Last Friday my dear friends William Beutler and Bret Jacobson were in Austin for the RightOnline conference. As they had some time on their hands that evening we got together for dinner and drinks. Well, like, two drinks.
You see, we’re all getting old. And we just can’t seem to keep the fire burning the way we used to. So we all got tired and went home at like 12:30.
Working for a living sure is a pain in the ass.
Via Thoreau at UO, airline pilot barred from bringing airline issue knife through security.. I had no idea those mouth breathers really were that stupid. Jeebus. I HATES THEM.
As I got tired of spending $50 a week for the privilege of going to work, I’ve been commuting on the bus for a little while and it has given me an extra hour or two a day to get some reading in. Recently, I finished Jim Endersby’s A Guinea Pig’s History of Biology. On the whole I liked it.
Endersby essentially chronicles the development of modern biological science starting before Darwin with the curious case of the Quagga. From there Endersby traces the history of biological science forward, each chapter devoted to a particular organism that helped make the discovery. My favorite chapters actually ended up being the ones on Drosophila and Oenothera (a kind of fruit fly and the evening primrose, specifically). However, the chapters on the hawkweed, passion flowers, phage, guinea pigs and the rest are all remarkably entertaining and quite informative. The next to last chapter, on zebra fish, is almost entirely devoted to the University of Oregon’s program and their pioneering zebra fish work, which came as a nice surprise.
Looking at the way in which major discoveries in biological science were made, and the somewhat strange things believed by even leaders of the discipline such as Darwin, has got me thinking more about what Khun was on about. Emphatically not his acolytes’ view that truth is, like, socially constructed…maaaaan. Not that, but that science happens in a sort of unplanned path on which personalities are just as important as the facts at hand. Anyway, for that reason alone Endersby’s book is worth picking up.
The only place where it really goes off the rails at all is during the final chapter on the OncoMouse - a mouse that has been genetically modified in order to have a particular gene that raises its cancer incidence. Endersby tries to make a couple of economic points as he does in other parts of the book, and while his earlier economic statements are usually at least plausible, those in the final chapter are just sort of silly. Not eye-rollingly silly, but they evoke the deep sigh so often associated with moderate liberal economic views. It’s like he understands just enough economics to be a little bit wrong in exactly the kind of way that irritates me. However, this is no reason not to read his book. Read the book, it’s good.
Every now and again I get somebody ostensibly interested in advertising on this website. As you may or may not be aware, I am what is called in this Web 2.0 world an “opinion leader” who drives the common knowledge on matters of great import, and as a result my advertising rates are steeper than some would like to pay. Below is the exchange I had with the most recent inquirer, unfortunately (for him) he was not interested in the opportunity to really get in on something so very important. Our exchange is below for your amusement.
To: Economist
From: Christian Michael
Hi,
I am writing to you again in case your spam filter ate my last email. I had written to you basically to offer a business deal. The deal namely is purchasing text-links on your site http://www.onehandedeconomist.com/. In case you have already thought over this, let me know of your views pronto.
Looking forward to your reply,
Regards,
Christan
To: Christian Michael
From: Economist
I will place one text link for $50,000 a month.
To: Economist
From: Christian Michael
Timothy,
Which planet are you from? Are we talking about a link on Amazon.com?
First deserve, then desire.
Christan
To: Christian Michael
From: Economist
Hey, I’ve named my price, you’re free to take it or leave it. Also, you have not indicated what exactly it is you would like to advertise. First deserve, then desire.
From: Christian Michael
To: Economist
I wonder you’re still thinking at that? It was initial email asking
whether or not the site accepts custom advertisement offers. I got my
answer in your first reply.Thank you for your time.
Cheers,
Christan
To: Christian Michael
From: Economist
Well, obviously your product cannot be that profitable if such a meager sum causes you such consternation.
To: Economist
From: Christian Michael
Every worthwhile thing has a price tag over it but that price should
be somewhat equal to the value provided. Its simple rule of business.
It matters little on what product I have and how much profit do I
reap. I am not new to this and know how much a text-link will cost per
month at any website. Honestly, I wanted to email you the stats of
your website but I preferred to let you enjoy your ignorance.
Forget about it. I have many others to deal with and you’ll get many
other advertisers. The day you get an advertiser willing to pay
US$50,000 per month for a text-link, do let me know please. I hope
I’ll be alive by then. Have a good day.
To: Christian Michael
From: Economist
You obviously did not know what a text link costs per month at MY website. Therefore, sir, you cannot claim to know what a text link costs at any website. TOUCHE!
Further, please do not insult my intelligence by assuming I am unaware of the massive amount of traffic that sucks up my bandwidth capacity on a monthly basis.
To: Economist
From: Christian Michael
I’ll repeat, the day an advertiser agrees to pay you US$50,000 per
month for a text-link, do let me know and please do spare some amount
out of those $50K to purchase additional bandwidth for your website.
To: Christian Michael
From: Economist
I will certainly keep you abreast of any advertising developments in regards to the OHE. You will rue the day you declined my generous offer! RUE!
As of press time there has been no response from Mr. Michael.
On my morning and afternoon commutes today, I heard a somewhat befuddling radio advertisement. It was a recruitment spot for the Border Patrol, and the major selling point seemed to be that by simply passing an exam and undergoing a 30 day training seminar, anyone could start a REWARDING CAREER in the border patrol.
Firstly, I understand that like any employer the border patrol is going to recruit, sure, makes sense. I disagree with their policies and their objectives, but none-the-less, they’re going to try to get new employees. What confuses me is the selling point being ease: are people attracted to low entry requirements really the folks we want to go handing that kind of authority? I’d say not.
If you’ve driven along the border recently, or really, if you’ve driven along a major highway within a hundred miles of the border recently, you’ve likely been subject to the random (and I’m sure 4th amendment compliant…right) stop-and-search by these guys. They do the whole “are you a US Citizen?” thing and have a dog sniff around your car without so much as suspicion, let alone cause or a warrant. They routinely detain people, and treat everyone as a criminal. Do we really want to go recruiting law enforcement officers who are drawn in by the low requirements? Further, does anyone think that a month-long seminar is sufficient to train a bunch of people about the relevant legal considerations? It sure took me more than a month to become competent enough to do my job properly (four years of college, three years in a different job), so I’m pretty sure it’s going to take longer than 30 days to get a border patrol agent up to speed. Unless you just want him to tase random motorists and try to keep brown people from picking fruit…that’s probably pretty easy.
So today I received an email from some student in an intro economics class wanting me to, I think, complete a review sheet for him/her and return it. Either this is the laziest student in the world or VikingMoose is running some sort of experiment to see how I respond to such inquiries. The answer below the fold. The portions from the email are pasted without edits, so imagine how sad the questionable grammatical skill of the author makes me. I weep for the future.
My friend Thoreau at Unqualified Offerings has started a list of facts about the world’s most consistently wrong political pundit. Remember: Bill Kristol doesn’t sleep, because sleep is bad for your health.
Via Drudge, there’s this news clip: about a cop deciding just to kill a family’s dog.
And people wonder why I, in general, believe that only people with a great propensity for evil become armed agents of the state. Honestly, fuck this cop and may he be mauled by a thousand dogs. And fuck anyone who would attempt to justify anything like this. And fuck his employers for allowing him to stay on duty.
If you need to feel a sense of righteous anger, read this. In short: Cop pulls gun on kid who has a TOY GUN, kid doesn’t drop toy gun, cop murders kid. Then the cop is cleared of all wrong doing and goes back to duty.
When it’s all reported in the media, a bunch of apologists show up to explain that the kid’s rights weren’t violated because “cops have a hard job” and “the kid should’ve known.” Yes, because the sensible thing to think is that a 12-year-old should know enough about a situation to listen to two random adults yelling at them to stop and that the burden of proof is on the kids rather than the adults. Not to mention that toy guns are required, by law, to have bright plastic tips. Furthermore, THE KID WAS TWELVE GODDAMN YEARS OLD! Read the comments, they’ll make you furious. I hope each one of those apologists is targeted in a wrong door raid, that would teach them. Assholes.
[Via The Agitator]
I don’t know exactly how one is supposed to sum up a life like that of Joe H. Foy Sr. I suppose that I could read off the list of accolades: partner at Bracewell & Patterson, negotiating with OPEC in the 70s, Carter asking him to be the first Secretary of Energy…that time he met Harry Truman, but anyone who knew him knows those things and they don’t really give a full, or even accurate, picture of the man. I suppose I’ll start with this: he was my grandfather, and I spent my whole life calling him potato.
You see, in Spanish papá, with the accent over the second a, means Father, but papa as pronounced by a small, monolingual child means potato and for my entire life that’s who he was: Papa. And he loved it. And he loved me, despite that when I was growing up his most common utterance was “Goddamn it, Timothy!” in that deep, resonating baritone. I was a bit of a rascal, I probably had it coming. My memories of him are a bit of a jumble, so many of them coming in that hazy early childhood few of us can recall, but I will do my best to dutifully recount a representative sample despite being neither a writer nor orator of any great skill.
When I was very young, probably two or three, I remember curling up next to him in my grandparents’ seemingly infinite bed and making him read me Rikki, Tikki, Tavi over and over and over again. Every time I would see him, I’d say “Papa, read to me” and he would, patiently, recounting every last syllable with grace. He never tired of it, although I secretly suspect that teaching me to read a couple of years later was a direct result of my insistence that he must read me that story at every opportunity. To this day I love that story, I love mongooses, I get a thrill out of the Rikki saving the lives of that family, and killing those nasty cobras. And when I read it, every time, I can hear Papa’s voice in my head.
Years later, but while I was still small because it was before we moved from Houston, Papa decided that he should take me to the ballet. The Nutcracker, to be precise, in order to help me learn to appreciate culture. It may have had something to do with his heavy involvement in the Houston Opera, but I don’t really know. In any case, I was having none of it. By the intermission I’d had enough: crying, wanting to leave, exhorting him that, “Papa, I don’t like cwassical music, I like wok and woll.” That quote was delivered in the manner he used when teasing me about the incident up until the very end. Last Christmas, I think, or maybe last spring, was the last time he gave me a hard time about that particular thing…that happened when I was five.
Long after we’d moved to Oregon, Papa and my grandmother came to visit, and we trekked up to Vancouver, BC for a few days. On the trip my sister was given a copy of There’s A Carrot In My Ear and Other Noodle Tales by Alvin Schwartz, and one day Papa decided to read it out loud for all of us. The punchline of the titular story is something like, “There’s a carrot in my ear, but I have no idea how it got there: I planted radishes!” I wish that I could describe the way in which he laughed at that, it was the kind of laugh that becomes legendary, almost a caricature of itself. He panted, he turned bright, bright red, he cried, he wheezed, and he carried on for what seemed like an eternity. I have never seen such joy at something so simple come from a person, I’ve known no one else with such levity and lightness of spirit.
I suppose that’s pretty emblematic, Papa loved puns and word games of all sorts. For as long as I can remember he complained that the NYT Sunday crossword was simply not a challenge, he ruthlessly completed every crossword book we could throw at him. In pen! I could never think of a clever enough riposte or claim victory in a contest of puns against him, never, not once, and I promise that I have him to thank for my skill in such things.
My most recent, truly vivid memory was at Christmas last year, I think. We were all milling about waiting on dinner to be ready and Papa, seated at the head of the table as if holding court (as always) looked at me and said, “So, Tim, did I ever tell you about the time I met Harry Truman?” He then proceeded to tell me the story, it involved his uncle Dorsey Hardeman and was really quite intriguing, but he told it in the most nonchalant, factual, way. In a way that made it obvious he wasn’t bragging because he kind of didn’t care but thought the story was interesting.
That’s the way it always was with Papa, for a man so admirable and accomplished, he didn’t particularly enjoy being the center of attention. He always made time to listen, to understand, to probe. He was deeply curious about the world, about the people in it, and about those around him. He always made time to listen, to advise, to read a story to an excited little boy or, better still, to teach that boy to read himself. He was a great man, and the closest thing I had to a hero. So goodbye, Papa, potato, but most of all, thank you.
Love always,
Tim
PS: Your dear friend Steve Clack got them to write a very nice obituary. I wish you could’ve seen it, you’d be so proud.
