Wednesday, January 6, 2021

A 25-Year-Old Bet Comes Due: Has Tech Destroyed Society?

On March 6, 1995, WIRED’s executive editor and resident techno-optimist Kevin Kelly went to the Greenwich Village apartment of the author Kirkpatrick Sale. Kelly had asked Sale for an interview. But he planned an ambush.

Kelly had just read an early copy of Sale’s upcoming book, called Rebels Against the Future. It told the story of the 19th-century Luddites, a movement of workers opposed to the machinery of the Industrial Revolution. Before their rebellion was squashed and their leaders hanged, they literally destroyed some of the mechanized looms that, they believed, reduced them to cogs in a dehumanizing engine of mass production.

Sale adored the Luddites. In early 1995, Amazon was less than a year old, Apple was in the doldrums, Microsoft had yet to launch Windows 95, and almost no one had a mobile phone. But Sale, who for years had been churning out books complaining about modernity and urging a return to a subsistence economy, felt that computer technology would make life worse for humans. Sale had even channeled the Luddites at a January event in New York City where he attacked an IBM PC with a 10-pound sledgehammer. It took him two blows to vanquish the object, after which he took a bow and sat down, deeply satisfied.

Kelly hated Sale’s book. His reaction went beyond mere disagreement; Sale’s thesis insulted his sense of the world. So he showed up at Sale’s door not just in search of a verbal brawl but with a plan to expose what he saw as the wrongheadedness of Sale’s ideas. Kelly set up his tape recorder on a table while Sale sat behind his desk.

The visit was all business, Sale recalls. “No eats, no coffee, no particular camaraderie,” he says. Sale had prepped for the interview by reading a few issues of WIRED—he’d never heard of it before Kelly contacted him—and he expected a tough interview. He later described it as downright “hostile, no pretense of objective journalism.” (Kelly later called it adversarial, “because he was an adversary, and he probably viewed me the same way.”) They argued about the Amish, whether printing presses denuded forests, and the impact of technology on work. Sale believed it stole decent labor from people. Kelly replied that technology helped us make new things we couldn’t make any other way. “I regard that as trivial,” Sale said.

Sale believed society was on the verge of collapse. That wasn’t entirely bad, he argued. He hoped the few surviving humans would band together in small, tribal-style clusters. They wouldn’t be just off the grid. There would be no grid. Which was dandy, as far as Sale was concerned.

“History is full of civilizations that have collapsed, followed by people who have had other ways of living,” Sale said. “My optimism is based on the certainty that civilization will collapse.”

That was the opening Kelly had been waiting for. In the final pages of his Luddite book, Sale had predicted society would collapse “within not more than a few decades.” Kelly, who saw technology as an enriching force, believed the opposite—that society would flourish. Baiting his trap, Kelly asked just when Sale thought this might happen.

Sale was a bit taken aback—he’d never put a date on it. Finally, he blurted out 2020. It seemed like a good round number.

Kelly then asked how, in a quarter century, one might determine whether Sale was right.

Sale extemporaneously cited three factors: an economic disaster that would render the dollar worthless, causing a depression worse than the one in 1930; a rebellion of the poor against the monied; and a significant number of environmental catastrophes.

“Would you be willing to bet on your view?” Kelly asked.

“Sure,” Sale said.

Then Kelly sprung his trap. He had come to Sale’s apartment with a $1,000 check drawn on his joint account with this wife. Now he handed it to his startled interview subject. “I bet you $1,000 that in the year 2020, we’re not even close to the kind of disaster you describe,” he said.

Sale barely had $1,000 in his bank account. But he figured that if he lost, a thousand bucks would be worth much less in 2020 anyway. He agreed. Kelly suggested they both send their checks for safekeeping to William Patrick, the editor who had handled both Sale’s Luddite book and Kelly’s recent tome on robots and artificial life; Sale agreed.

“Oh, boy,” Kelly said after Sale wrote out the check. “This is easy money.”

Twenty-five years later, the once distant deadline is here. We are locked down. Income equality hasn’t been this bad since just before the Great Depression. California and Australia were on fire this year. We’re about to find out how easy that money is. As the time to settle approached, both men agreed that Patrick, the holder of the checks, should determine the winner on December 31. Much more than a thousand bucks was at stake: The bet was a showdown between two fiercely opposed views on the nature of progress. In a time of climate crisis, a pandemic, and predatory capitalism, is optimism about humanity’s future still justified? Kelly and Sale each represent an extreme side of the divide. For the men involved, the bet’s outcome would be a personal validation—or repudiation—of their lifelong quests.

by Steven Levy, Wired |  Read more:
Image: Wired staff/Getty Images
[ed. See also: By the Waters of Babylon; by Stephen Vincent Benét]

Tuesday, January 5, 2021

The 21st-Century Fantasy Trilogy That Changed the Game

THE STONE SKY
The Broken Earth: Book Three
By N.K. Jemisin


Once upon a time, not so very long ago, in a world strikingly similar to ours, the literary genre known as epic fantasy was widely perceived as a realm of straight white men, whether as readers or writers — a realm built from the recycled myths and legends of northern Europe that modernity had left behind. Sometimes it was said that these men had wild, unkempt hair, lived in cantankerous tribal groups in caves illumined by a strange blue glow, and favored T-shirts with whimsical sayings or the logos of defunct 1970s rock bands. Possibly such tales have grown exaggerated in the telling. Reader, you be the judge.

This was of course never entirely true. From the beginning, there were many readers who loved the imaginative universes of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien and so many who came after them, but had to fight their way into those worlds past what could at best be called old-fashioned gender stereotypes and willed cultural blindness — and at worst looked like forces much darker than those. (The deeper one goes into the origin stories of the elves and orcs in the “Lord of the Rings” universe, the less pleasant they become.)

Like all good stories in this genre — like N. K. Jemisin’s extraordinary Broken Earth trilogy of slavery, revolution, destruction and redemption, for instance, which concludes with her new novel, “The Stone Sky” — the story of how epic fantasy and the adjacent realm of science fiction were transformed is a long one. It has many pioneers and legendary heroes, including (just for starters) such authors as Ursula K. Le Guin, Anne McCaffrey, Samuel R. Delany and Octavia E. Butler, not to omit those white male writers who have sought to broaden the genre’s cultural palette for reasons of their own. Neil Gaiman and George R. R. Martin come to mind, as does Frank Herbert, originator of the Dune series (inevitably, the “Duniverse”), whose apocalyptic blend of science, magic and planetary or ecological consciousness strikes me as an important precursor to the Broken Earth.

None of that is meant to diminish the impact or importance of Jemisin, an African-American woman who was born in Iowa and now lives in Brooklyn (and who writes the Book Review’s Otherworldly column, about science fiction and fantasy). She burst on the epic fantasy scene with her earlier Inheritance trilogy (completed in 2011) and has pretty well conquered it with the Broken Earth. Last year she became the first black writer to win the Hugo Award for best novel, one of the biggest prizes in the fantasy and science fiction realm, for “The Fifth Season,” first volume in the trilogy. This year, she won it again, for the middle volume, “The Obelisk Gate.” (Both books were also nominated for the Nebula, the other major prize in those genres.)

Jemisin’s ascent has paralleled an often-unsavory culture war in the fantasy and science fiction world around issues of identity and representation and perceived “political correctness,” which all too closely mirrors larger cultural and political disputes one could mention. When it comes to reading Jemisin’s actual books, it’s probably fair to say that such issues both do and do not matter, or perhaps that they matter if you want them to. Her epic yarn of a divided and warring mother and daughter on a tormented, unitary continent called the Stillness — possibly a reverse-Pangaea, deep in our planet’s future — unquestionably subverts or inverts the conventions of old-school fantasy in innumerable ways. (...)

Jemisin strives to tell the story of Essun, Nassun and the broken world around them — haunted by fragments of “deadciv” technology that will seem almost familiar or plausible to 21st-century readers — with a minimum of exposition and a maximum of action. Since the history of the Stillness is exceedingly complicated and each incident dense with important detail, “The Stone Sky” is not always easy reading. In this sense, “Game of Thrones” fans should feel at home: Yes, you need to read the earlier installments first and yes, rereading individual chapters (or the whole book) at a slower pace — after your first pell-mell rush through to find out what happens — is recommended.

by Andrew O’Hehir, NY Times | Read more:
Image: Orbit (publisher)
[ed. I'm finally nearing the end of this Trilogy and can highly recommend it. I'm not a fan of "fantasy" books per se (magic, demons, etc.), but there were some good reviews so I picked up "The Fifth Season", the first installment in the series, figuring I could always bail if it wasn't to my taste. My skepticism only increased after finishing it. I still couldn't figure out what the plot line was, what the characters were doing, or, in some cases, what the characters even were. It all seemed so broken and confusing. Fortunately, there were enough inventive and intriguing ideas that I kept going. Good thing, because eventually everything began to coalesce and make more sense until, by the end of the second book (The Obelisk Gate), I couldn't wait to start the third, this one. I think the last sentence in this review is really the way you have to approach these books. Slow pace to let things sink in (that'll be hard), re-reading earlier chapters as you go along (sometimes all the way back to the first book), and just being more attuned to clues and incidents that later have a large influence on events. Really, an interesting style of narration, not unlike my all-time favorite sci-fi writer Neil Stephenson, but also, completely different. See also: N. K. Jemisin’s Dream Worlds (New Yorker).]

Last Minute Details


Trump auctions Arctic refuge to oil drillers in last strike against US wilderness (Guardian)
Image: Acacia Johnson
[ed. Update: Sale of Drilling Leases in Arctic Refuge Fails to Yield a Windfall (NYT).]

Ani DiFranco


The sky is gray
The sand is gray
And the ocean is gray.
And I feel right at home 
In this stunning monochrome 
Alone in my way.

I smoke and I drink.
And every time I blink
I have a tiny dream.
But as bad as I am.
I'm proud of the fact
That I'm worse than I seem.

What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I've got everything I want, and still I want more.
Maybe some tiny, shiny key
Will wash up on the shore...

by Ani DiFranco, Grey (lyrics)
[ed. Depression. A song for our times.]

Live Free or Die — But Not in My Hospital

Whenever Larry Kelderman looks up from the car he’s fixing and peers across the street, he’s looking across a border. His town of 28,000 straddles two counties, separated by County Line Road.

Kelderman’s auto repair business is in Boulder County, whose officials are sticklers for public health and have topped the county website with instructions on how to report COVID violations. Kelderman lives in Weld County, where officials refuse to enforce public health rules.

Weld County’s test positivity rate is twice that of its neighbor, but Kelderman is pretty clear which side he backs.

“Which is worse, the person gets the virus and survives and they still have a business, or they don’t get the virus and they lose their livelihood?” he said.

Boulder boasts one of the most highly educated populations in the nation; Weld boasts about its sugar beets, cattle and thousands of oil and gas wells. Summer in Boulder County means concerts featuring former members of the Grateful Dead; in Weld County, it’s rodeo time. Boulder voted for Biden, Weld for Trump. Per capita income in Boulder is nearly 50% higher than in Weld.

Even their COVID outbreaks are different: In Boulder County, the virus swirls around the University of Colorado. In Weld County, some of the worst outbreaks have swept through meatpacking plants.

It’s not the first time County Line Road has been a fault line.

“I’ve been in politics seven years and there’s always been a conflict between the two counties,” said Jennifer Carroll, mayor of Erie, once a coal mining town and now billed as a good place to raise a family, about 30 minutes north of Denver. (...)

Most of the town’s businesses are on the Weld side. To avoid public health whiplash, Carroll and other town leaders have asked residents to comply with the more restrictive stance of the Boulder side.

The feud got ugly in a dispute over hospital beds. At one point, the state said Weld County had only three intensive care beds, while Weld County claimed it had 43.

“It made my job harder, because people were doubting what I was saying,” said Carroll. “Nobody trusted anyone because they were hearing conflicting information.”

Weld’s number, it turned out, included not just the beds in its two hospitals, but also those in 10 other hospitals across the county line, including in the city of Longmont.

Longmont sits primarily in Boulder County but spills into Weld, where its suburbs taper into fields pockmarked with prairie dog holes. Its residents say they can tell snow is coming when the winds deliver a pungent smell of livestock from next door. Longmont Mayor Brian Bagley worried that Weld’s behavior would deliver more than a stench: It might also deliver patients requiring precious resources.

“They were basically encouraging their citizens to violate the emergency health orders … with this cowboy-esque, you know, ‘Yippee-ki-yay, freedom, Constitution forever, damn the consequences,’” said Bagley. “Their statement is, ‘Our hospitals are full, but don’t worry, we’re just going to use yours.’” (...)

“They’re going to be irresponsible? Fine. Let me propose a question,” he said. “If there is only one ICU bed left and there are two grandparents there — one from Weld, one from Boulder — and they both need that bed, who should get it?”

Weld County commissioners volleyed back, calling Bagley a “simple mayor.” They wrote that the answer to the pandemic was “not to continually punish working-class families or the individuals who bag your groceries, wait on you in restaurants, deliver food to your home while you watch Netflix and chill.”

“I know we’re all trying to get along, but people are starting to do stupid and mean things and so I’ll be stupid and mean back,” Bagley said during a Dec. 8 council meeting. (...)

Weld County Commissioner Scott James said his county doesn’t have the authority to enforce public health orders any more than a citizen has the authority to give a speeding ticket.

“If you want me as an elected official to assume authority that I don’t have and arbitrarily exert it over you, I dare you to look that up in the dictionary,” said James, who is a rancher turned country radio host. “It’s called tyranny.”

James doesn’t deny that COVID-19 is ravaging his community. “We’re on fire, and we need to put that fire out,” he said. But he believes that individuals will make the right decisions to protect others, and demands the right of his constituents to use the hospital nearest them.

“To look at Weld County like it has walls around it is shortsighted and not the way our health care system is designed to work,” James said. “To use a crudity, because I am, after all, just a ranch kid turned radio guy, there’s no ‘non-peeing’ section in the pool. Everybody’s gonna get a little on ’em. And that’s what’s going on right now with COVID.”

by Rae Ellen Bichell, Kaiser Health News |  Read more:
Image: Rae Ellen Bichell/KHN
[ed. Other news from the wonderful world of healthcare: Tough Decisions’: LA Ambulance Crews Told To Ration OxygenHospital Prices Just Got a Lot More Transparent; and Seniors Face Crushing Drug Costs as Congress Stalls on Capping Medicare Out-Of-Pockets (KHN).]

Monday, January 4, 2021

Studio Ghibli Free Images


Over a thousand beautiful images from Ghibli movies are now yours for the downloading. Studio Ghibli just made 1,178 hi-res images available for you to download and set as your wallpaper or whatever. 

[ed. I love the disclaimer: "Please feel free to use the images within the bounds of common sense"]

2021 Space Needle Virtual Light Show

[ed. Wow! Spectacular! What an amazing experience if you were lucky enough to see this in person. Some say it reminds them of this 7-up cola commercial from the 70s. I don't think so.] 

Soul Is Good, But It's Not About Black Soul

These are the top five feature films produced by Pixar, an animation studio that began with George Lucas, received a capital boost from Apple's founder Steve Jobs, and has been owned by Disney since 2006: Wall-E, Toy Story, Ratatouille, Soul, and Monsters, Inc. This post is about the film that occupies the fourth position on my list, Soul, which was released by Disney on December 25, 2020. (It's really hard for me to describe what happened on that day as anything like the Christmas spirit—thousands of Covid deaths, more deaths to come because people refused to stay at home for just one Santa Day, and so on, and so on.) One might even say that Soul arrived right on time. Pixar dropped its first movie featuring a black character at the end of a year that was shocked into a state of awareness/confusion/denial by the images of a white police officer murdering a black man on a Minneapolis street.

A key understanding extracted from the Black Lives Movement protests ignited by the murder of George Floyd on May 25, 2020 was the need to increase and improve the representations of black Americans in mainstream culture. Not only did Soul place a black jazz pianist at its narrative core, it also made the effort to include top-shelf black talent: Jamie Foxx, Phylicia Rashad, Donnell Rawlings, Questlove, and Angela Bassett. On top of all that, a black screenwriter, Kemp Powers, made significant contributions to the film's creative development. By all appearances, Pixar had its finger on the racial pulse of the nation, even before the pulse was sped up by this summer's BLM protests.

So, how did it turn out? Did Soul really tackle the issues of racism in the US? Was the black experience finally translated into computer-generated images? The answer is "no." But this "no" does not in any way mean it was a bad film. I love Sidney Lumet's The Wiz like nobody's business, but I would be crazy to say that it realistically represents the most pressing issues of the black American experience in the 1970s.

After Soul screened on Friday, praises and criticisms flooded social media. Most of the praise has been directed at the visual beauty of the work. For example, the scene in the black barber shop—its colors, its rays of light, its textures on the walls, chairs, and clothes—is one of the most numinous scenes that Pixar has ever produced.

Also much expressed has been an appreciation for its metaphysical themes: birth, death, afterlife, the essences of human morality.

The bulk of the criticisms, on the other hand, have mostly been directed at the film's failure to abolish certain old and new racist tropes.

Elle reduced the criticisms relating to the tropes down to two:
"In its final moments, Soul is set to sacrifice its Black lead so a white woman can go and live out her life on Earth. Joe decides he's fine with dying because he was able to live out a dream. As the movie's about to wrap up however, Joe's given a second chance to live life because of his good deed. Good for ol' Joe, right? Eh. First, Joe is killed the moment he gets his big break within the first 10 minutes of the film. What kind of message does that send to young children watching this film who see themselves in Joe?

Second, Soul steps into a dangerous trope that has become frequent in animation with leads of color. After Joe 'dies,' we see him turn into a green blob, which is a pattern we've seen in animation of turning Black characters into creatures. Sadly, co-director Pete Docter admitted to journalists during a virtual press conference Insider attended that he wasn't even aware of the trope until working on this film."
The first trope is much more tangible than the second, as it has a history that goes way beyond animation culture: Driving Miss Daisy, The Legend of Bagger Vance, Gone with the Wind, to name a few. But the fact of the matter is Soul is about a person who happens to be black, and not a black American film. Have no confusion about that.

The main character in Soul is a black man, Joe Gardner, who failed as a rapper and instead found his calling in jazz, a musical form that is no longer popular with black Americans. One day, the most important day of his life, he receives good news about his teaching career: It has been granted middle-class stability by New York City's public school system. Gardner will have a pension, health care, and an income that grows yearly.

This stability, it turns out, is not what he wants. Despite being middle-aged, Gardner still has what I like to call "Hoop Dreams"—dreams of fame and glory in, of all things, jazz music. And just when he thinks his dreams are about to be realized, he dies in a pedestrian accident and goes up to the sky where the souls of the dead are swallowed whole by a great ball of white light. But the film is really funny, particularly the scenes when Gardner's lost soul is trapped in a plump cat.

And it is here that I think I can contribute a little something to the debates swirling around this undeniably entertaining work. The film claims to be about souls, and, of course, black American culture has lots of soul in it: soul food, real soul brothers, soul music. But the soul in black American culture is not the same as the soul in European culture, which tends to be the divine element of the body, the immaterial substance that is questioned, tested, and persists after death. The European soul is what we find in Soul. But the black American soul is much more about roots, as in roots reggae. The word captures the sense of rootedness in black culture, black life, black joys and pains. There is the spirit, which is how a black pastor will describe, say, a moment when the congregation is really feeling a hymn or sermon ("got to feel the spirit"). But soul is something else from that. Spirit affirms god's presence; soul affirms blackness. It is the black mode of food, the black mode of song, the black mode of movement in the world, not in the afterworld. Black soul is about what's happening.

by Charles Mudede, The Stranger |  Read more:
Image: Pixar/Disney

Russell Wilson's Garbage Pass to David Moore Worth a $100,000 Bonus

If you were surprised to see the Seahawks run a play when they got the ball back with 22 seconds left and a 26-23 lead Sunday against the 49ers, coach Pete Carroll was too.

But there was a purpose for Russell Wilson’s decision to change the call of a kneel down to a play in which he tossed it quickly to receiver David Moore as Moore ran in front of him at the snap.

The play gained five yards, but more importantly was the 35th reception of the season for Moore, which earned him a $100,000 bonus.

“We called that play because David had $100,000 if he gets that catch,’’ Wilson said. “So you know, it’s a blessing to be able to help his family and his daughter and all that stuff. It was part of the game, we wanted to get him that catch and so we were able to dial that up for him that last play.’’

That catch was the only one of the game for Moore, a fourth-year receiver who finished with 417 yards on 35 catches, the latter number a career high.

“We were going to kneel it and then we ended up changing it,’’ Wilson said, saying he had been talking with quarterbacks coach Austin Davis on the sidelines before the series, which began after the Seahawks recovered an onside kick after the 49ers final touchdown.

“Austin actually said, ‘Hey, let’s get it done; let’s get it done,’’’ Wilson said. “… So when we ended up calling it and I said, ‘Dave you’re going to get the ball right here, here we go,’ kind of winked at him. So that was pretty cool.’’

Wilson may have been particularly eager to do Moore a little favor after Moore had to take a pay cut at the start of the season. He was a restricted free agent at the end of last season and signed a tender for a non-guaranteed $2.13 million.

But as cutdown day neared in September, Moore agreed to a restructured deal for a salary of $825,000 and a signing bonus of $75,000. Moore may have had to agree to the deal to assure he stayed with the team because the Seahawks may not have kept him at the higher price and because since none of that money is guaranteed, all of it could have been saved against the cap.

Wilson said he heard about Moore’s incentive during the week and had it in the back of his head. When the game got to the final series and Moore still didn’t have a catch, Wilson decided to make the call to make sure he got it.

by Bob Condotta, Seattle Times | Read more:
Image: Stephen Brashear / The Associated Press
[ed. Nice!]

Sunday, January 3, 2021

Is Substack the Media Future We Want?

The newsletter service is a software company that, by mimicking some of the functions of newsrooms, has made itself difficult to categorize.

Nahman publishes “Maybe Baby” on Substack, a service that enables writers to draft, edit, and send e-mail newsletters to subscribers. Writers can choose whether subscriptions are free or paid; the minimum charge for paid subscriptions is five dollars a month or thirty dollars a year, and Substack takes ten per cent of all revenue. Nahman’s Sunday newsletter is free, but a paid subscription to “Maybe Baby,” which costs the minimum fee, includes access to a weekly podcast and a monthly advice column. (...)

In its variety, the Substack corpus resembles the blogosphere. It is produced by a mix of career journalists, bloggers, specialists, novelists, hobbyists, dabblers, and white-collar professionals looking to plump up their personal brands. The company has tried to recruit high-profile writers, offering (to a select few) health-care stipends, design help, and money to hire freelance editors. In certain instances, Substack has also paid advances, often in the generous six figures, incentivizing writers to produce work without employing them. Substack writers can apply for access to a legal-defense fund, which covers up to a million dollars in legal fees on a case-by-case basis. Casey Newton, a tech journalist who has written about Silicon Valley for a decade, left the Verge in September to launch the Substack newsletter “Platformer,” a solo venture, where he analyzes news about social networks and democracy (ten dollars per month). Newton, who is a friend of mine, declined an advance but took a health-care stipend; he joked to me that his life has now been twice disrupted by the Internet—first when he was a newspaper journalist, “and the Web came along and devoured print,” and then a decade later, when “social networks came along and devoured the Web.” Substack has also recruited the former BuzzFeed culture writer Anne Helen Petersen and the Vox co-founder Matthew Yglesias, who left his staff job to write a newsletter; both were given substantial advances. Other well-known writers have started Substack newsletters without brokering deals with the company, including the rock critic Robert Christgau, whose “And It Don’t Stop” is a trove of winding essays on music, television, and science fiction (five dollars per month). After going on leave from the Times this spring, the food writer Alison Roman started “A Newsletter,” which contains recipes and breezy, bossy, self-deprecating anecdotes (five dollars per month).

When Substack launched, in 2017, the founders posted a mission statement of sorts to “Substack Blog” (free). After beginning with an anecdote about how, in 1883, the New York Sun incorporated advertisements, the post went on to detail the current state of journalism:
The great journalistic totems of the last century are dying. News organizations—and other entities that masquerade as them—are turning to increasingly desperate measures for survival. And so we have content farms, clickbait, listicles, inane but viral debates over optical illusions, and a “fake news” epidemic. Just as damaging is that, in the eyes of consumers, journalistic content has lost much of its perceived value—especially as measured in dollars.

It’s easy to feel discouraged by these dire developments, but in every crisis there is opportunity. We believe that journalistic content has intrinsic value and that it doesn’t have to be given away for free. We believe that what you read matters. And we believe that there has never been a better time to bolster and protect those ideals.
The subscription-based news industry, the founders speculated, could someday “be much larger than the newspaper business ever was, much like the ride-hailing industry in San Francisco is bigger than the taxi industry was before Lyft and Uber.” These days, Substack’s founders, investors, and marketing materials all have different ways of describing the startup’s mission. Depending on which source you consult, Substack might be “reinventing publishing,” “pioneering a new ‘business model for culture,’ ” or “attempting to build an alternative media economy that gives journalists autonomy.” It is “writers firing their old business model” or “a better future for news.” Substack’s C.E.O., Chris Best, has said that the company’s intention is “to make it so that you could type into this box, and if the things you type are good, you’re going to get rich.” Hamish McKenzie, one of Substack’s co-founders, told me that he sees the company as an alternative to social-media platforms like Facebook and Twitter. “We started Substack because we were fed up about the effects of the social-media diet,” McKenzie said. Substack’s home page now reads, “Take back your mind.”

Substack, like Facebook, insists that it is not a media company; it is, instead, “a platform that enables writers and readers.” But other newsletter platforms, such as Revue, Lede, or TinyLetter (a service owned by Mailchimp, the e-mail-marketing company), have never offered incentives to attract writers. By piloting programs, like the legal-defense fund, that “re-create some of the value provided by newsrooms,” as McKenzie put it, Substack has made itself difficult to categorize: it’s a software company with the trappings of a digital-media concern. The company, which currently has twenty employees, has a lightweight content-moderation policy, which prohibits harassment, threats, spam, pornography, and calls for violence; moderation decisions are made by the founders, and, McKenzie told me, the company does not comment on them. Best has suggested that Substack contains a built-in moderation mechanism in the form of the Unsubscribe button. (...)

Nahman’s income from “Maybe Baby” well exceeds the full-time salary she made at Man Repeller; Yglesias’s newsletter, “Slow Boring,” has a readership that includes more than six thousand paid subscribers, and he is making twenty-seven thousand dollars a month. (Yglesias opted to receive a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar advance from Substack, which, in return, will take eighty-five per cent of the subscription revenue from his first year. In his second year, Substack’s commission will revert to ten per cent.) But Substack’s founders have acknowledged that, for the majority of writers, a newsletter will be a side hustle. In most cases, subscription fees will generate not a salary but something closer to tips. In a recent blog post on Medium, Hunter Walk, a venture capitalist, compared a newsletter to a stock-keeping unit, or sku, a term of art in inventory management. “The biggest impact of someone like Casey [Newton] unbundling himself” from the Verge, Walk wrote, “is that he is now an entrepreneur with a product called Casey. His beachhead may very well be a paid newsletter . . . but the newsletter is just one sku. . . . There could be a podcast sku. A speaking fee sku. A book deal sku. A consulting sku. A guest columnist sku. And so on.” Lisa Gitelman, a media historian and professor at New York University, said, of Substack, “They obviously want to call it a democratizing gesture, which I find a little bit specious. It’s the democracy of neoliberal self-empowerment. The message to users is that you can empower yourself by creating.” (...)

The durability and sustainability of the digital-newsletter model remain to be seen. Carving out new ways for writers to make money from their work is surely a good thing: the United States lost sixteen thousand newsroom jobs this year, and many mainstream publications have struggled to overcome issues like discrimination, clubbiness, and prohibitively low compensation. But whether Substack is good for writers is one question; another is whether a world in which subscription newsletters rival magazines and newspapers is a world that people want. A robust press is essential to a functioning democracy, and a cultural turn toward journalistic individualism might not be in the collective interest. It is expensive and laborious to hold powerful people and institutions to account, and, at many media organizations, any given article is the result of collaboration between writers, editors, copy editors, fact checkers, and producers. 

by Anna Wiener, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Ard Su
[ed. Good for Substack and some journalists, maybe. Not so good if it ends up fracturing media even further.]


Stephanie K. Clark
via:

Saturday, January 2, 2021

How Amazon Destroys the Intellectual Justifications for Capitalism

Amazon doesn’t fit comfortably within the free-market fable of how capitalism is supposed to operate. We are, in theory, supposed to get freedom, competition, the reward of innovation, the elimination of all-powerful centralized bureaucracy. But consider this recent Wall Street Journal report on how Amazon destroys its competitors. Essentially, because Amazon is gigantic and has vast sums of money at its disposal, it does not need to “innovate” the same way smaller companies do. It can simply lift the innovations of others, and because it can undercut their prices, it can put them out of business. The Journal cites a number of examples. Amazon “cloned a line of camera tripods that a small outside company sold on Amazon’s site,” copying the whole design and even having the components produced by the same manufacturer. Then Amazon kicked the original company off its marketplace so that it could no longer sell its tripods. Amazon did the same thing for “Allbirds Inc., the maker of popular shoes using natural and recycled materials,” with Amazon last year launching “a shoe called Galen that looks nearly identical to Allbirds’ bestseller—without the environmentally friendly materials and selling for less than half the price.”

So if you are an inventor, and you come up with some wonderful new widget, and Amazon is impressed by the number of widgets you sell, well, you can expect to see the Amazon Basic Widget popping up for half the price of yours soon. (And to find yourself banned from selling on Amazon.) The Journal reports that Amazon is even willing to take a loss in order to drive others out of business; when it decided to take on diaper manufacturer Quidsi, Amazon was at one point “losing $7 for every box of diapers” it sold. An internal email said that “we need to match pricing on these guys no matter what the cost.” Quidsi “unravel[ed]” and was forced to sell itself to Amazon.

Your first reaction might be to think “well, Amazon can’t just copy products, what about patents?” But Amazon is perfectly willing to break any law it can get away with breaking; even if a small manufacturer technically has a valid legal claim against Amazon, who wants to take on one of the most powerful legal teams in the world? In the Quidsi case, the Journal quotes a Quidsi board member’s flat statement that Amazon’s actions were illegal but that “we would be bankrupt” by the time they had concluded a legal fight with Amazon. (And of course, Amazon spends a fortune lobbying to change any laws that might place it at a disadvantage.)

Amazon’s marketplace has become so large that it is very difficult for manufacturers not to offer products through it. But when they do, they have to agree to Amazon’s terms, and Amazon’s control over who gets to sell on their platform means they can extract nearly any concessions they like, including getting access to the kinds of information that help them launch competitor products. So manufacturers are in a bind: they can’t not sell on Amazon, but if they sell on Amazon, Amazon will try to steal their ideas and destroy them. If Amazon is willing to take a $7 loss per sale, who on earth could compete?

I once wrote a short hypothetical called “The Infinitely Rich Man” that was designed to show how large amounts of concentrated wealth can come with almost limitless power to shape the economy according to your whims. If someone has near infinite riches, and decided they would like to destroy your life, there are nearly endless ways they could do it, because money is power. Amazon, which has this kind of nearly “endless” resources, could, if it wanted to, destroy pretty much anything you love. If they wanted to put your beloved corner coffeeshop out of business, they could do it. If they wanted to buy your whole neighborhood and flatten it, they could.

When a corporation becomes this powerful, all of the stories told about the “freedom” of the market begin to fall apart. This is because Amazon, as its unstoppable growth continues, is becoming more and more like the government in the scale of its power. Corporations are already like “private governments”—going to work is like entering a dictatorial microstate. Amazon’s control of the marketplace is as if a private company owned all of the roads, rails, and airports in the United States. Such a company would have almost endless power to make coercive demands on anyone wanting to engage in commerce. They would be a “dictatorship within a democracy.” 

Jeff Bezos’ vision for Amazon is megalomaniacal, and one company engineer has observed Bezos aspires to be the 21st century’s Alexander the Great. Bezos does not disguise the fact that there is no end to his ambition: he quite seriously wants to establish giant privatized space colonies, presumably under his sole control. We can see here how, if a single entity “wins the market,” eliminating all competition, the distinction between capitalism and dictatorship ceases to be very meaningful. A hierarchical organization exerts coercive control through its monopoly on necessary resources; the fact that it is “private” rather than “public” just means that it is free of any democratic accountability.

by Nathan J. Robinson, Current Affairs |  Read more:
Image: uncredited
[ed. See also: Inside the Whale: An Interview with an Anonymous Amazonian (Logic).]


Seiichi Hayashi aka 林静 一 (Japanese, b. 1945, Manchuria, China) - Feeding the Cat
via:

Friday, January 1, 2021

Hobbies That Have Brought You Joy

Are there hobbies that don’t bring joy?   [ed. Apparently. One commenter mentioned slot machines and sudoku.]

In this sixth installment of end-of-2020 positive notes, let’s talk about hobbies that have helped us get through this crazy year. I started the following a bit before the pandemic, but it proved to be the perfect distraction (except for those beginning months of global postal confusion).

A little less than a year ago, I signed up for two postcard exchange Web sites: Postcrossing and Postcard United. “Exchange” is not entirely the right word for it since you are sending postcards to people different from the ones sending you postcards so it’s exchange in a global sense, but not concerning the specific items. (In reality, on occasion such an exchange does happen, but it’s rare.) You might think the model wouldn’t work. After all, there is no direct incentive to sending out something nice since the person you are sending to is not the one sending you a card. Do people put any care into sending thoughtful cards then given that there is no obvious incentive to doing so? It turns out many do. On the user profile, it’s possible to signal what is of interest and many of the cards I’ve received (over 200 at this point) have addressed my stated likes such as cards (and stamps!) of turtles and modern and/or local art. Similarly, I try my best to send something the person has requested and have amassed quite a postcard collection to assist me in this.

With all the distancing that 2020 has involved, it’s been genuinely lovely to connect with people from across the globe. There are a great number of participants in East Asia, I’ve sent numerous cards to and received many cards from China, as well as Malaysia and Indonesia. The hobby seems to be very big in Germany and Russia as well. Some of this is just a numbers game (countries with large populations), but it doesn’t seem to be entirely about that. Of course, the activity comes with its set of costs not least of which is the postage and so this will pose constraints on who can participate. There are accounts in places like Germany with more than 10,000 cards sent and received, in such instances we’re talking some major financial investment in the hobby. Not that many other hobbies don’t come with costs, but I do find that interesting.

The sites put limits on how many cards you can have traveling at any one time, which can be a bit frustrating if you’re ready to jump in full speed, but is also realistic from the site’s perspective to establish that a new member is serious and will continue sending out cards. This is why one would end up joining more than one site, by the way, that way you can have more cards traveling at the same time (and thus also be receiving more).

Through this hobby, I’ve learned some interesting tidbits about philately around the globe. I was not aware, for example, of so-called maxicards (examples here through an image search). These are special issue stamps with corresponding cards with the stamp on the front side of the matching postcard. They tend to look wonderful and I’ve enjoyed getting a few from various corners of the globe.

by Eszter Hargittai, Crooked Timber |  Read more:
Image: via

O-zōni

O-zōni (New Year's Soup)
Images: markk
[ed. New Year's morning, 2021. See also: Making mochi (YouTube).]

Thursday, December 31, 2020


Adrian Tomine, New Yorker

The Year in Quarantine Viewing

I’ve noted before that the past few years have often felt to me like that one postmodern theory course I took back in my undergrad days, where the professor explained how the spectacle of late-capitalist media has irrevocably divided us from our authentic experiences, turning us into passive viewers rather than active participants in our own lives. Even before the spring, reality under the Trump Administration had become so appallingly unbelievable—and, when not that, so amusingly surreal—that simply existing in it was like wandering through a waking dream in which nothing could be truly grasped, only observed. This sense was exacerbated by the pandemic: now that most of us were no longer leaving our homes, it was impossible to be anything other than a dazed spectator, and I recall those early days of quarantine viewing as feeling not quite real. Whether scripted or unscripted, whatever we watched converged to create a new genre: unreality TV.

In one widely viewed White House press briefing, in April, Trump outlined the government’s plan for battling the coronavirus. The usual props were there: the President wore a sombre navy suit and a striped blue-and-white tie; a small American flag was pinned to his lapel, and another, larger flag was positioned behind him. And yet, as I watched, I wondered if I was tripping. “I see disinfectant, where it knocks it out in a minute, one minute, and is there a way we can do something like that by injection inside, or almost a cleaning,” Trump said, suggesting, incredibly, that one treatment for the coronavirus might involve absorbing bleach. (Later, responding to the general alarm raised by his comment, Trump said that he was speaking “sarcastically.”) The outside world, with its people and relationships and rules, was now gone, and what was left was here before us, onscreen. What could we do with this sort of spectacle but sit back, openmouthed, and watch, frightened, but also mildly entertained?

Another kind of fever dream that many of us shared in the early days of quarantine was the Netflix docuseries “Tiger King,” which followed a group of vivid, unstable characters involved in the shadowy world of big-cat husbandry. At the heart of the seven-part series was a convoluted feud between Joe Exotic, a flamboyant, mullet-sporting Oklahoman zookeeper, and a goggle-eyed Florida animal rescuer named Carole Baskin. It débuted on March 20th, in tandem with the onset of the pandemic in America, and, within a month of its première, the program had been sampled by a whopping sixty-four million households worldwide. “Joe Exotic will go down as the man who singlehandedly helped us get through Covid-19,” one Twitter user opined at the time, and, indeed, not since the heyday of network television had I experienced such a collective viewing experience, a water-cooler conversation piece that, in the absence of an actual water cooler, circled around online memes, Instagram posts, and TikToks. “Tiger King,” at least momentarily, blocked the large-scale trauma we were all experiencing by distracting us with a smaller tale of American chaos, greed, and foolishness.

Like Trump’s press briefings, the series didn’t feel strictly real, nor was it scripted entertainment. If anything, it was suggestive of a new permeability between the world of documentary filmmaking and that of reality TV, also evident in other recent popular docuseries, such as “Cheer” and “The Vow.” As Kathryn VanArendonk wrote in a piece for Vulture, documentaries tend to first find their subjects and then seek out a narrative—shaping and prodding it only minimally—while reality television determines a narrative first and then populates it with eminently proddable, shapeable subjects. “Tiger King” ’s outlandish personalities, melodramatic plotlines, and surprise twists made the docuseries appear less Frederick Wiseman and more “Duck Dynasty” or “Intervention.” (...)

On the night of November 3rd, we sat down to watch what was arguably the greatest instance of reality TV this year—a gripping competition with unduly high stakes, and a rash, horribly behaved returning champion. Who would win America? The Presidential election lasted for several days, and with the results trickling in, ever so slowly, to our screens, as the very real labor of vote counting took place on the ground, it was an almost interminable viewing experience. We refreshed and scrolled and flipped through the channels endlessly, waiting to find out would happen next.

When the results did arrive, Trump’s refusal to accept his loss to Joe Biden was, as David Remnick noted, a continuation of the President’s familiar assault on truth, his stubborn upholding of what Kellyanne Conway had once dubbed “alternative facts.” In reality-TV terms, what Trump wanted was, essentially, to be granted a better edit, actual reality be damned. He was not just our reality-TV President; he was our alternate-reality-TV President. He was this show’s main star, its forever Survivor: How could he be eliminated now? As I watched this drama unfold in slow motion, I was reminded of an incident in July, in which Trump bragged to Fox News of his supposed facility in passing a mental acuity test, telling an interviewer that not only was he able to memorize the words “Person, woman, man, camera, TV,” but he could repeat them in order. These words were apropos. “Person, woman, man, camera, TV”: not just the building blocks of the Trump Administration but those of the reality medium as well.

In the new era of unreality TV, however, we might no longer have a need for reality television itself, which is perhaps why this was also the year in which it was announced that the E! network’s “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” would be coming to an end after twenty seasons and fourteen years. The series, which has sparked several spinoffs, multiple smartphone games, a robust array of products, and even more gossip scandals, has molded the family at its center into a kind of monolith of the reality-TV world, an always-ready-for-a-closeup hydra that stands shoulder to shoulder perhaps only with the President in creating the texture of life around us. In recent seasons, the show itself has seemed almost beside the point, its characters existing independently of its contrived story lines, surfing the ever-roiling waters of Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, and the Daily Mail, like iPhone-scrolling Venuses on half shells.

Without the “KUWTK” anchor, the family will finally emerge free, now able to compete with its peers in the expanded reality world, a sort of “Garden of Earthly Delights” that the Kardashians’ early innovations in obsessive self-documentation gave birth to: 2020 protagonists like Chris Cuomo and Carole Baskin, or Hilaria Baldwin, the wife of Alec—whose response on Instagram to suggestions that she had a disingenuous Spanish accent slipped in just under the wire in December—or the surprise TikTok star Nathan Apodaca. In late September, Apodaca, a warehouse worker from Idaho, filmed himself skateboarding while swigging from a jug of Ocean Spray cranberry juice, as Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” lilted in the background. The video went viral, reaching twenty-seven million views by October 4th. The song, meanwhile, which last charted in 1977, reëntered the Billboard Top Ten a week later. When asked about the popularity of the video, Apodaca said, “There’s just too much chaos now. Everybody just needed something to relax to and vibe out with.”

by Naomi Fry, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Dan Ender, Queens Gambit


JC Götting, Sundays are the worst



LNU Lightning Complex fires burn in Napa County, California, on August 18, 2020
Image: Noah Berger/AP

The Plague Year

The mistakes and the struggles behind America’s coronavirus tragedy.  [ed. Must read.]

A vaccine trains the immune system to recognize a virus in order to counter it. Using imaging technology, structural biologists can intuit the contours of a virus and its proteins, then reproduce those structures to make more effective vaccines. McLellan said of his field, “From the structure, we can determine function—it’s similar to how seeing a car, with four wheels and doors, implies something about its function to transport people.”

The surface of an RSV particle features a protein, designated F. On the top of the protein, a spot called an epitope serves as a landing pad for antibodies, allowing the virus to be neutralized. But something extraordinary happens when the virus invades a cell. The F protein swells like an erection, burying the epitope and effectively hiding it from antibodies. Somehow, McLellan had to keep the F protein from getting an erection.

Until recently, one of the main imaging tools used by vaccinologists, the cryogenic electron microscope, wasn’t powerful enough to visualize viral proteins, which are incredibly tiny. “The whole field was referred to as blobology,” McLellan said. As a work-around, he developed expertise in X-ray crystallography. With this method, a virus, or even just a protein on a virus, is crystallized, then hit with an X-ray beam that creates a scatter pattern, like a shotgun blast; the structure of the crystallized object can be determined from the distribution of electrons. McLellan showed me an “atomistic interpretation” of the F protein on the RSV virus—the visualization looked like a pile of Cheetos. It required a leap of imagination, but inside that murky world Graham and McLellan and their team manipulated the F protein, essentially by cloning it and inserting mutations that kept it strapped down. McLellan said, “There’s a lot of art to it.”

In 2013, Graham and McLellan published “Structure-Based Design of a Fusion Glycoprotein Vaccine for Respiratory Syncytial Virus,” in Science, demonstrating how they had stabilized the F protein in order to use it as an antigen—the part of a vaccine that sparks an immune response. Antibodies could now attack the F protein, vanquishing the virus. Graham and McLellan calculated that their vaccine could be given to a pregnant woman and provide enough antibodies to her baby to last for its first six months—the critical period. The paper opened a new front in the war against infectious disease. In a subsequent paper in Science, the team declared that it had established “clinical proof of concept for structure-based vaccine design,” portending “an era of precision vaccinology.” The RSV vaccine is now in Phase III human trials.

In 2012, the MERS coronavirus emerged in Saudi Arabia. It was extremely dangerous to work with: a third of infected people died. Ominously, it was the second novel coronavirus in ten years. Coronaviruses have been infecting humans for as long as eight centuries, but before SARS and MERS they caused only the common cold. It’s possible that, in the distant past, cold viruses were as deadly as covid, and that humans developed resistance over time.

Like RSV, coronaviruses have a protein that elongates when invading a cell. “It looks like a spike, so we just call it Spike,” Graham said. Spike was large, flexible, and encased in sugars, which made it difficult to crystallize, so X-ray crystallography wasn’t an option. Fortunately, around 2013, what McLellan calls a “resolution revolution” in cryogenic electron microscopy allowed scientists to visualize microbes down to one ten-billionth of a metre. Finally, vaccinologists could truly see what they were doing.

Using these high-powered lenses, Graham and McLellan modified the MERS spike protein, creating a vaccine. It worked well in mice. They were on the way to making a version for humans, but, after MERS had killed hundreds of people, it petered out as an immediate threat to humans—and the research funding petered out, too. Graham was dismayed, realizing that such a reaction was shortsighted, but he knew that his energies hadn’t been wasted. About two dozen virus families are known to infect humans, and the weapon that Graham’s lab had developed to conquer RSV and MERS might be transferrable to many of them.

What was the best way to deliver a modified protein? Graham knew that Moderna, a biotech startup in Cambridge, Massachusetts, had encoded a modified protein on strips of genetic material known as messenger RNA. The company had never brought a vaccine to market, concentrating instead on providing treatments for rare disorders that aren’t profitable enough to interest Big Pharma. But Moderna’s messenger-RNA platform was potent.

In mice, Graham had proved the effectiveness of a structure-based vaccine for MERS and also for Nipah, a particularly fatal virus. In 2017, Graham arranged a demonstration project for pandemic preparedness, with mers and Nipah serving as prototypes for a human vaccine using Moderna’s messenger-RNA platform. Almost three years later, as he was preparing to begin human trials for the Nipah vaccine, he heard the news from Wuhan.

Graham called McLellan, who happened to be in Park City, Utah, getting snowboard boots heat-molded to his feet. McLellan had become a star in structural biology, and was recruited to the University of Texas at Austin, where he had access to cryogenic electron microscopes. It took someone who knew Graham well to detect the urgency in his voice. He suspected that China’s cases of atypical pneumonia were caused by a new coronavirus, and he was trying to obtain the genomic sequence. It was a chance to test their concept in a real-world situation. Would McLellan and his team like to get “back in the saddle” and help him create a vaccine?

“Of course,” McLellan said.

“We got the sequences Friday night, the tenth of January,” Graham told me. They had been posted online by the Chinese. “We woke up on the eleventh and started designing proteins.”

Nine days later, the coronavirus officially arrived in America.

Within a day after Graham and McLellan downloaded the sequence for sars-CoV-2, they had designed the modified proteins. The key accelerating factor was that they already knew how to alter the spike proteins of other coronaviruses. On January 13th, they turned their scheme over to Moderna, for manufacturing. Six weeks later, Moderna began shipping vials of vaccine for clinical trials. The development process was “an all-time record,” Graham told me. Typically, it takes years, if not decades, to go from formulating a vaccine to making a product ready to be tested: the process privileges safety and cost over speed.

Graham had to make several crucial decisions while designing the vaccine, including where to start encoding the spike-protein sequence on the messenger RNA. Making bad choices could render the vaccine less effective—or worthless. He solicited advice from colleagues. Everyone said that the final decisions were up to him—nobody had more experience in designing vaccines. He made his choices. Then, after Moderna had already begun the manufacturing process, the company sent back some preliminary data that made him fear he’d botched the job.

Graham panicked. Given his usual composure, Cynthia, his wife, was alarmed. “It was a crisis of confidence that I just never see in him,” she said. So much depended on the prompt development of a safe and effective vaccine. Graham’s lab was off to a fast start. If his vaccine worked, millions of lives might be spared. If it failed or was delayed, it would be Graham’s fault.

After the vaccine was tested in animals, it became clear that Graham’s design choices had been sound. The first human trial began on March 16th. A week later, Moderna began scaling up production to a million doses per month.

by Lawrence Wright, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Dr. Barney S. Graham, by Nikola Tamindzic for The New Yorker
[ed. It's all here, the big picture. The most complete accounting of the coronavirus pandemic, from beginning to present.]