My So-Called (Instagram) Life

“You’re like a cartoon character,” he said. “Always wearing the same thing every day.”

He meant it as an intimate observation, the kind you can make only after spending a lot of time getting to know each other. You flip your hair to the right. You only eat ice cream out of mugs. You always wear a black leather jacket. I know you.

And he did know me. Rather, he knew the caricature of me that I had created and meticulously cultivated. The me I broadcast to the world on Instagram and Facebook. The witty, creative me, always detached and never cheesy or needy.

That version of me got her start online as my social media persona, but over time (and I suppose for the sake of consistency), she bled off the screen and overtook my real-life personality, too. And once you master what is essentially an onstage performance of yourself, it can be hard to break character.

There was a time when I allowed myself to be more than what could fit onto a 2-by-4-inch screen. When I wasn’t so self-conscious about how I was seen. When I embraced my contradictions and desires with less fear of embarrassment or rejection.

There was a time when I swore in front of my friends and said grace in front of my grandmother. When I wore lipstick after seeing “Clueless,” and sneakers after seeing “Remember the Titans.” When I flipped my hair every way, ate ice cream out of anything, and wore coats of all types and colors.

Since then, I have consolidated that variety — scrubbed it away, really — to emerge as one consistently cool girl: one face, two arms, one black leather jacket.

And so it was a validation of sorts when Joe fell for her, the me in the leather jacket. He was brilliant, the funniest guy in our TV writing program, and my ideal cool counterpart. I could already see us on screen; we made sense.

Best of all, he thought he liked me more than I liked him, and that was perfect too, because it gave me the upper hand. I was above love, above emotional complication, dedicated to higher pursuits.

Periodically Joe would confront me about this imbalance. We would meet at a park on Second Avenue and 10th Street, and he would tell me that I drove him crazy, that he couldn’t be as removed as me.

And, of course, the truth was that I wasn’t removed at all. Over the many months we were together, as we went from being friends to more than friends, I had fallen for him completely. The singular syllable of his name had started to feel permanently tucked between my molars and was always on my mind.

But I was reluctant to change my character midseason and become someone who was more open and, God forbid, earnest about love. He had fallen for the cool, detached me, so that’s who I remained. And he got bored.

That’s the way it goes with half-hour TV shows. Consistency can become boring. The will-they-or-won’t-they characters have to get together, and at that point the show is closing in on its finale. It’s all in the build, and when that becomes tired, the show gets canceled.

Like an allergic reaction to becoming unloved, my Instagram account went into overdrive, all aimed at one audience member: Joe. Through hundreds of screens, I was screaming at him: “I’m here! I’m funny! I’m at that fish taco place I showed you!”

The likes I got from my followers did little to quell my crushing need for Joe’s cyberapproval. “Like me again, like me again,” became my subconscious mantra.

But he didn’t like me, and each time he didn’t, the heartache felt like a warm bullet exploding in my gut. I would lie on the couch and clutch my stomach so tightly it was as if I were trying to expel the shrapnel from my throat. I knew no one else could extract it for me because no one knew it was there.

I was embarrassed for the people I saw who pined publicly on Instagram, but I also envied them. They were showered with support, with reassurance. If they were not completely cured, at least the illness seemed to run a shorter course.

Meanwhile, every time I twisted my spine, I felt that warm bullet scraping my insides. I was scared it might fossilize there and become permanently embedded.

In an effort to self-soothe, I wrote letters to Joe — actual, physical letters, pen to notepad — that felt like some ancient ritual, using my whole hand and not just my thumbs. Staring at his cowlick in class, I would write down everything I wanted: for him to critique my writing, to stroke my hair while we watched “Curb Your Enthusiasm” on his ugly futon, to read his plays and believe I was moving ever closer to his core.

Rather than give him any of these letters, I burned them, trying and failing to cremate that side of myself.

Day by day, hour by hour, my Instagram feed became more manic, nasty and petulant. Posts that were once meant as romantic gestures became tiny, pixelated middle fingers.

Joe began to notice, but instead of magically falling back in love with me, he became hurt and angry. I was inexplicably cold to him, posting photos of parties I threw that he wasn’t invited to, pictures of me abroad where I hadn’t told him I was studying, and pieces of art I made but hadn’t shared with him.

In return, he sent me messages of unvarnished honesty: “Why didn’t you invite me?” “Why are you being like this?”

Oh, it’s just who I am. I am fun, I feel nothing and I have completely forgotten you.

And so it went, and I kept at the beautiful box I was crafting for myself. A shoe box covered in stickers and fake jewels. The kind you would make for a pet parakeet you have to bury. I would dream about Joe at night, and in the morning I would post something silvery and eye catching. It was always just tinfoil, though, not truth. And I prayed no one would notice.

I posted a photo of me standing next to a shirt that said “The World Shook at Adam’s bar mitzvah, 1995,” with a witty caption about simpler times, before global warming. A girl who follows me, with whom I’ve spoken only a handful of times, told me it was so “on brand.”

My brand, specifically: funny, carefree, unromantic, a realist.

by Clara Dollar, NY Times |  Read more:

Image :Brian Rea

[ed. I hope this is parody.]

 

 

via:

Forbidden Questions?

24 Key Issues That Neither the Washington Elite Nor the Media Consider Worth Their Bother

Donald Trump's election has elicited impassioned affirmations of a renewed commitment to unvarnished truth-telling from the prestige media. The common theme: you know you can’t trust him, but trust us to keep dogging him on your behalf. The New York Times has even unveiled a portentous new promotional slogan: “The truth is now more important than ever.” For its part, the Washington Post grimly warns that “democracy dies in darkness,” and is offering itself as a source of illumination now that the rotund figure of the 45th president has produced the political equivalent of a total eclipse of the sun. Meanwhile, National Public Radio fundraising campaigns are sounding an increasingly panicky note: give, listener, lest you be personally responsible for the demise of the Republic that we are bravely fighting to save from extinction.

If only it were so. How wonderful it would be if President Trump’s ascendancy had coincided with a revival of hard-hitting, deep-dive, no-holds-barred American journalism. Alas, that’s hardly the case. True, the big media outlets are demonstrating both energy and enterprise in exposing the ineptitude, inconsistency, and dubious ethical standards, as well as outright lies and fake news, that are already emerging as Trump era signatures. That said, pointing out that the president has (again) uttered a falsehood, claimed credit for a nonexistent achievement, or abandoned some position to which he had previously sworn fealty requires something less than the sleuthing talents of a Sherlock Holmes. As for beating up on poor Sean Spicer for his latest sequence of gaffes -- well, that’s more akin to sadism than reporting.

Apart from a commendable determination to discomfit Trump and members of his inner circle (select military figures excepted, at least for now), journalism remains pretty much what it was prior to November 8th of last year: personalities built up only to be torn down; fads and novelties discovered, celebrated, then mocked; “extraordinary” stories of ordinary people granted 15 seconds of fame only to once again be consigned to oblivion -- all served with a side dish of that day’s quota of suffering, devastation, and carnage. These remain journalism’s stock-in-trade. As practiced in the United States, with certain honorable (and hence unprofitable) exceptions, journalism remains superficial, voyeuristic, and governed by the attention span of a two year old.

As a result, all those editors, reporters, columnists, and talking heads who characterize their labors as “now more important than ever” ill-serve the public they profess to inform and enlighten. Rather than clearing the air, they befog it further. If anything, the media’s current obsession with Donald Trump -- his every utterance or tweet treated as “breaking news!” -- just provides one additional excuse for highlighting trivia, while slighting issues that deserve far more attention than they currently receive.

To illustrate the point, let me cite some examples of national security issues that presently receive short shrift or are ignored altogether by those parts of the Fourth Estate said to help set the nation’s political agenda. To put it another way: Hey, Big Media, here are two dozen matters to which you’re not giving faintly adequate thought and attention.

1. Accomplishing the “mission”: Since the immediate aftermath of World War II, the United States has been committed to defending key allies in Europe and East Asia. Not long thereafter, U.S. security guarantees were extended to the Middle East as well. Under what circumstances can Americans expect nations in these regions to assume responsibility for managing their own affairs? To put it another way, when (if ever) might U.S. forces actually come home? And if it is incumbent upon the United States to police vast swaths of the planet in perpetuity, how should momentous changes in the international order -- the rise of China, for example, or accelerating climate change -- affect the U.S. approach to doing so?

2. American military supremacy: The United States military is undoubtedly the world’s finest. It’s also far and away the most generously funded, with policymakers offering U.S. troops no shortage of opportunities to practice their craft. So why doesn’t this great military ever win anything? Or put another way, why in recent decades have those forces been unable to accomplish Washington’s stated wartime objectives? Why has the now 15-year-old war on terror failed to result in even a single real success anywhere in the Greater Middle East? Could it be that we’ve taken the wrong approach? What should we be doing differently?

3. America’s empire of bases: The U.S. military today garrisons the planet in a fashion without historical precedent. Successive administrations, regardless of party, justify and perpetuate this policy by insisting that positioning U.S. forces in distant lands fosters peace, stability, and security. In the present century, however, perpetuating this practice has visibly had the opposite effect. In the eyes of many of those called upon to “host” American bases, the permanent presence of such forces smacks of occupation. They resist. Why should U.S. policymakers expect otherwise?

4. Supporting the troops: In present-day America, expressing reverence for those who serve in uniform is something akin to a religious obligation. Everyone professes to cherish America’s “warriors.” Yet such bountiful, if superficial, expressions of regard camouflage a growing gap between those who serve and those who applaud from the sidelines. Our present-day military system, based on the misnamed All-Volunteer Force, is neither democratic nor effective. Why has discussion and debate about its deficiencies not found a place among the nation’s political priorities?

5. Prerogatives of the commander-in-chief: Are there any military actions that the president of the United States may not order on his own authority? If so, what are they? Bit by bit, decade by decade, Congress has abdicated its assigned role in authorizing war. Today, it merely rubberstamps what presidents decide to do (or simply stays mum). Who does this deference to an imperial presidency benefit? Have U.S. policies thereby become more prudent, enlightened, and successful?

6. Assassin-in-chief: A policy of assassination, secretly implemented under the aegis of the CIA during the early Cold War, yielded few substantive successes. When the secrets were revealed, however, the U.S. government suffered considerable embarrassment, so much so that presidents foreswore politically motivated murder. After 9/11, however, Washington returned to the assassination business in a big way and on a global scale, using drones. Today, the only secret is the sequence of names on the current presidential hit list, euphemistically known as the White House “disposition matrix.” But does assassination actually advance U.S. interests (or does it merely recruit replacements for the terrorists it liquidates)? How can we measure its costs, whether direct or indirect? What dangers and vulnerabilities does this practice invite?

7. The war formerly known as the “Global War on Terrorism”: What precisely is Washington’s present strategy for defeating violent jihadism? What sequence of planned actions or steps is expected to yield success? If no such strategy exists, why is that the case? How is it that the absence of strategy -- not to mention an agreed upon definition of “success” -- doesn’t even qualify for discussion here?

by Andrew J. Bacevich, TomDispatch | Read more:

Too Much Information

One of the few detectable lies in David Foster Wallace's books occurs in his essay on the obscure '90s-era American tennis prodigy Michael Joyce, included in Wallace's first nonfiction anthology, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Apart from some pages in his fiction, it's the best thing he wrote about tennis—better even than his justly praised but disproportionately famous piece on Roger Federer—precisely because Joyce was a journeyman, an unknown, and so offered Wallace's mind a white canvas. Wallace had almost nothing to work with on that assignment: ambiguous access to the qualifying rounds of a Canadian tournament, a handful of hours staring through chain link at a subject who was both too nice to be entertaining and not especially articulate. Faced with what for most writers would be a disastrous lack of material, Wallace looses his uncanny observational powers on the tennis complex, drawing partly on his knowledge of the game but mainly on his sheer ability to consider a situation, to revolve it in his mental fingers like a jewel whose integrity he doubts. In the mostly empty stadium he studies the players between matches. "They all have the unhappy self-enclosed look of people who spend huge amounts of time on planes and waiting around in hotel lobbies," he writes, "the look of people who have to create an envelope of privacy around them with just their expressions." He hears the "authoritative pang" of tour-tight racket strings and sees ball boys "reconfigure complexly." He hits the practice courts and watches players warm up, their bodies "moving with the compact nonchalance I've since come to recognize in pros when they're working out: the suggestion is one of a very powerful engine in low gear."

The lie comes at the start of the piece, when Wallace points out a potential irony of what he's getting ready to do, namely write about people we've never heard of, who are culturally marginal, yet are among the best in the world at a chosen pursuit. "You are invited to try to imagine what it would be like to be among the hundred best in the world at something," Wallace says. "At anything. I have tried to imagine; it's hard."

What's strange is that this was written in 1996—by then, Wallace had completed his genre-impacting second novel, Infinite Jest, as well as the stories, a couple already considered classic, in the collection Girl with Curious Hair. It's hard to believe he didn't know that he was indeed among the hundred best at a particular thing, namely imaginative prose, and that there were serious people ready to put him among an even smaller number. Perhaps we should assume that, being human, he knew it sometimes and at other times feared it wasn't true. Either way, the false modesty—asking us to accept the idea that he'd never thought of himself as so good and had proposed the experiment naively—can't help reading as odd. Which may itself be deliberate. Not much happens by accident in Wallace's stuff; his profound obsessive streak precluded it. So could it be there's something multilayered going on with sport as a metaphor for writing—even more layers than we expect? It does seem curious that Wallace chose, of all the players, one named Joyce, whose "ethnic" Irishness Wallace goes out of his way to emphasize, thereby alluding to an artist whose own fixation on technical mastery made him a kind of grotesque, dazzling but isolated from healthful, human narrative concerns. Certainly Wallace played textual games on that level.

Here's a thing that is hard to imagine: being so inventive a writer that when you die, the language is impoverished. That's what Wallace's suicide did, two and a half years ago. It wasn't just a sad thing, it was a blow. (...)

It's hard to do the traditional bio-style paragraph about Wallace for readers who, in this oversaturated mediascape, don't know who he was or why he mattered, because you keep flashing on his story "Death Is Not the End," in which he parodies the practice of writing the traditional bio-style paragraph about writers, listing all their honors and whatnot, his list becoming inexplicably ridiculous as he keeps naming the prizes, and you get that he's digging into the frequent self-congratulating silliness of the American literary world, "a Lannan Foundation Fellowship, [...] a Mildred and Harold Strauss Living Award from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters...a poet two separate American generations have hailed as the voice of their generation." Wallace himself had many of the awards on the list, including "a 'Genius Grant' from the prestigious MacArthur Foundation." Three novels, three story collections, two books of essays, the Roy E. Disney Professorship of Creative Writing at Pomona College...

When they say that he was a generational writer, that he "spoke for a generation," there's a sense in which it's almost scientifically true. Everything we know about the way literature gets made suggests there's some connection between the individual talent and the society that produces it, the social organism. Cultures extrude geniuses the way a beehive will make a new queen when its old one dies, and it's possible now to see Wallace as one of those. I remember well enough to know it's not a trick of hindsight, hearing about and reading Infinite Jest for the first time, as a 20-year-old, and the immediate sense of: This is it. One of us is going to try it. The "it" being all of it, to capture the sensation of being alive in a fractured superpower at the end of the twentieth century. Someone had come along with an intellect potentially strong enough to mirror the spectacle and a moral seriousness deep enough to want to in the first place. About none of his contemporaries—even those who in terms of ability could compete with him—can one say that they risked as great a failure as Wallace did.

by John Jeremiah Sullivan, GQ |  Read more:
[ed. From the archive: Readers of this blog know I'm an unabashed DFW fan, and so, please excuse another review of his postumous book The Pale King, which I somehow managed to miss the first time around.]

via:

Now THAT Was Music

Some of us are more susceptible than others, but eventually it happens to us all. You know what I’m talking about: the inability to appreciate new music – or at least, to appreciate new music the way we once did. There’s a lot of disagreement about why exactly this happens, but virtually none about when. Call it a casualty of your 30s, the first sign of a great decline. Recently turned 40, I’ve seen it happen to me – and to a pretty significant extent – but refuse to consider myself defeated until the moment I stop fighting.

I’ve been fighting it for more than 10 years now, with varying degrees of vigour and resolve. Sometimes the fight becomes too much – one tires of the small victories that never break open into anything larger – and the spirit flags. I continually if not consistently stay abreast of what’s deemed the best of the new – particularly in rap and rock and R&B (which I stubbornly and unapologetically refer to, like a true devotee of its 1960s incarnation, as ‘soul’). These ventures into the current and contemporary have reaped dividends so small, they can be recounted – will be recounted – with no trouble at all.

But why should I care? Why should any of us care? Maybe it’s about the fear of becoming what we’ve always loathed: someone reflexively and guiltlessly willing to serve up a load of things-were-better-in-my-day, one of the most facile and benighted of all declarations. If you take pride in regarding yourself as culturally current, always willing to indulge the best of everything wherever it’s found, such taste blockages can be pretty frustrating, even embarrassing. And that hoary old consolation for the erectile dysfunction of the slightly older – ‘It happens to everyone’ – is no consolation at all.

For one thing, it doesn’t happen to everyone. Musicians seem particularly immune, for obvious reasons, and so do certain types of journalists, for reasons touched on in the paragraph above. Still, it’s a very real phenomenon, as real as anything that transpires in the mind. Famously, something similar happens to us with sports, particularly spectator sports, and at a much younger age. But no one really feels too badly about that, because of the inherent meaninglessness of watching other humans engage in physical activity. It’s like ruing the day you ever stopped liking porn. But music is different. Denounce the music of the present day, and you’ve instantly become a walking, talking, (barely) breathing cliché, ripe for ridicule, a classic figure of parody and invective.

It doesn’t happen to everyone, but it could certainly happen to you.

It’s axiomatic in our culture that a sense of wonder is something to be encouraged in others and coveted for ourselves. But a sense of wonder is dependent on an ability to experience surprise, and if as an adult you’re still surprised by certain things, then you haven’t been keeping up the way you should.

Most of us stop responding to new music because we know better. You can read that sentence and its last word any way you want; it’s still going to apply. But even if we don’t know better, per se, we still know just as good, and so we know enough to understand that it’s been done before, whatever this is we’re listening to. All of which is another way of saying: you lose your virginity only once.

This is only compounded by another factor, and it’s something I’ve never seen or heard mentioned in any discussion of this topic. It has to do with the callowness (perceived and real) of musicians younger than ourselves. As something that by its very nature appeals to our emotions, music requires that we be emotionally engaged. This can be a very difficult thing to achieve on behalf of someone who hasn’t endured as much of the world as we have.

I’m talking here about music made by those who were younger than us when we first heard them. Anybody who listens to a Beatles song today is listening to a song made by people in their 20s, but we don’t mind – we seldom even notice – because we were younger than that when we first heard the Beatles – or at least, we were younger than the living Beatles were then.

I’m not saying it makes sense, any more than emotions themselves make sense. But there’s no denying their validity. The best music achieves its effects by realising a bittersweet tension – a bit of melancholy touched with exuberance, or vice versa. This requires soul, and something resembling wisdom, and it requires the listener’s complicity, too. More than with any other art form, music requires that its consumer not just appreciate adroit execution but take ownership of a sensibility. I’m not saying it’s impossible with musicians younger than ourselves – it’s happened to me many times. But it’s certainly rare, because for the effect to work – the way it works for me whenever I hear Sleater-Kinney’s Jumpers (2005) or the Decemberists’ Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect (2002), both of which I first encountered well into my 30s – it’s because there are absolutely no weaknesses in the songs’ construction, and because the musicians manage to achieve an old-souled wistfulness and longing that transcend their youth.

More important than any of this is the adult’s safety within his identity. No longer casting about for an anthem, no longer trying on identities like new clothes, the well-adjusted adult is far less likely to succumb to the sound of a musician’s soul, unless it’s a sound that got to him before his ultimate emancipation.

The early-30s solidification of this soul is part of a process begun much earlier, when one is hitting adolescence. In an article headlined ‘Forever Young? In Some Ways, Yes’ (2011) in The New York Times, the cultural historian David Hajdu noticed something shared among a dozen or so legendary musicians then turning 70: they had all ‘turned 14 around 1955 and 1956, when rock ’n’ roll was first erupting’.

He took his hunch and drew it out a little further, with compelling results. Bob Dylan and Paul McCartney both had their heads turned around by Elvis when they were precisely 14 years old; Sidney Bechet, Jimmie Rodgers and Fletcher Henderson – all ‘future innovators of vernacular, cross-racial music’ – were 14 in 1911 when Irving Berlin’s Alexander’s Ragtime Band was released; Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra turned 14 in 1929, the year Rudy Vallée codified the art of crooning; and Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder, Gene Simmons and Billy Joel turned 14 right around the time that the Beatles played The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964.

It’s simply not realistic to expect someone to respond to music with such life-defining fervour more than once. And it’s not realistic, either, to expect someone comfortable with his personality to be flailing about for new sensibilities to adopt. I’ve always been somewhat suspicious of those who truly do, as the overused phrase has it, listen to everything. Such schizophrenic tastes seem not so much a symptom of well-roundedness as of an unstable sense of self. Liking everything means loving nothing. If you’re so quick to adopt new sentiments and their expression, then how serious were you about the ones you pushed aside to accommodate them?

Oh yeah, and one more thing: music today fucking sucks.

by Lary Wallace, Aeon |  Read more:

Image: via:

[ed. Wikipedia should use this photo of Neil Young under the heading: 'Grumpy Old Men'. Just kidding...! love you Neil.]

Press the Button

The little tablet at the end of my table at Olive Garden glows brighter than the too-bright lights of the restaurant around it, shuffling through a slideshow of pastas and wine.

The tablet is a Ziosk, made by the Dallas company formerly known as TableTop Media. In the past five years, Ziosks and their main competitor, Presto tablets, made by a Silicon Valley company called E la Carte, have trickled onto the tables of many of America’s great suburban chains. Today, you can find them in nearly five thousand restaurants across the country, in Chili’s and Outbacks, in Red Robins and Applebee’s.

A few swipes, a couple cautious pokes, and I’ve ordered a glass of pinot grigio for me, a pinot noir for my date, plus a three-app platter (mozz sticks,stuffed shrooms, fried calamari) to share.

Then Jessica, our server, stops by. She asks if she can get us started with any drinks or appetizers. There’s an awkward pause, like when an acquaintance asks after a recent ex. Waving toward the tablet, I explain we’ve already ordered. I feel guilty that the device could steal her job, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

Maybe that’s because the tablet can’t carry food, or handle cash, or convey to the kitchen that I might like my linguine di mare with sauce on the side and meatballs instead of shrimp. It definitely can’t compliment my date’s haircut, or make a joke about the traffic, or answer my questions about whether or not it likes working at a place with tablets on every table. But it can take a normal order, and lets me pay with a card at the precise moment I want to leave, and then fill out a little survey about my meal. If I happen to have a kid with me, or realize with sudden revulsion that I can no longer stand to even look across the table at my companion, I could even pay an extra $1.99 for access to the tablet’s library of games, and then crush some trivia while I wait for my bottomless breadsticks to be replenished.

In the fancier precincts of the food-service world, where watching a barista spend four minutes prepping a pour-over coffee is a customer’s idea of a good time, robots might not seem like the future of food culture. But spend some time at the restaurants where the majority of Americans eat every day, and you’ll catch a distinct whiff of automation in the air.

Andrew Puzder, former CEO of the company that owns Carl’s Jr. and Hardee’s (and Donald Trump’s humiliatingly rejected nominee for secretary of labor), has been leading the charge, loudly trumpeting the benefits of replacing front-of-house workers with self-service kiosks at every chance, specifically in response to what he claims are the business-crippling threats of higher minimum wages and—of course—Obamacare. Machines, you see, don’t need to get paid or go to the hospital. And as he told Business Insider last year, “they’re always polite, they always upsell, they never take a vacation, they never show up late, and there’s never a slip and fall, or an age-, sex-, or race discrimination case.”

Given job creators’ distaste for organic employees, it’s easy to see how automation might play out in Quick-Service Restaurants, or QSRs—the industry term for both fast-food operations like Hardee’s and slightly more upscale “fast casual” restaurants, like Chipotle. You already have to stand in line, order your own food, and then (in most cases) pick your order up at the counter when it’s ready. Pop a couple kiosks up front, maybe let people order on their phones, and bingo, you’ve automated away all the cashiers. This process is already under way: Panera Bread has had kiosks for years, McDonald’s has started to test them out at certain stores, and Wendy’s announced in February that it plans to install bots at one thousand locations by the end of 2017.

But the tabletop tablets at the Olive Gardens and Outbacks of the world seem like a stranger fit. In the industry jargon, these are “casual dining” restaurants, table-service operations that aren’t quite as fancy as “fine dining” restaurants. Technically, any cheapish place with full service falls into the casual dining bucket, from greasy spoons to dim sum palaces, but the big chains make up about half of the category, and the bigger companies in the ecosystem—like Darden Restaurants, which owns Olive Garden, and DineEquity, which owns Applebee’s and IHOP—are some of the biggest employers in the country. Could touch screens swipe away half of those jobs?

by Sam Dean, Lucky Peach |  Read more:

Image: Erik Carter

Al Jarreau

Do The Right Thing at Twenty-Five

Magic Carpet Ride

It’s a thriving, little-known industry catering to the planet’s richest and most demanding travelers—European billionaires, Arabian heads-of-state, and CEOs who want to jet between continents as if they’d never left their their trophy penthouses.

Welcome to the world of airline conversions, where artisanal project managers reconfigure big commercial aircraft into custom-designed, airborne luxury suites where the boss or monarch can huddle in a posh conference lounge that seats 40 colleagues.

“The big appeal is that a new generation of private jetliners, for the first time, can fly anywhere in the world without refueling,” says Stephen Vella, founder of Kestrel Aviation Management, a leader in the conversions field. “The world’s wealthiest no longer have to stop on their way to China.” And they’re willing to pay hundreds of millions of dollars for the regal convenience.

Kestrel introduced its latest offering––an individually-tailored version, of course––in late May at the business aviation air show in Geneva. Though the jetliner was already sold to a Chinese conglomerate for close to $350 million, representatives for sheiks, princes, and tech billionaires toured Kestrel’s creation, a converted Boeing BBJ787-8 Dreamliner. It’s the first entry in the hottest new area in the conversions field: medium-sized commercial planes refitted for private owners. The wide-body 787 has major advantages over the two categories of jetliners previously favored by the ultra-wealthy and heads of state. Traditionally, the bottom end of the market has consisted of the narrow-body Boeing 737 and Airbus A320. Dominating the top end is the super-sized 747, the behemoth that’s long transported U.S. presidents as Air Force One and the jetliner of choice for Middle Eastern monarchs.

While 737 and A320 private jets travel a maximum of 9.5 to 10 hours, or around 4,300 miles––the distance, say, from New York to Warsaw––on a tank of jet fuel, the converted twin-engine 787 can carry its privileged passengers nonstop between any two cities in the world, no matter the distance. For example, the 787 covers the 9,200 miles from Los Angeles to Dubai, a 17.5-hour journey, with fuel to spare. To be sure, many customers will still prefer the 747’s superior size; it’s twice as roomy as the 787. But the 787's globe-spanning range makes it a tempting choice even for traditional 747 customers. The 787 can fly as far nonstop, or even a bit farther, than the new generation Boeing 747-8. Its twin engines burn less than half as much fuel on the same trip as the four-engine 747. Hence, the 787 is far cheaper to operate.

The 787 entered commercial service in late 2011, followed by the A350 in early 2015. But it’s only now that the two models are being refitted for private use. They are the first aircraft to be primarily built from carbon fiber composite, rather than the traditional aluminum and steel construction, making them far lighter than previous jetliners of similar size. Because of its slender weight, the 787 can pack far more fuel than other mid-sized planes with the passenger and baggage loads. Even with a brimming tank, it still weighs a lot less at takeoff than, say, the Boeing 767 it is gradually replacing. The lower aircraft weight and greater fuel efficiency helps the 787 travel farther on each gallon of fuel.

Its composite frame, however, presented Vella with new challenges in “going private.” In the 737 or A330, Vella would drill into the aluminum bulkheads and attach cabinets and other wall-units with rivets. But that system doesn’t work so well with carbon fiber. So Vella had to secure wall-to-ceiling cabinets and credenzas to aluminum rails running along the floors that, in commercial versions, anchor the rows of seats.

Vella had to work with Boeing on the structural modifications. The 787s flown by Delta or Japan Airlines are equipped with a single satellite communications system used by the pilots. Vella had Boeing cut a hole in the aircraft’s roof and install a satellite antenna and radome to deliver cellphone and internet service thousands of feet over any spot on the globe.

That’s just one of the abundant luxury features unveiled at the 787’s Geneva debut. Passengers enter into a grand circular foyer adorned with cherry hardwood floors and walls sheathed in leather. The two main salons in the 2,400-square-foot interior are the dining and conference rooms, equipped with a row of coffee tables that, at the flick of a switch, rise and unfold into a long banquet table, and the main lounge featuring first-class-style, lay-flat armchairs, and twin divans that merge electrically into a daybed. The 40 passengers and 7 cabin crew can access WiFi for their iPads and laptops, and make calls on their smartphones over GSM, at any time and at any altitude. TV shows are streamed live via internet onto the five giant TV screens. Billionaire couples can retreat to the master bedroom suite, a sanctuary offering what Vella calls “a California king-sized bed” and a dual-sink vanity clad in Italian marble.

by Shawn Tully, Fortune | Read more:
Image: Kestrel Aviation Management

Berkeley Author George Lakoff Says, ‘Don’t Underestimate Trump’

George Lakoff, retired UC Berkeley professor and author of Don’t Think of an Elephant, is one of a very few people in Berkeley who does not underestimate Donald Trump. “Trump is not stupid,” he tells anyone who will listen. “He is a super salesman, and he knows how to change your brain and use it to his advantage.”

In fact, Lakoff predicted a year ago that Trump would win with 47% of the vote. (The actual total was 46%.) Lakoff even told Hillary Clinton’s campaign and PAC staffers how to counteract Trump’s message. But they couldn’t hear him.

As far back as 2006, Lakoff saw the writing on the wall. “A dark cloud of authoritarianism looms over the nation,” he wrote in his book Thinking Points, A Progressive’s Handbook. ”Radical conservatives have taken over the reins of government and have been controlling the terms of the political debate for many years.” The progressives couldn’t hear him, either.

Lakoff’s message is simple, but it is couched in the language of cognitive linguistics and neuroscience. The problem is that political candidates rely on pollsters and PR people, not linguists or neuroscientists. So when Lakoff repeatedly says that “voters don’t vote their self-interest, they vote their values,” progressive politicians continually ignore him. His ideas don’t fit in with their worldview, so they can’t hear him.

But a worldview is exactly what Lakoff is talking about. “Ideas don’t float in the air, they live in your neuro-circuitry,” Lakoff said. Each time ideas in our neural circuits are activated, they get stronger. And over time, complexes of neural circuits create a frame through which we view the world. “The problem is, that frame is unconscious,” Lakoff said. “You aren’t aware of it because you don’t have access to your neural circuits.” So what happens when you hear facts that don’t fit in your worldview is that you can’t process them: you might ignore them, or reject or attack them, or literally not hear them.

This theory explains why even college-educated Trump voters could ignore so many facts about their candidate. And it also explains why progressives have been ignoring Lakoff’s findings for more than two decades. Progressives are still living in the world of Descartes and the Enlightenment, Lakoff said, a neat world governed by the rules of logic. Descartes said, “I think therefore I am,” but Lakoff claims that we are embodied beings and that 98 percent of thought is unconscious.

Our thoughts are chemical in nature, and occur within the confines of a physical body: we are not 100 percent rational beings.

So if you are going to craft a message that can reach people who disagree with you, you have to understand their subconscious worldview. Lakoff calls this worldview a “frame,” and claims that Republicans have done a much better job with framing over the past 30 or 40 years. Republicans understand the narrative that governs many people in this country, and they target their message directly to that worldview. Democrats, on the other hand, ignore the worldview and focus instead on rationality, facts and policies.

It is a myth that the truth will set us free, Lakoff said. Case in point: Hillary Clinton’s well-thought-out policy positions vs. Donald Trump’s tweets. The tweets had one central and fact-free message: “Make America great again.” Clinton’s message was more detailed and fact-based, but also much more diffuse. Heavy on Enlightenment, short on metaphor. “I spoke to people at the center of Hillary Clinton’s campaign in 2016, and told them they were doing everything they could to lose,” Lakoff said. “It didn’t make any difference. People are who they are, and they were going to do things their way. I could see the disaster happening the entire year.”

Lakoff started teaching linguistics at UC Berkeley in 1972 and retired as the Richard and Rhoda Goldman Distinguished Professor of Cognitive Science and Linguistics in 2016. Since his retirement, he has spent much of his time traveling around the country, giving talks and interviews. He has written or co-authored 11 books, and is at work on another. Lakoff is the kind of professor who will tell you, in answer to a question, that he wrote a 500-page book about that very topic. “I wrote two 500-page books and three 600-page books,” he adds, laughing. “I like to be thorough.”

In non-academic circles, Lakoff is best known for his slim book Don’t Think of an Elephant. The book, recently reprinted, was a New York Times best-seller when it first came out in 2004, after the “disaster” of the George W. Bush election. Don’t Think of an Elephant was mostly a compilation of essays, and the main point was that trying to use Republican’s language and theories against them is counter-productive.

“What George has done is tie the question of political belief to cognitive science,” said Lawrence Rosenthal, chair and lead researcher of the UC Berkeley Center for Right-Wing Studies. “He understands that the way to get at people’s political opinions is by talking about values, rather than specific arguments about specific issues. He believes conservatives are much better at this than liberals and have been for a very long time. They have a much better track record of crafting political appeals by way of the appropriate value statements for their audience.”

The reason Democrats have such a hard time with Lakoff’s message, Rosenthal said, “is because George is going up against something very deep-rooted, something that goes back to the Enlightenment. He would argue that the Enlightenment approach to political persuasion was never appropriate… Every time I hear a political candidate say the word ‘percent,’ I think of ‘Oh God, they haven’t read George’.”

Lakoff gave a talk recently at the Center for Right-Wing Studies and pointed out that students who become Democratic operatives tend to study political studies and statistics and demographics in college. “Students who lean Republican study marketing. “And that’s his point,” Rosenthal said. “It’s a very different way of thinking.”

Lakoff’s core finding revolves around the metaphor of family. He claims there are two core beliefs about the role of families in society, and the belief one holds determines whether one is conservative or liberal. Moderates are people in the middle who are able to hold some ideas from both sides, and being able to understand and persuade them is crucial to winning any election.

Conservatives believe in a what Lakoff calls the “strict father family,” while progressives believe in a “nurturant parent family.” In the strict father family, father knows best and he has the moral authority. The children and spouse have to defer to him, and when they disobey, he has the right to punish them so they will learn to do the right thing.

“The basic idea is that authority is justified by morality, and that, in a well-ordered world, there should be a moral hierarchy in which those who have traditionally dominated shoulddominate,” Lakoff said. “The hierarchy is God above man; man above nature; the rich above the poor; employers above employees; adults above children; Western culture above other cultures; our country above other countries. The hierarchy also extends to men above women, whites above nonwhites, Christians above non-Christians, straights above gays.” Since this is seen as a “natural” order, it is not to be questioned.

Trump and those crafting the Republican message play straight into this strict father worldview, which is accepted in many parts of the country. Even traditionally Democratic groups such as union members and Hispanics include members who are strict fathers at home or in their private life, Lakoff says. The Republican message plays well with them.

The nurturant parent family, on the other hand, believes that children are born good and can be made better. Both parents are responsible for raising children, and their role is to nurture their children and raise them to nurture others. Empathy and responsibility toward your child also extend to empathy and responsibility toward those who are less powerful, or suffering from pollution or disease, or are marginalized in some way.

While Lakoff is an unabashed Berkeley progressive, he said Democrats are decades behind in understanding how to frame issues in a way that can reach swing voters.

by Daphne White, Berkeleyside | Read more:
Image: Daphne White

via:
[ed. Studio Ghibli?]

A Guide to Escaping Facebook’s Evil Clutches

Earlier this week, leaked documents revealed Facebook can identify when teenagers feel “stressed”, “defeated” and “overwhelmed” and could use this information to target advertisements. According to The Australian, the social network told a top Australian bank that they could monitor young users’ emotional states and target them when they’re feeling insecure. Facebook claimed the report was misleading. Headlines ensued.

While it’s disturbing that Facebook can – and according to one ex-employee, does – do this, the technology involved isn’t the stuff of a harrowing dystopian novel. The report says Facebook can determine when young people feel “anxious”, “nervous”, “stupid”, “silly”, “useless” and a “failure” – to which, duh. It can most likely tell this because these are literally options on Facebook’s “Feeling” button (yep, even “useless”), which allows users to post a status about their emotional state. The most shocking thing about the report, then, is that teenagers are bothering to tell Facebook how they feel at all.

Facebook is dead. Not only do headlines like the above surface every week about the network’s dodgy dystopian dealings (here’s a list of every Facebook controversy in 2016), the site also simply isn’t cool. No one likes Facebook. No wants to be on Facebook. But we all keep using it.

Why? A Twitter search for the words “want to delete Facebook but” reveals a myriad of reasons. Some don’t want to lose pictures, others need to keep in touch with friends and family, others need it for their jobs, or to remember birthdays. Facebook is incredibly troubling – but it’s also incredibly useful, meaning all too often the “Delete Account” button remains untouched.

So what do you do if you don’t want Facebook to turn you into a puppet for its mind-control games, but still also really want to look at Sarah from Year Nine’s new baby to remind you that oh my God, babies really can look that weird?

1. Review what Facebook knows about you

Are you ready to be shocked? Visit www.facebook.com/ads/preferences to find out everything that Facebook knows about you (and uses to send you ads).

Under “Your interests”, click through the tabs such as “Hobbies and activities” and “Shopping and fashion” to view the very specific things Facebook knows. It can be very eerie (it knows I like the colour red, chicken nuggets, and Harry Potter) and also hilariously wrong (it thinks I like Prince Charles, a singular “eyelash”, and the sport curling).

Whether it’s right or wrong, the sheer amount Facebook knows is sure to unnerve. Under the “Your information” tab (scroll down from “Your interests”), the site knows what it defines as “Your categories” – things such as your political leanings, the devices you use, and how many close friends have their birthdays coming up. It knows that I have housemates, am a millennial, and am “close friends of ex-pats”.

by Amelia Tate, The New Statesman |  Read more:

Image: Getty/Facebook/New Statesman

At $495, Lonzo Ball’s ZO2 Sneakers Have Tastemakers Saying No Thanks

At the Flight Club sneaker store just south of Union Square on Thursday night, eager customers perused the gleaming shelves, hunting for classic kicks. The big names — the players whose signature shoes are most highly sought — are the ones you would expect: Kevin Durant, LeBron James and, even after all these years, Michael Jordan.

At the time, the larger world was trying to wrap its head around the ZO2, Lonzo Ball’s first signature shoe, which he had hours earlier announced in a video released to Slam magazine.

Ball, the former U.C.L.A. point guard who is expected to be a top-three pick in June’s N.B.A. draft, had declined contracts with the big sneaker companies: Nike, Under Armour and Adidas. Instead, he placed his chips on Big Baller Brand, the company founded by his father, LaVar Ball, for the frank purpose of maintaining control over the merchandise revenue generated by his three sons, Lonzo, 19; LiAngelo, 18, a U.C.L.A. commit; and LaMelo, 15, who scored 92 points in a high school game last season.

LaVar Ball’s opening bid to shoe companies some weeks ago was a marketing deal with all three sons worth $1 billion. The companies reportedly declined. Last month, a Nike executive called LaVar Ball “the worst thing to happen to basketball in the last 100 years.” Translation: Nike doesn’t like when someone rejects the business model that has enabled the company to dominate the multibillion-dollar sneaker and apparel industry.

Then, on Thursday, came Big Baller Brand’s ZO2, the least expensive version of which costs $495. Yes, four hundred ninety-five dollars. For comparison’s sake, the most recent signature shoe of James, basketball’s biggest star and best player, began retailing last year at $175; it carries the Nike swoosh.

While the shoe and the Ball family buzzed all over social media on Thursday, the sneaker intelligentsia were lined up in Flight Club’s consignment area. These are the people who camp out on street corners to get first crack at new releases and then sell them to Flight Club for a cut of the subsequent resale. The leading edge of sneaker cool, they help decide which shoes will be on the shelves of Flight Club and stores like it 10 and 25 years from now. And they had reached a verdict on the ZO2: No thanks.

“I wouldn’t buy those,” said T.Q. Jones, who wore Nike Prestos as he waited in the consignment line.

Haitham Khan — who was rocking a Comme des Garçons hoodie, a Supreme bag and blush-colored Common Projects sneakers — made a bold statement: “I can answer your question: No one’s going to buy them.”

This conclusion matched those of industry experts, who nonetheless marveled — through laughter — at what Bob Dorfman, a sports marketing expert at Baker Street Advertising, labeled “the brazenness, the audacity, the ego” of LaVar Ball, the father.

Matt Powell, a sports industry analyst at NPD Group, estimated Big Baller Brand would sell 10,000 pairs, which he described as a “rounding error” given the 400 million pairs of shoes Nike made last year.

“If you did it in snakeskin and pixie dust, it might cost $500,” Powell added.

Sneaker culture is shaped by substance as much as flash. Flight Club, for instance, prominently features sneakers linked to long-retired stars like Scottie Pippen, Patrick Ewing and Jordan not merely because those shoes are aesthetically pleasing, but because they are connected to incredible basketball talents.

As Jones said of Lonzo Ball: “I don’t know if he’s going to be a star.”

by Marc Tracy, NY Times |  Read more:

Image: Big Baller Brand

[ed. See also: You Can Buy a Cow for the Price of Lonzo Ball’s First Signature Shoe]

Bo Bartlett, The Promised Land
via:

‘I Don’t Know Who I Am Without It’: the Truth About Long-Term Antidepressant Use

SSRIs have been around for more than 40 years, but grew in popularity in the late 1980s and 90s after pharmaceutical company Eli Lilly launched fluoxetine, otherwise known as Prozac. Time magazine put the drug on its cover twice, asking, “Is Freud finished?” and describing SSRIs as “mental health’s greatest success story”. In 2001, a landmark report on a clinical trial into paroxetine (sold as Seroxat in North America and Paxil in the UK), called Study 329, concluded that it demonstrated “remarkable efficacy and safety”. Study 329 led directly to a massive increase in prescriptions: by 2003, worldwide sales of Seroxat (manufactured by GlaxoSmithKline) were worth £2.7bn.

But concerns were raised about the study –the US food and drug administration (FDA) officer who reviewed the data disagreed with the findings, calling it a failed trial – and in 2015 the British Medical Journal published a re-evaluation. Seven authors went through as many of the thousands of individual case reports as they could, and found not only that “the efficacy of paroxetine… was not statistically or clinically different from placebo”, but that “there were clinically significant increases in harms, including suicidal ideation and behaviour”. The original study reported 265 adverse reactions; the BMJ found 481. The re-evaluation also found that psychiatric responses were grouped together with “dizziness” and “headaches”, rather than given their own category. In 2003, the UK banned the use of Seroxat by anyone under 18; and in 2004 the FDA required a “black box warning” on all antidepressants, its strictest level of patient warning.

“Patient safety is our number one priority,” a GlaxoSmithKline (GSK) spokesperson tells me. “We believe we acted responsibly in researching paroxetine, monitoring its safety once it was approved and updating its labelling as new information became available.”

Many SSRI users report blunted emotions, even long after they have ceased taking pills, and an impact on sexual function. “They should be called anti-sex drugs rather than antidepressant drugs,” says Jon Jureidini, a child psychiatrist of 30 years’ standing, a professor of psychiatry and paediatrics at the University of Adelaide and co-author of the BMJ study, “It’s more reliably predictable that they’re going to get rid of sexual function than it is that they’re going to get rid of depression.” Again, some people find this persists long after they cease taking the drug. One person I spoke to, Kevin, had taken Prozac for six months when he was 18; now 38, he hasn’t had an erection since. (...)

Quite a few long-term users, such as those I spoke to below (and who wished to be anonymous), would agree.

Tapering off is the hardest thing I’ve ever done’: Sarah, 32; has taken Seroxat for 14 years

I was prescribed Seroxat when I was 18, the year I started university. I grew up with a disabled sister, so things at home were very stressful, and I had a history of anxiety and panic attacks. I had counselling, but the problems persisted, so I went back to the GP. I don’t remember everything that was said, but there was no conversation about side-effects.

Within the first two weeks of starting Seroxat, I remember I was sitting in the front room watching TV when out of nowhere I had this intense feeling of heat, like an electric shock. It started in my hands, went all the way up my arms and through to my head.

The GP said it was probably just my body getting used to the drug. And after a few weeks the weird sensations did ease off. I had a fabulous time at university. I still had panic attacks, and there were certain situations I would avoid – as I still do – so it wasn’t a wonder drug, but there were no major problems.

But in 2006 I tried to come off it. There were a couple of Panorama documentariesabout the side-effects and I was starting to become concerned. The GP said, “That’s fine, but do it gradually, over three weeks.”


I thought I was losing my mind. I was going to work, but it was difficult to get through the day. My mouth was so dry

I immediately became incredibly unwell. I thought I was losing my mind. I was going to work, but it was difficult to get through the day. My mouth was so dry, I was constantly drinking water. I had bizarre thoughts – not hallucinations – that were frightening or distressing. I had a strong sense of detachment from reality.

Eventually, the doctor said, “Look, you coming off is obviously not working: we need to get you back to 20mg.” Within a week I was much better.

A few years later, when I realised my mental health was getting worse, even though I was on the medication, I started to do some research, reading case studies about withdrawal. I find it so offensive when a GP says, “This is who you are.” I didn’t have these symptoms 10 years ago. I didn’t have this sense of detachment. I saw various psychiatrists. They just kept saying, “The drug is safe, you need to be on it.” A couple of others told me the reason I was having these problems was because I wasn’t taking enough. Another said, “If you were diabetic, you’d take insulin and you wouldn’t have an issue. Why are you so bothered about taking this drug?”

I’ve been on it since I was 18, so I don’t know who I am without it, as an adult. Who knows? I might have all kinds of problems, but I need to know I’ve tried. Tapering off is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s taken me three years just to get from 20mg to 5mg. I’m no longer with my partner – we were together for six years. I believe Seroxat has played a part: it affected my moods, it made my anxiety worse and, by necessity, I’ve had to be selfish, really. I don’t want to say all my problems are to do with Seroxat, because they’re not. But I do believe that it has caused me harm.

by Aida Edemariam, The Guardian | Read more:
Image: Alarmy

Yashima Gakutei, Crabs near a tide line, Japan, 1827
via:

via:

Our World Outsmarts Us

When mulling over possible reasons for the alarming nastiness associated with the recent presidential election in the United States, I am reminded of my grade-school bully. Handsome, often charming, superbly athletic, the bully (let’s call him Mike) would frequently, usually without clear provocation, kick, punch and shove other classmates. Fortunately, for reasons not apparent at that time, he never bothered me.

Fast-forward 20 years. After his long-time girlfriend left him for another man, Mike stalked and stabbed to death the new boyfriend. Shortly following his murder conviction and incarceration, I ran into Mike’s father, who spontaneously blurted out: ‘Did you know that Mike had severe dyslexia?’

As soon as his father spoke, I recalled Mike’s great difficulty reading aloud in class. As he stumbled over simple words, the other kids fidgeted, snickered and rolled their eyes. In return, they got bullied. I can still sense my classmates’ fear of Mike even as I cringe at the knowledge that, in our collective ignorance, we were at least partially responsible for his outbursts. What if we had understood that Mike’s classroom performance was a neurological handicap and not a sign of general stupidity, laziness or whatever other pejoratives of cognition we threw at him? Would our acceptance of his disability have changed the arc of Mike’s life? Of ours?

Since running into his father, I’ve often wondered if Mike’s outbursts and bullying behaviour might offer an insight into the seeming association between anger, extremism and a widespread blatant disregard for solid facts and real expertise. I’m not dismissing obvious psychological explanations such as ideological and confirmatory biases and overriding self-interests, or suggesting that a particular human behaviour can be reduced to a single or specific cause. But Mike’s story suggests an additional, more basic dynamic. What if, as a species, the vast majority of us have a profoundly challenging collective difficulty with mathematics and science analogous to Mike’s dyslexia?

Whether contemplating the pros and cons of climate change; the role of evolution; the risks versus benefits of vaccines, cancer screening, proper nutrition, genetic engineering; trickle-down versus bottom-up economic policies; or how to improve local traffic, we must be comfortable with a variety of statistical and scientific methodologies, complex risk-reward and probability calculations – not to mention an intuitive grasp of the difference between fact, theory and opinion. Even moral decisions, such as whether or not to sacrifice one life to save five (as in the classic trolley-car experiment), boil down to often opaque calculations of the relative value of the individual versus the group.

If we are not up to the cognitive task, how might we be expected to respond? Will we graciously acknowledge our individual limits and readily admit that others might have more knowledge and better ideas? Will those uneasy with numbers and calculations appreciate and admire those who are? Or is it more likely that a painful-to-acknowledge sense of inadequacy will promote an intellectual defensiveness and resistance to ideas not intuitively obvious? (...)

Perhaps the best-known relationship between poor performance on reasoning tests and cognitive bias is the study ‘Unskilled and Unaware of It’ (1999) by the psychologists Justin Kruger and David Dunning, then at Cornell University in New York. The researchers had a group of undergraduates take a logical reasoning self-assessment test. On average, participants placed themselves in the 66th percentile, indicating that most of us tend to overestimate our skills somewhat (the so-called above-average effect). Those in the bottom 25 per cent consistently overestimated their ability to the greatest degree, while those who scored at or below the 12th percentile believed that their general reasoning abilities fell at the 68th percentile. Dunning and Kruger concluded:

People who lack the knowledge or wisdom to perform well are often unaware of this fact. That is, the same incompetence that leads them to make wrong choices also deprives them of the savvy necessary to recognise competence, be it their own or anyone else’s. (...)

This discrepancy begins at the most basic level of probabilities. In grade school, we learn that the odds of a coin flip coming up heads or tails are 50 per cent. Though deeply ingrained, this knowledge conflicts with a superb pattern-recognising subconscious. If you see heads come up twenty times in a row, you rationally know the odds of the next toss are unaffected by prior tosses yet have subliminally detected a sequence that seems at odds with pure randomness. Affected by other subliminal influences such as innate optimism or pessimism, some of us sense that the streak is more likely to continue (‘hot streak fallacy’), while others feel that tails is more likely (‘gambler’s fallacy’). This conflict between logic and contrary intuition – the basis of much of modern behavioural economics – is self-evident when watching onlookers rush to the craps table to bet with a player on an extended roll or betting larger sums of money when having a losing streak at blackjack. In short, our visceral sense of the world can dramatically influence our perception of the simplest probability calculations.

Imagine a brain in which the visceral sense of knowing is disconnected from centres for logical thought, yet stuck on a given idea. No matter what contrary evidence or line of reasoning is presented that the idea is wrong, that brain will continue to generate a feeling of rightness. We’re all familiar with this behaviour in its most extreme form – those intractable ‘know-it-alls’ entirely immune to contradictory ideas. We must at least consider the possibility that know-it-all behaviour is a problem of neural circuitry, much like dyslexia.

I am reluctant to invoke evolutionary psychology to explain every nuance of human behaviour. Even so, present-day demands on our mathematics and science skills bear no resemblance to former days, when survival depended on quickly calculating if it’s better run up a tree to avoid a charging lion or pretend to be dead. No one applied complex game-theory matrices to determine the best policy strategies in the Middle East, or carried out complicated risk-reward calculations to decide whether to embrace genetic crop engineering, or used the standard deviation of the mean to understand normal versus abnormal lab values. Most of us have trouble programming a VCR.

Even when we can use the new methodologies, we often do so without any associated intuitive grasp of what we’re doing. Many of us (me included) can solve the equation f=ma (Newton’s second law of motion) without having any feel for what the equation means. Though I might fix a computer crash, I have no sense of what I’ve actually done.

by Robert Burton, Aeon |  Read more:

Image: Puck magazine 1909. Courtesy Library of Congress

Men Without Women by Haruki Murakami – a Quiet Panic

A quiet panic afflicts the male characters in Hemingway’s 1927 collection Men Without Women, that touchstone in the development of both Hemingwayism and the short story. Men should never put themselves in the position where they can lose someone, a bereaved Italian soldier warns Hemingway’s long-running protagonist Nick Adams: instead, a man “should find things he cannot lose”. Ninety years later, Haruki Murakami’s men without women have come to the same conclusion, polishing it into a postmodern lifestyle.

Kafuko, a middle-aged character actor, used to be married. Throughout their life together, his wife had affairs, but he loved her, and though it was painful – “his heart was torn and his insides were bleeding” – he never dared ask her what deficiency she was tryng to make up for in their relationship; now it’s too late. In another story, jazz fan Kino blunders in on his wife having sex with his best friend and, apparently more embarrassed than wounded, decides to begin life again as a bar owner in another part of town. He equips the perfect establishment, then sits in it playing his favourite albums and waiting for his first customer, a policy guaranteed to draw in spirits as unquietly defeated as himself.

By the end of the title story, its narrator has concluded, in appropriately Hemingwayesque fashion, that when you lose one woman, you lose them all: you become, somehow, the representative of the category “men without women”, alone but not singular. To be trapped by that “relentlessly rigid plural” is to live at the heart of loneliness. But something about this rhetorical sleight of hand reveals loneliness as a coping strategy in itself. Kafuko the actor, for instance, performs his way into his exchanges with others, taking on the qualities of the person he needs to be in the situation he’s in – but he learned the technique in childhood, long before he got into the profession, long before his wife died. “Why don’t you have any friends?” his new driver asks him one day, in a traffic jam on the Tokyo metropolitan expressway. It’s an interesting question.

There’s a dialled-down quality to these men. Their exchanges with other people are limited to bedrooms and bars. They have one eccentricity each: they care about reading or cooking or the history of popular music. Murakami Man, we begin to see, has no friends because, in the pursuit of convenience and emotional self-protection, in proofing himself against grief, he chose distance. He chose loneliness long before he experienced loss. As a result, he is unable to take advantage of the predictable life he has been at such pains to organise. If he fails to connect with others, he fails, equally, to connect with himself.

M John Harrison, The Guardian |  Read more:

Image: Murdo Macleod

Our Problem with Monopolies, and Why Everything Sucks

I wanted to share some thoughts on the role of bigness and monopolies in our lives today. I want to preface this by noting that what you’ll read here are things that many of you have almost certainly experienced yourselves. They are most definitely what we call ‘first world problems.’ My point in sharing them is not to say ‘woe is me’ but to describe some basic and recurring experiences which illustrate a larger point.

Let’s talk about buying cable and Internet service, shall we?

TPM leases two offices – one in New York and one in DC. We’ve been in the New York office for just over eight years. For maybe seven of those years we got our Internet connectivity from Time Warner Cable’s business class service. (For clarity, nothing to do with the TPM website is tied to this office. It’s not housed on a server here. What we’re talking about is purely how the staff in this office accesses the Internet.)

The service was quite simply a disaster – a slow motion seven year disaster. It frequently went out. Or it got ridiculously slow for no reason. We’d call and be told it was out neighborhood-wide when we later learned it was a problem with our connection. Or a problem supposedly with our modem was actually the whole block. Or we’d be told it was a routing station down the street that was being worked on only to find out from higher ups that they didn’t even know our connection was down. Suffice it to say we routinely had problems with our connection and when we’d call to get help we’d routinely be told a different things by each person we talked to. It was less than fun.

To be clear, this wasn’t the connection you have in your home. This was a business class and rather pricey connection. It’s also not in the boondocks. This is in the center of one of the most wired parts of Manhattan, surrounded by numerous tech companies and digital journalism outfits you’ve heard of. It’s probably fair to say that we are in one of a handful of the most tech-centric and wired neighborhoods on the East Coast, probably in the country.

The problem for us as a business was that our Internet needs for this office are really not very complex or great. So it simply made no sense to upgrade to the kind of connection that say a brokerage making live trades or a medical facility might have. It meant an order of magnitude more money and would add things we simply had zero need for. Could we just pay two or three times the money and get better service? We would have happily done that. No. This is the service.

Even so, about a year and a half ago we decided the situation was intolerable and we decided to spend a lot more money and get the next level of service. Since we had zero confidence in Time Warner Cable we decided to get the service from Verizon, the only other telecom who offered service in our building. I have Verizon FiOS at home. And it’s pretty good. But Verizon stopped installing FiOS in new places when the regulatory heat was lifted. So it wasn’t in our building. (New York City is currently suing Verizon over breaking its promises about wiring the city with FiOS.) But obviously, a huge part of our work experience and efficiency is tied to having reliable and reasonably speedy Internet. So we decided to make a change. It would cost us a lot more money – maybe seven times what we’d been paying. But it seemed worth it.

It was a joke.

The process entailed the following: 30 days to schedule installation, an additional 60 days to do the installation, and finally an additional 30 days for “testing.” That sounded nuts. But we were desperate for the cold sweet water of reliable connectivity. In the event, the process took roughly six months – August 2015 to March 2016: August to December to get it installed; December to March to try to make it work.

If I recall correctly, we were originally told that three separate visits to the location would be required to manage the process of installation – mainly looking at our office to see how to do it. Stage two of the process was literally this: install a four foot by four foot piece of wood on a wall. Once a contractor installed the piece of wood, a another person from Verizon would come at to look at the board. We’re having an installation conversation across continents dealing with multiple visits to inspect the installation of a technology that is at least 10,000 years old. For reasons which I don’t completely remember, our building wanted us to have a board slightly smaller. That wasn’t okay. We end up doing it anyway. In the event, they didn’t seem to notice that it was a 3.5 x 3.5 foot board. There was maybe six weeks tied up with the board issue.

The process was managed by a person at a call center in Manilla, who tried to be helpful but was hampered both by language difficulties and time zones. The person who sold us the service left Verizon after a few months. Through all of this, I would say it’s a fair estimate that half the scheduled appointments no one showed up for. (...)

Six months after the decision to make the switch, we had Verizon Internet service. It didn’t work. It was slow, went out as often as Time Warner had. They actually had a billing error in which they started charging us for service before it was installed. That went on for months trying to get our money back.

It was, in short, a comical disaster that cost us thousands of dollars and six months.

Now here’s the funny part of the story. During the Verizon Long March, the super in our building mentioned to me that another company would soon be wiring our building. Supposedly it was cheap and fast. Whatever … Too late for us and I’ll believe it when I see it. We had already paid upwards of $10,000 on a mix of contractor fees and deposits to Verizon. So it seemed like we’d sunk way too much money to switch again. But after we had the ridiculous Verizon service that was terrible, we figured “Let’s try. How bad could it be?”

As it turned out, it was pretty good! It cost probably 20% of what the Verizon service cost. It was fast. It was always on. On the rare occasions when there was an outage it never lasted more than a few minutes. We hear from the company immediately by email when an outage happens. And we actually get small refunds for those outages.

It’s frankly amazing.

But it’s not really amazing. We pay a reasonable fee for a service. It’s reliable. We pay the bill. We have Internet. It’s still what we use. We even installed their modem on the Verizon mandated board.

The point, I trust, is clear. No company like Time Warner Cable (now rebranded as ‘Spectrum’) or Verizon could possibly stay in business if they weren’t monopolies or duopolies in which customers are essentially captive. It’s not the people. Everyone I’ve described in this post, comical as they may sound in context, was a great person working in a ridiculous system. It’s the system.

Let’s talk about banks. (...)

There are lots of little complications in running a small business. These were the most first world of first world problems. I live a blessed life. My point in telling these stories is that they’re somewhat comical – except when they’re happening. But because they’re comical I think they help to illustrate a basic and not at all comical point. These businesses could not exist, they could not stay in business run as they are, if they did not function as monopolies or in monopoly settings where consumers have little ability to take their business elsewhere. Are these just examples of bad luck or bizarre stories? No, they’re just particularly amusing (now) examples. I could tell you literally a hundred more. They are examples of what I’ve seen change even over the last decade and a half. The industries we work with get more concentrated, the service gets worse and more expensive.

The telecom and banking industries are among the most concentrated and monopolistic in our economy. Our current Internet service provider is that rare exception that proves the rule. They provide really good service at a reasonable price – not because they’re nice or moral but because their business is not based on coerced consumption.

They’re not a monopoly.

If this were just a matter of annoyances with cable service, it would just be another of life’s many minor annoyances. But these anecdotes are examples of something much larger. We are living in a new era of monopolies and one in which anti-trust enforcement is all but doesn’t exist. Monopolies provide bad service at high costs. They stifle innovation. We’re used to this kind of anti-sclerosis, anti-bigness rhetoric coming out of the tech world and Silicon Valley. But two of the biggest monopolists are Google and Facebook. Their monopoly power shows up in different ways. But they’re ways that are no less negative for the economy in general. As we’ll discuss in the coming days, there is also a growing body of hard evidence that the growth of monopolies is one of the drivers of wealth and income inequality.

by Josh Marshall, TPM |  Read more:

Image: uncredited