Normandy is "the mecca of bloomy white rinds," like Brie and Camembert, according to the famed Murray's cheese shop in New York.)
Its inventors, whoever they were, figured out that if you take whole, raw milk, curdle it with rennet, and then hand-ladle it into small, single molds without breaking the curd, you get an exceptional cheese.
When the cheeses come out of the the mold, they are coated with Penicillium candidum mold and put on the shelf to age for a few weeks. At 30 to 35 days, the cheese has reached "a point," the French expression for perfect ripeness.
I've never tasted a true, raw milk Camembert — one made for the French. Here in the U.S. we only import Camembert that has been pasteurized — a requirement by U.S. food safety officials for cheese to be sold here. But I'm intrigued by the mushroom aroma the real thing is said to have. One cheese columnist poetically described a superior Camembert as having "hints of garlic, barnyard and ripe laundry."
by Eliza Barclay, NPR | Read more:
Image: Lukas Gerber[ed. Been on a Camembert kick lately.]
Memo to Jeff Bezos: Super-Chickens
Jeff Bezos, CEO and founder of Amazon, recently took some heat when the New York Times exposed working conditions and the corporate culture at his firm. ‘Ruthless’ and ‘demanding’ are two descriptors of the working environment, sink or swim. Amazon is not alone. Some of the leading recent startups have competitive employment requirements, a survival of the fittest approach. They want the best and push out the rest. It’s a simple notion to strengthening your company and the most efficient way to assemble optimally performing groups, organizations, and sports teams. Or at least that has been the dominant rhetoric behind models of group productivity within both the business and sporting industries. Stack-ranking and other business practices of individual selection have been widespread, from General Electric to Microsoft, and is a standard modus operandi in sports teams including the focus of this piece, the European soccer team, Real Madrid. However, the wisdom behind the application of these models, both in business and sport, is under scrutiny. To begin to see why, we turn to evolutionary biology.
In 1996, evolutionary biologist William Muir conducted a series of unusual experiments at Purdue University. Muir was looking to explore the various methods of group productivity with regards to egg production. He wanted to create a group of ‘Super-Chickens’ who would produce more eggs than any other coop. He followed the logic that many employers today tout: take the best individuals, put them in a group together, and then let the magic happen. Muir selected the most productive hens from each cage and bred the next generation from them. Muir also identified the cages that collectively were more productive at laying eggs in comparison to other cages. He then continued to selectively breed using these two separate groups and observed the levels of production.
The outcome of this study was striking; selecting the best group cages produced hens that thoroughly outperformed the line of individually more productive ‘Super-Chickens’. For the cage-selected line, after just five generations, the number of eggs per hen catapulted from 91 to 237, the mortality rate of the group crashed from 68% to 9%, and the hens also displayed improved wellbeing as a function of the reductions of pecking and negative social interactions.
The Super-Chicken group did not fare so well. In fact, this line of hens had some other, rather less desirable qualities. They presented signs of aggression, violence, dysfunction and waste. There was an extremely high prevalence of fatal cannibalistic pecking within the group and general agonistic behaviors. Those in the cage who did not die from these cannibalistic attacks (there was an 89% mortality rate) were left with severe feather loss, life-threatening abrasions and other serious physical injuries. The hens were more intent on fighting amongst each other than doing anything productive! Hopefully that doesn’t sound like any workplaces you know…
So what happened? Why did the best egg-layers from the first generation yield something akin to the Gremlins of the eponymously named 80s movie? What Muir realized was that instead of identifying the most efficient hens, he had identified the hens that successfully conveyed the appearance of being the most productive. Those hens that individually produced the most did so by being adept at aggressively suppressing the other hens from laying eggs. Taking the more productive individuals meant taking the more aggressive hens. Breeding repeatedly from those which were most productive actually favored those which were most aggressive. Placing these hens together in cages led to extreme violence (only three of these psychotic hens actually survived!). Muir ended up running out of the Super-Chickens and had no choice but to end monitoring them and only continue with the other group. Ultimately, the process of selecting at the individual level took to an extreme the challenge of cooperation arising from individuals selected for selfishness.
The behaviour of the psychotic hens fits rather well with the normative assumptions of classical economic and game theory, which suggest that individuals will act selfishly in situations that afford them the opportunity. In group situations, individuals are consistently expected to identify, and act on, the dominant Nash strategy—the strategy that cannot be beaten. Just think of the classic ‘tragedy of the commons’, where people are predicted to free-ride on and exploit the contributions of others to a shared resource. Furthermore, the selfish actions of the Super-Chickens also support the theme of much evolutionary psychology from the 1960’s, which was based on the principle that individual interests will always outweigh the interests of the group.Given an opportunity to benefit from the efforts of others, selection will favor those which seize the day.
However, the behaviour of the best group hens is not so easily explained by such classical theories. Nor are the endless examples of people who act selflessly and contribute to shared resources, thus prioritizing the group’s interests over their own (public television funding, charities, etc.). Intrigued by this conundrum, behavioural economists, Robyn Dawes and Richard Thaler, investigated why it is that people violate these principles of selfishness. Their primary conclusion was that, in general, the greater the incentive for group co-operation, the more likely the group is to work together. In addition to this, the recent re-examination of multilevel selection theory’s contribution to our understanding of group processes, after its wide rejection around the 1960’s, provides an explanation as to how in situations of between-group competition, altruistic groups can outperform selfish groups and lead to the favored selection of altruistic group members. Individuals do not rampantly exploit the commons; grazing commons as a shared community resource has often worked well. You just need the right incentives.
This mismatch of incentives for individuals within a group is most certainly an area of concern for managers of all kinds. The relevance of these findings for management strategies in industry has gained some recent publicity, mainly following a popular TED talk by Margaret Heffernan which referenced Muir’s original experiments with specific focus on how traditional ‘pecking orders’ may not be the most productive organizational structure.
The Bezos, Ballmers and other top CEOs of the business industry are not alone in being troubled by the issues associated with building optimal teams. In team sports, the level of incentives for both the individual and the collective (team) reach unparalleled heights. Let us use soccer as an example. Teams are assembled with the sole purpose of challenging other teams for recognition and achievement. Yet within teams, players compete to be in the starting lineup, since squads are commonly comprised of 25 or more players but only 11 can play at a time. Furthermore, the most highly demanded players are able to hold sports clubs to ransom, with top players receiving over £300,000 ($434,385) a week in salary (e.g., Wayne Rooney, who plays for Manchester United in the English soccer top division).
As such, the modern world of sports provides researchers with a domain where they can explore which theoretical frameworks of group behaviour hold in practice. For instance, Swaab et al., established that while adding talented individuals to a group does initially result in improved performance, this relationship is non-linear and that, crucially, after a certain point the addition of too many talented individuals to a group has an inverse effect on group performance. Research on salary allocation shows one mechanism why this can occur, finding that pay inequality is linked to detrimental issues within teams, such that teams with highly unequal salary structures tend to also elicit more negative affect for their members, which can then lead to greater within-group problems. Furthermore, the Nobel Prize-winning economist James Buchanan – concerned with the aforementioned ‘mismatch of incentives’ within hockey teams – concluded that as the number of selfish players increases, so too does the likelihood for the other players to adopt the selfish behaviors. Similar to how the selfish behaviors of the Super-Chicken’s resulted in reduced productivity and negative intergroup dynamics, studies such as these have illuminated how, in sports too, critical numbers of selfish and talented individuals can negatively impact a team’s cohesiveness and output.
To observe whether the same line of reasoning is applied to assembling sports teams as was adopted by Muir in his chicken experiment, and that is also widely advocated within industry, soccer (commonly known as ‘football’ in many countries) offers a useful feature to explore the pursuit of super-chickens, its global player transfer system. In comparison to the heavily regulated draft systems in place in the NFL, NBA and MLB, soccer allows a transfer system of players from club to club (franchise) that operates more or less as a free market* and which affords comparisons with standard employment practices (due largely to the European Court of Justice’s 1995 “Bosman ruling” and the legal requirement for free movement of workers within the European Union). Transfers usually involve the trading of a player for cash compensation. The latest record was just established this summer: £89,000,000 (about $117,761,000/€104,750,428) for Paul Pogba to transfer from the Italian club, Juventus, to Manchester United in England.
Perhaps the best analogy of the Super-Chicken approach in football is the notorious ‘Galactico’ policy at Real Madrid, developed by Real Madrid’s president Florintino Perez in 2000, who sought to endow his club with the world’s best, and most famous, soccer players in order to achieve instant sporting and commercial success. To provide you with both a sense of the scale of the Galactico policy, and Real Madrid’s commitment to it, between 2000 and 2013 Real Madrid consecutively broke their own previously held world records for transfer fees spent on a player.
The main issue for Real Madrid over this period has been that this aggressive policy of high profile recruitment has not exactly delivered the sporting success they would have expected. The Spanish league in which they compete is historically dominated by two teams: Real Madrid and Barcelona. Since Real Madrid embarked on this strategy they have seen a return of 18 major trophies for an expenditure of £924 million ($1.22 billion /€1.11 billion). Meanwhile for the same period, their main rivals, Barcelona have recorded 28 major trophies at a cost of £641 million ($847 million/€769 million). Having to watch their main rivals claim 10 more trophies at just over two thirds of the cost is clearly not what Perez had in mind with his Galactico policy. While many have opined on the differences between these two Spanish giants, a prevalent theme of much discussion on the two clubs is the recruitment policy. Barcelona are routinely praised for their unrelenting focus on developing young players from their academy, ‘La Masia’, and instilling in them a philosophy of teamwork, intelligence and commitment. The Director of La Masia has explained that, for Barcelona, when it comes to a star performer, “we try to give him focus without losing that spontaneity. He mustn’t lose that individuality, but he has to know he’s playing in a collective sport” (my emphasis). Barcelona’s club motto “Més que un club” – (More than a club) serves as a powerful statement of how their values and recruitment model differs from their Spanish rivals. In contrast, Real Madrid have had a high turnover of players, with many expensive signings being moved on to a new club, for a discount, a year or two later. Being a big signing in one year was no guarantee of avoiding an ignominious departure soon afterwards.
Upon review, the Galactico policy of acquiring (or selecting for) top players by paying extraordinarily large sums of money appears either likely to endow players with a ‘Super-Chicken’ label, or is likely to attract players with a pre-existing tendency to benefit individually at the expense of the team. Indeed, while the chance to sign for Real Madrid is a flattering opportunity for any player, the likely stack- ranking environment would seem more likely to attract certain traits. Accordingly, the relatively disappointing return of trophies and high turnover rate of world class players may be a consequence of the nature of the players recruited, or the behaviors which are coerced out of players by the high incentives to be the most productive or stand out performer. The high salaries, the media attention, and the risk of being sold to make way for the next galactico who is available on the market puts great pressure on players to perform in a way that justifies their fees and maintains their marketability. This could lead to a number of complex and counterproductive social dynamics within the group, much like the agonistic behaviors of Muir’s Super-Chickens.
by Alistair Thorpe and Rick O’Gorman, Evonomics | Read more:
Image: Super Chicken, Memo Angeles
In 1996, evolutionary biologist William Muir conducted a series of unusual experiments at Purdue University. Muir was looking to explore the various methods of group productivity with regards to egg production. He wanted to create a group of ‘Super-Chickens’ who would produce more eggs than any other coop. He followed the logic that many employers today tout: take the best individuals, put them in a group together, and then let the magic happen. Muir selected the most productive hens from each cage and bred the next generation from them. Muir also identified the cages that collectively were more productive at laying eggs in comparison to other cages. He then continued to selectively breed using these two separate groups and observed the levels of production.
The outcome of this study was striking; selecting the best group cages produced hens that thoroughly outperformed the line of individually more productive ‘Super-Chickens’. For the cage-selected line, after just five generations, the number of eggs per hen catapulted from 91 to 237, the mortality rate of the group crashed from 68% to 9%, and the hens also displayed improved wellbeing as a function of the reductions of pecking and negative social interactions.The Super-Chicken group did not fare so well. In fact, this line of hens had some other, rather less desirable qualities. They presented signs of aggression, violence, dysfunction and waste. There was an extremely high prevalence of fatal cannibalistic pecking within the group and general agonistic behaviors. Those in the cage who did not die from these cannibalistic attacks (there was an 89% mortality rate) were left with severe feather loss, life-threatening abrasions and other serious physical injuries. The hens were more intent on fighting amongst each other than doing anything productive! Hopefully that doesn’t sound like any workplaces you know…
So what happened? Why did the best egg-layers from the first generation yield something akin to the Gremlins of the eponymously named 80s movie? What Muir realized was that instead of identifying the most efficient hens, he had identified the hens that successfully conveyed the appearance of being the most productive. Those hens that individually produced the most did so by being adept at aggressively suppressing the other hens from laying eggs. Taking the more productive individuals meant taking the more aggressive hens. Breeding repeatedly from those which were most productive actually favored those which were most aggressive. Placing these hens together in cages led to extreme violence (only three of these psychotic hens actually survived!). Muir ended up running out of the Super-Chickens and had no choice but to end monitoring them and only continue with the other group. Ultimately, the process of selecting at the individual level took to an extreme the challenge of cooperation arising from individuals selected for selfishness.
The behaviour of the psychotic hens fits rather well with the normative assumptions of classical economic and game theory, which suggest that individuals will act selfishly in situations that afford them the opportunity. In group situations, individuals are consistently expected to identify, and act on, the dominant Nash strategy—the strategy that cannot be beaten. Just think of the classic ‘tragedy of the commons’, where people are predicted to free-ride on and exploit the contributions of others to a shared resource. Furthermore, the selfish actions of the Super-Chickens also support the theme of much evolutionary psychology from the 1960’s, which was based on the principle that individual interests will always outweigh the interests of the group.Given an opportunity to benefit from the efforts of others, selection will favor those which seize the day.
However, the behaviour of the best group hens is not so easily explained by such classical theories. Nor are the endless examples of people who act selflessly and contribute to shared resources, thus prioritizing the group’s interests over their own (public television funding, charities, etc.). Intrigued by this conundrum, behavioural economists, Robyn Dawes and Richard Thaler, investigated why it is that people violate these principles of selfishness. Their primary conclusion was that, in general, the greater the incentive for group co-operation, the more likely the group is to work together. In addition to this, the recent re-examination of multilevel selection theory’s contribution to our understanding of group processes, after its wide rejection around the 1960’s, provides an explanation as to how in situations of between-group competition, altruistic groups can outperform selfish groups and lead to the favored selection of altruistic group members. Individuals do not rampantly exploit the commons; grazing commons as a shared community resource has often worked well. You just need the right incentives.
This mismatch of incentives for individuals within a group is most certainly an area of concern for managers of all kinds. The relevance of these findings for management strategies in industry has gained some recent publicity, mainly following a popular TED talk by Margaret Heffernan which referenced Muir’s original experiments with specific focus on how traditional ‘pecking orders’ may not be the most productive organizational structure.
The Bezos, Ballmers and other top CEOs of the business industry are not alone in being troubled by the issues associated with building optimal teams. In team sports, the level of incentives for both the individual and the collective (team) reach unparalleled heights. Let us use soccer as an example. Teams are assembled with the sole purpose of challenging other teams for recognition and achievement. Yet within teams, players compete to be in the starting lineup, since squads are commonly comprised of 25 or more players but only 11 can play at a time. Furthermore, the most highly demanded players are able to hold sports clubs to ransom, with top players receiving over £300,000 ($434,385) a week in salary (e.g., Wayne Rooney, who plays for Manchester United in the English soccer top division).
As such, the modern world of sports provides researchers with a domain where they can explore which theoretical frameworks of group behaviour hold in practice. For instance, Swaab et al., established that while adding talented individuals to a group does initially result in improved performance, this relationship is non-linear and that, crucially, after a certain point the addition of too many talented individuals to a group has an inverse effect on group performance. Research on salary allocation shows one mechanism why this can occur, finding that pay inequality is linked to detrimental issues within teams, such that teams with highly unequal salary structures tend to also elicit more negative affect for their members, which can then lead to greater within-group problems. Furthermore, the Nobel Prize-winning economist James Buchanan – concerned with the aforementioned ‘mismatch of incentives’ within hockey teams – concluded that as the number of selfish players increases, so too does the likelihood for the other players to adopt the selfish behaviors. Similar to how the selfish behaviors of the Super-Chicken’s resulted in reduced productivity and negative intergroup dynamics, studies such as these have illuminated how, in sports too, critical numbers of selfish and talented individuals can negatively impact a team’s cohesiveness and output.
To observe whether the same line of reasoning is applied to assembling sports teams as was adopted by Muir in his chicken experiment, and that is also widely advocated within industry, soccer (commonly known as ‘football’ in many countries) offers a useful feature to explore the pursuit of super-chickens, its global player transfer system. In comparison to the heavily regulated draft systems in place in the NFL, NBA and MLB, soccer allows a transfer system of players from club to club (franchise) that operates more or less as a free market* and which affords comparisons with standard employment practices (due largely to the European Court of Justice’s 1995 “Bosman ruling” and the legal requirement for free movement of workers within the European Union). Transfers usually involve the trading of a player for cash compensation. The latest record was just established this summer: £89,000,000 (about $117,761,000/€104,750,428) for Paul Pogba to transfer from the Italian club, Juventus, to Manchester United in England.
Perhaps the best analogy of the Super-Chicken approach in football is the notorious ‘Galactico’ policy at Real Madrid, developed by Real Madrid’s president Florintino Perez in 2000, who sought to endow his club with the world’s best, and most famous, soccer players in order to achieve instant sporting and commercial success. To provide you with both a sense of the scale of the Galactico policy, and Real Madrid’s commitment to it, between 2000 and 2013 Real Madrid consecutively broke their own previously held world records for transfer fees spent on a player.
The main issue for Real Madrid over this period has been that this aggressive policy of high profile recruitment has not exactly delivered the sporting success they would have expected. The Spanish league in which they compete is historically dominated by two teams: Real Madrid and Barcelona. Since Real Madrid embarked on this strategy they have seen a return of 18 major trophies for an expenditure of £924 million ($1.22 billion /€1.11 billion). Meanwhile for the same period, their main rivals, Barcelona have recorded 28 major trophies at a cost of £641 million ($847 million/€769 million). Having to watch their main rivals claim 10 more trophies at just over two thirds of the cost is clearly not what Perez had in mind with his Galactico policy. While many have opined on the differences between these two Spanish giants, a prevalent theme of much discussion on the two clubs is the recruitment policy. Barcelona are routinely praised for their unrelenting focus on developing young players from their academy, ‘La Masia’, and instilling in them a philosophy of teamwork, intelligence and commitment. The Director of La Masia has explained that, for Barcelona, when it comes to a star performer, “we try to give him focus without losing that spontaneity. He mustn’t lose that individuality, but he has to know he’s playing in a collective sport” (my emphasis). Barcelona’s club motto “Més que un club” – (More than a club) serves as a powerful statement of how their values and recruitment model differs from their Spanish rivals. In contrast, Real Madrid have had a high turnover of players, with many expensive signings being moved on to a new club, for a discount, a year or two later. Being a big signing in one year was no guarantee of avoiding an ignominious departure soon afterwards.
Upon review, the Galactico policy of acquiring (or selecting for) top players by paying extraordinarily large sums of money appears either likely to endow players with a ‘Super-Chicken’ label, or is likely to attract players with a pre-existing tendency to benefit individually at the expense of the team. Indeed, while the chance to sign for Real Madrid is a flattering opportunity for any player, the likely stack- ranking environment would seem more likely to attract certain traits. Accordingly, the relatively disappointing return of trophies and high turnover rate of world class players may be a consequence of the nature of the players recruited, or the behaviors which are coerced out of players by the high incentives to be the most productive or stand out performer. The high salaries, the media attention, and the risk of being sold to make way for the next galactico who is available on the market puts great pressure on players to perform in a way that justifies their fees and maintains their marketability. This could lead to a number of complex and counterproductive social dynamics within the group, much like the agonistic behaviors of Muir’s Super-Chickens.
by Alistair Thorpe and Rick O’Gorman, Evonomics | Read more:
Image: Super Chicken, Memo Angeles
[ed. Perhaps you've noticed a perplexing paucity of posts lately (and dumb alliterations). Sorry. Beyond threatening nearly every functional institution in the world (not to mention, you know, basic human existence), Trump is making it extremely difficult to find much of anything worth posting about that doesn't include him; which (credit where credit is due), the media slavishly enables. I'll keep working on it but have to say... it's getting personal now. I think his whole agenda is based on undermining this blog.]
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