they hate America

I have heard it said by assorted media mouthpieces, and insinuated by politicos out of power, that "the world hates America."

It hates us so much that its people stream to New York City by the thousands per day. They come to see Ground Zero. They come to see Firehouse 10. They line up to have their pictures taken with very patient NYFD firemen. They come to see Wall Street, the New York Stock Exchange (what’s left of it, at least). They have their friends and strangers take pictures of them on Wall Street, by the old Federal Reserve Bank, next to the statue of George Washington. That’s how much they hate us.

They come in such numbers, each and every single day, that I loath walking through the crowds of them that mill between me and the post office where my mail comes. I usually dread having to press through their throngs on my way to Mass at Our Lady. But this morning was different.

This morning, the streets were empty except for two tour busses lettered in both English and Chinese characters. It was about 7:15 am on Sunday morning, on Memorial Day weekend. Who’s out at this hour?

These two tourbusses full of America-haters, that’s who. Cameras poised, snapping shots of loved ones next to the street vendor, next to a parked car, at the corner of Wall and Broadway. The looked like children at Disney World. It was then I realized that, no they don’t hate America, they love America.

Their trip to America is their Big Adventure. They love us. They’re inspired by us. They can feel the blessing and opportunity that has drawn them and countless millions like them for hundreds of years. Something about this place keeps them coming back. Yeah, it’s nice to shop at Macy’s when the exchange rate is favorable. But they’d come anyways. And they have, and they will. Yeah, there may be some things about us they can’t stand – anyone who’s ever loved understands that. But you love despite that, because the heart has its own standard of value that the mind doesn’t always share.

So, as I walked through the busloads on my way to Mass, this post was born. It isn’t “they” who hate America. It’s “us.” It’s those who are Americans by birth, who have had so much opportunity and abundance dumped at their feet from the moment of their birth that, like spoiled, rich children, they will not be satisfied. They hate America, because for some poor souls, familiarity does breed contempt, and blessing does become a curse.

They, and that certain segment of humanity that, regardless of where they are from, instantly and instinctively hates everyone who seems to embody what they fear they will never be. That pitiful crowd hates America, too. And they hate everyone around them.

So there you have it. These two groups have taken it upon themselves to use whatever forum they have to tell the world that the world hates America. And yet, have you noticed? America accepts them, too.

There are thousands of visitors who come here day in and day out, perhaps millions per year, who don't buy it. Who will make up their own minds, and not let some loudmouth with a chip on her shoulder make it up for them.

America is a treasure. A treasure can be a trial. But it’s still a treasure.

[nb: I believe the comment proves my point.]

digital dictatorship

If you're not a one, you're a zero.

Awaiting the return train at New Haven, I positioned myself on one of the amazing wooden benches underneath the “Train Information” board, underneath the clock with the Roman numerals, underneath the marble arch, underneath which all must pass who would board a train at New Haven.

I spotted my return train on the board and began to relax and allow whatever thoughts to come as may. Presently I heard the gentle mechanical clatter of the board being updated to reflect arrivals and departures. I think there is a shot of such a board in action in the movie “Trading Places.”

That burst of soft, metalic shuffling reminded me of pinball machines, which reminded me of my boyhood. In the old days, before true digital clocks, there was a mechanical attempt at digitizing (sort of faux digital analog? by the time a guy like me starts using a term like "faux," it's probably overdone), the sort of which you would find on gas pumps, sports scoreboards, and pinball machines. Part of the experience of playing pinball was hearing, even feeling, the clatter of those scoreboards racking up your points. The relationship could become almost Pavlovian, as one couldn’t help but begin to associate the rhythmic “choohkah - choohkah - choohkah - choohk - choohk” with progress, with winning, and those sorts of feeling that normal guys like to feel.

(Maybe in another post I'll develop the idea that Bally, which dominates market for pinball machines, is also synonymous with gambling machines. I'll wonder in print if pinball machines might just be designed to be starter "slot machines." Arguing against that very point, however, is my own experience. Casinos have zero appeal for me and I don't play pinball anymore, either. "A man entertained is a man emasculated.")

There goes the soft rush of the board again, like the clatter of some silent, futuristic train whisking by. It’s a nice, warm sound. I tell you, I just don’t like digital anything. Being a gadget-guy, I understand the appeal of digitizing; I understand the promise of precision and faithful reproduction of things digitized. But as a human being, which I have gradually become, I’m against the whole thing. Why? In itself, digitization of all things digitizeable is neither good nor bad. But in the hands of man, who takes everything to extremes, it’s positively dehumanizing.

We seem to have become subjects of a Digital Dictatorship. I wrote once that “decimals have no soul.” The premise is that decimals and digitals dehumanize, and that’s not a good thing for humans. They demand of us, in our daily encounters with their ubiquitousness, either/or, all-or-nothing, black-and-white, on/off decisions. They remove the full spectrum of experience and reduce it to finite “menus” of alternatives that far too often lead us into loops (think voice-mail hell) – none of which is the sort of environment that the human soul is at home in. And, frankly, I unswervingly advocate that the true end of all science and all business is, within their just limits, the enhancement of the human environment – not its overthrow; the promotion of the liberty of humanity, not its subjugation – if it is to be legitimate. But this is, of course, one voice in the wilderness. One voice brought to you by…the digital revolution.

Well, perhaps we're still learning what those just limits are. This revolution is so “scalable,” that is, it delivers such (superficial and apparent) efficiencies in the distribution of information that business has thrown all its weight behind it (and leveraged even that) such that it’s a locomotive that is not about to be stopped. It will go to extremes. Observe how it affects people’s thinking, their values, the means by which they make decisions. Are people acting more “digital?”

This is a problem, as stated before. When business begins to dictate the behavior of humans and not the other way around, it has outgrown its britches and, in the same way she abhors a vacuum, nature can’t tolerate that forever. And she won’t.

love and war

For the second time, I've had a racially motivated "issue" on the subway. For the record, I'm a white male, blonde haired and blue eyed. This will be understood to be the Unforgiveable Sin, if not the only sin, in New York City. The anatagonists have in both cases been Black males. The first time, there were three, this morning, only one. Had he not outweighed me by about 50 pounds, I doubt I would have had the pleasure of his acquaintance.

Granted, the subway doesn't always bring out the gentleman in people. Nonetheless, I see a pattern. It began with the typical Body-check, followed by the Menacing Stare. And finally, the Polite Question: "sir, do you have a problem? SIR, DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM?!" I did allow that, if he were to follow me, he could find out if I had a problem. I should have let it go, but I was in a weak moment.

This morning was not his morning, though. Because, upstairs at Grand Central, when I asked him what it was he wanted, and he started in with "YOU come up to ME and GET IN MY FACE?" and, "IF WE WERE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD, I'D BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!" we happened to be standing opposite a policeman.

My bright friend turned to the cop and bellowed, "you DID see him come up to me, COP?" Then he began tapping me on the nose with his finger. The (not white) cop, having come to stand between us, had asked a few questions and then radioed for assistance, while my new friend ranted on, forgetting how he had accosted me on the platform, but remembering how I "came up to" him upstairs.

He was asked repeatedly to leave, to calm down, but instead he made more and more noise. By the time he stepped outside, a half dozen or so large and well armed (and racially quite mixed) security personnel were trotting purposefully to the scene. I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded.

And then I went on my way. And I thought, maybe it is time to move to Connecticut.

Can you hear the sound New York City makes? Tick-tick-tick-tick.

Now here's some truth about this: It's not about color, necessarily. It's about attitude. Urban American Blacks are taught to Hate Whitey, an attitude that makes the small percentage that embrace it a menace to themselves and to others.

The "blonde-haired, blue-eyed devil" gospel is continually fostered and traded upon by shameless manipulators of the Al Sharpton ilk. It's not the only hate that's stoked in this city: there is class-hatred, sex-hatred, occupation-hatred, etc. But it is a particularly volatile hatred. It's especially noticeable to those of us who have blonde hair and blue eyes.

Immigrant Blacks, and perhaps the majority of Urban American Blacks, for that matter, have no such hostility and are genuinely wonderful fellow citizens. Many, I daresay the overwhelming majority, are Christian, incidentally.

It's just an observation.

everyone's a critic

Last Thursday morning, the homeless fellow, for whom I'm one of many "regulars," pointed out that I needed a haircut. I assured him it was on Friday's to-do list.

This morning, he babbled something that suggested he noticed that I had worn the same shirt two days in a row. I hadn't gotten to the laundry in time last night. Or the night before.

I don't mind constructive criticism. In fact, I think it's priceless. But if he starts knocking my after-shave, I think I'm going to have to draw the line.

***

Speaking of grooming, I would never freely choose to take a cold shower, if there were a hot one nearby. But once in a while the boiler pump calls in sick and so the hot water never quite gets to the 24th floor. Owing to that, I've chosen to take a few cold showers; took one this morning, in fact.

And I realized, on the way to work, that I never feel quite as good as I do when I'm forced to take a cold shower.

There's a huge lesson in that.

too much time on their hands

As a rough rule of thumb, the usefulness of an idea is inversely proportional to the cube of the vigor with which it is propounded on any New York City sidewalk. Especially if that sidewalk is adjacent to Ground Zero.

Anyway, I asked them to smile when I took the picture, which they did, as much as people burdened with such a message of betrayal and doom are able to, I suppose. They posed, at least.

Every witch hunt, pogrom, and holocaust has its roots in a crazy idea.

I'm justifying myself.

Well, my text at least. I think it's easier on the eyes. All six of them that read this.

safety in numbers: when "is" isn't

You first!

Counting is just another language, another form of communication. Like all languages, it only works when everyone who uses it agrees on what the symbols mean and agrees to submit to the rules. Take the "equals" sign, for example. Think about how complicated everyday life would be if we didn't all agree that "=" is a definite statement of identity. What would life be like if, on one day, two plus two was equal to four, and on another day, it was not? It might make an interesting story to ponder just how fast a complex civilization would melt down if all of a sudden people couldn't agree on the meaning of "equals."

Well, we have seen something like that happen, actually. A few years ago, then President of the United States Bill Clinton, one of the most influential men in the world at the time, stated that "is" just isn't what it used to be. "Is" didn't necessarily mean, "is." "You define it your way," he implied, "I'll define it mine."

In doing so, he set an example of how to disengage from reality with a straight face. He legitimized (among other things) rebellion against one of the codes of a civilization: the logic of its language. He changed the rules of leadership as well. It was thenceforth OK, even presidential, to excuse one's self from submission to the rule of law -- the law of logic, in this example -- and to trade instead on the sheer force of one's will and charisma. Daedalus (of mythology), pictured above, excused himself from the law of gravity with his wax wings.

And now nearly ten years later it seems like everyone you meet is an accomplished liar, saying whatever they think it takes to get what they want, so much so that you wonder if they understand what reality is at all. Think about it: if you're not willing to believe that "is" is, upon what definite foundations are your thought processes built? If "is" isn't "is," then is the light red or isn't it? If the other guy's is red, you should hope that he knows what "is" is.

Incidentally, if you get stopped for running a light, and the policeman asks you, "what color is that light," try answering with "it depends on what you mean by 'is.'" When you're paying your fine, you can ask yourself what fine then president Clinton paid for answering to authority in the same way. Borne aloft by his wax wings, he hovered above the law. Can you do that?

And, I suppose, we all have experienced someone saying to us, effectively, "I know that I said two plus two equals four last week, but now I say that it equals minus four."

When you mount up with wax wings to overcome the limitations of reality, well...you sail ever so high and then...you crash. And if you're in a position of significant influence, you take a lot of innocent people with you. You might even ruin a generation or two. Like Daedalus, pictured above, sacrificing his son on the altar of his own insanity.

That's what's so beautiful about math. Two plus two IS four. We all know that, at least for now. If the time ever comes when we can't agree on it, I promise you, I'll still know it's true.

___

graphic: Daedalus and Icarus, by Charles Paul Landon, 1799 (Musée des Beaux-Arts et de la Dentelle, Alençon). I found the picture on Wikipedia.

of software and sewercaps

The rationale behind outsourcing is very simple, so simple that everyone gets it. Let's review, because it will help me make the point of this post.

If the Total Costs are less than Sales Revenue for a given good or service, you make money -- you, being the merchant or producer. If you can lower your total costs by lowering the cost of your labor, and keep your Sales Revenue about the same, you make more money, all other things being equal (which they aren't but no bother for now).

In the case of outsourcing, you can certainly lower your Labor Costs, but you pay more in Delivery Costs. Delivery costs for software and telephone support are nearly nothing, compared with, say, delivery costs for real stuff, like cars and stuffed animals and everything else that's made over there.

Delivery Costs are a function of, among other things, the weight and bulk of the thing being delivered. The heavier it is, for sure, the more it's going to cost to ship it.

Just a little mental exercise and you can sketch out the landscape about what ought to be profitable to outsource. On one end of the extreme, you have things that weigh nothing, like software. It's deliverable by wireless, in fact. At the other end, you have heavy, bulky things, like rocks. Speaking of rocks, the largest component of the cost of rocks is shipping. In some places, you can get 'em for free. But getting them where you want them is the trick. That's where you expenses go off the chart.

So, tell me, in light of this, why did New York City outsource cast-iron manhole covers to India?

Even if they were giving the iron away, do you really think it's cheap to send those things around the world, to a unionized port? No, I hardly believe it, without even looking at the figures. I think they'd have had to pay us to take them, in order to cover the shipping. Some kind of deal would have had to have been cut.

Nonetheless, right here in New York City, even in the Financial District, where I live and work, where the sharpest bean counters in world allegedly work, one sees "India" cast into all those heavy manhole covers.

Of course, this is also home to some of the sharpest deal-makers around, and fhe Indians I've met aren't too shabby, either. I suspect that's why we outsourced manhole covers halfway around the world.

It's just a hunch.

***
Now, while I'm on the subject, let's talk about corporate hypocrisy and outsourcing. The first idea that is operative in this sphere is the one that says if a PR Campaign claims "A," it's because someone is trying to distract you from "B."

So when the world's largest bank, for example, keeps hounding you about how much they're spending to combat global warming, you ought first ask yourself, "what is it that they are trying to keep me from knowing about them?"

Another operative fact is this: outsourcing is labor arbitrage, plain and simple. "Arbitrage" means that you can buy something in one market and sell the exact same item for more money in another. The profit in arbitrage comes from irrational price discrepencies, which happen all the time. The more inefficient the market, the more common they are. Market inefficiencies arise from knowledge and capital discrepancies, among other things. Outsourcing, then, is a euphemism for taking advantage of irrational labor pricing.

What, besides collective bargaining, can misprice labor? How about collective oppression? Here's some food for thought. Someone ought to compare the standard-of-living indeces of the countries that everything is getting outsourced to, to those that it is getting outsourced from. You don't need to be a mental giant to see that, the reason jobs are flying to Asia is because there's a large and ready supply of advantageously priced labor there.

So when the big bank is laying off you and your neighbors to raise money to plant some more trees in its heroic effort to save the globe from warming, you might want to ask them about their trade in labor arbitrage; and their complicity with regimes that enable it.

Picture a bunch of fraternity boys in the Hamptons spending $15,000 for dinner. It's bound to be a pretty dirty story, for anyone who bothers to connect the dots. But eventually the marketplace, the Invisible Hand, will catch up to them.

happy cinco de mayo

Our Lady of Guadalupe with Roses.

The image is a framed picture on the sidewalk. The roses, the most beautiful arrangement I have ever seen, were brought by one of the pray-ers, Jim, who is a classical percussionist by trade. Jim, an Episcopalian, actually, brought the roses in for Our Lady.

The roses were given to him by the mother of one of his students, on the occasion of his retiring from that particular orchestra. The family is Korean, and the arrangement of roses contained at least two dozen, arranged in something that appeared to be a flame. They were uniformly and vitally fuscia. They were perfect.

The family, Jim explained, is "divided." In order to give the children an opportunity at a better future, the father stayed in Korea to work. The mother and children came to America, where the percussionist daughter obtained a full scholarship to study. Something about America brings out the best in people the world over.

The effort that went into that arrangement of roses was obvious -- such a labor of love. Appreciation, no doubt, for the effort Jim makes for his students. And he brought them in this morning, the morning when we would all be praying rosaries on the sidewalk.

The beauty of those roses, the honor and devotion and sacrifice of that family, seem to grow when offered in honor of Our Lady, for her beauty, her honor, her devotion, her sacrifice.

There is a fortress of love that is invisible. Even at an abortion provider's office. Life amidst death. God is at work.

A Hispanic lady walk by us this morning and thanked us in Spanish.

degrees of madness, or

the lie that changed the world?

How many students have been accepted to MIT during the 25 or so years that former Director of Admissions, Marilee Jones, was there?

How many have gone on to become leaders in or contributors to their fields, to their communities (even their nations), to their families?

MIT would never have hired Ms. Jones if she hadn't fudged the part on her resume about actually graduating from college, most likely. Of course there is no way of knowing what courses the lives of all the students she admitted, encouraged, and gave tremendous opportunity to would have taken had she toed that line and not been hired for an administrative support role, from which she worked her way up the darwinian meritocracy first to Assistant Dean and finally Dean of Admissions.

But she did fudge her resume, and she did get hired, and many people and institutions are better off as a result, not least, of course MIT itself.

In a world that worships false gods like pedigrees and SAT's, a world that classifies and categorizes, standardizes and ranks, securitizes and peddles everything and everyone and every possible perception of reality, it is entirely possible -- in fact, it is unavoidable -- to strain out the gnats (don't fudge that resume) and swallow the camels (forego your contribution to the human race).

Marilee has paid a high price for swallowing that gnat; this woman, who dared to bring a feminine, human touch to sterile world of ones and zeroes, a world notorious for its sheer mechanization and lack of humaness; this woman, this mother, who cared enough about her applicants to ask after their children; this "mom away from mom."

Can someone tell me how those who have benefited from her career-long leadership in her field can be anything but dumbstruck at the irony of that career being ruined because her pursuit of higher education was interrupted by...maybe the need to make a living, which turned into the calling to make the lives of others better; to give a shot at a pedigree to so many others?

Am I advocating misrepresenting one's self? Of course not. I'm advocating sanity in the checks and balances, an alternative to the all-or-nothing, one-or-zero mentality that has taken over the collective mindset of the modern gatekeepers of earthly fortune.

Some people, maybe, are too smart for "higher education."