Commentary

490 posts

Flowcharts for sanity

All this talk of garbled code and web design has me thinking of two things: work and how people in my former profession often hate the people they work for.

Okay, hate may be a little excessive, but there are a reason sites like Clients from Hell exist. The simple reason is this: for those of us in careers in which no one understand what we do, or in which we are expected to be magic, we will go crazy if we don’t laugh at our tormentor overlords.

I think that’s been what’s happening around here with Denton today. Blowing off steam.

In an attempt to redirect that, I have a question for you: how do people in your profession blow off steam/mock those who torment you/etc?


XKCD is one of my favorite destinations – usually a new comic every M-W-F and they make me actually laugh quite a bit. Coding well is hard, and this is the perfect visualization of it:

XKCD "Good Coe"

From Should I Work for Free, and I actually remind myself to look at it before I offer to do something for a friend (which results in me saying No a lot). If you are a code geek go look at her site because she actually made the visual chart using CSS and HTML. So much love for that.

Should I work for free?

Click to expand the flow chart.

So. What about you guys?

The least sympathetic ‘I have lots of student debt’ story ever

Yesterday the New York Times brought us a story about the plight of law school graduates that focused on a guy named Michael Wallerstein. Ostensibly, Wallerstein’s purpose was to serve as a nice thumbnail for the story’s angle: that law schools are ripping students off and leaving them with lots of debt and very little in the way of job prospects.

Now, in general the article made a pretty solid case that structural incentives are driving law schools into a never-ending chase for more students and more tuition money, even though the job market for new lawyers is basically complete shite. Fair enough.

But the more we learn about this Wallerstein character, the less I want to feel sorry for him. Let’s review his case!

And many students enroll for reasons other than immediate financial returns. Mr. Wallerstein, for instance, was drawn by the prestige of the degree. He has no regrets, at least for now, even though he seems doomed to a type of indentured servitude at least through his 30s.

“Law school might not be worth it for another 10 or 15 years,” he says, “but the riskier approach always has the bigger payoff.”

Good start! Is he an asshole, or just painfully delusional? We don’t know yet, and must read on to find out. Very suspenseful, New York Times!

WHEN he started in 2006, Michael Wallerstein knew little about the Thomas Jefferson School of Law, other than that it was in San Diego, which seemed like a fine place to spend three years.

“I looked at schools in Pennsylvania and Long Island,” he says, “but I thought, why not go somewhere I’ll enjoy?”

All major life decisions should really come down to whether or not the weather is good. That’s the kind of critical thinking I would look for when hiring an attorney.

Mr. Wallerstein is chatting over lunch one recent afternoon with his fiancée, Karin Michonski. She, too, seems unperturbed by his dizzying collection of i.o.u.’s. Despite those debts, she hopes that he does not wind up in one of those time-gobbling corporate law jobs.

“We like hanging out together,” she says with a laugh.

If love paid the bills, these two would be debt-free tomorrow. But it doesn’t, and Mr. Wallerstein has no money in the bank, no assets and — aside from the occasional job as a legal temp — no wages to garnish. He and Ms. Michonski live rent-free in a nearby brownstone, in return for keeping an eye on the elderly man who owns the place.

Wait. These two (I kind of feel sorry for the girlfriend getting dragged into this, but since she obviously has such awful taste….) have no plans for ever repaying their debts while they live for free in a New York City brownstone. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for him.

WHEN Mr. Wallerstein started at Thomas Jefferson, he was in no mood for austerity. He borrowed so much that before the start of his first semester he nearly put a down payment on a $350,000 two-bedroom, two-bath condo, figuring that the investment would earn a profit by the time he graduated. He was ready to ink the deal until a rep at the mortgage giant Countrywide asked if his employer at the time — a trade magazine publisher in New Jersey — would write a letter falsely stating that he was moving to San Diego for work.

“We were on a three-way call with my real estate agent and I said I didn’t feel comfortable with that,” he says. “The Countrywide guy chuckled and said, ‘Everyone lies on their mortgage application.’ ”

Great. We found the one group of people more hateable than bratty law school students… Countrywide mortgage loan officers. What a nexus of suck.

Instead, Mr. Wallerstein rented a spacious apartment. He also spent a month studying in the South of France and a month in Prague — all on borrowed money. There were cost-of-living loans, and tuition of about $33,000 a year. Later came a $15,000 loan to cover months of studying for the bar.

Oh, he actually did the right thing! Way to pay attention in those ethics classes! But wait, then he went and rented a huge apartment and dicked around in Europe. What kind of “studying” can a law student accomplish in France in only one month? Is this actually part of the curriculum? Are we training lawyers in how to make a fucking salade nicoise now?

Today, his best guess is that he should be sending $2,000 to $3,000 a month in total, to lenders that include Wells Fargo, Citibank and Sallie Mae.

“There are a bunch of others,” he says. “I’m not really good at keeping records.”

Good. I hate when my lawyer bothers to do stupid shit like “keep records.” Keeping records is for gay-ass bitches. Fuck that. I’d rather hire a lawyer who knows his way around the hostels of Prague.

AS a student, Mr. Wallerstein assumed that the very scale of law school — all the paperwork, all the professors, all the tests — implied that pots of gold awaited anyone with smarts, charm and a willingness to work hard. He began to doubt that assumption when the firm where he had interned told him that it hadn’t been profitable for two years and could not offer him a full-time job.

Well, the assholishness is strong in this one, but don’t forget his delusional side! But now is where we get to my absolute favorite part of the article, when Wallerdouche really brings it all together….

MR. WALLERSTEIN, for his part, is not complaining. Once you throw in the intangibles of having a J.D., he says, he is one of law schools’ satisfied customers.

So yeah, obviously he’s quite the sympathetic victim of the unscrupulous law schools.

“It’s a prestige thing,” he says. “I’m an attorney. All of my friends see me as a person they look up to. They understand I’m in a lot of debt, but I’ve done something they feel they could never do and the respect and admiration is important.”

This guy is $250,000 in debt and works a crappy document review temp job and yet he’s STILL convinced all his friends look up to him. Like I said… don’t ignore this guy’s ability to delude himself.

Unless, somehow, the debt just goes away. Another of Mr. Wallerstein’s techniques for remaining cool in a serious financial pickle: believe that the pickle might somehow disappear.

“Bank bailouts, company bailouts — I don’t know, we’re the generation of bailouts,” he says in a hallway during a break from his Peak Discovery job. “And like, this debt of mine is just sort of, it’s a little illusory. I feel like at some point, I’ll negotiate it away, or they won’t collect it.”

He gives a slight shrug and a smile as he heads back to work. “It could be worse,” he says. “It’s not like they can put me jail.”

Now far be it from me to take an overly moralistic view of debt. I consider defaulting on a debt to be an economic problem, not a moral one. But knowing what we know about this guy’s reasons for going to school, his desire to live in a big apartment near the beach, the European vacations and his complete lack of a viable career path…. I nominate for the title of Mr. Wallerstein America’s Least Sympathetic Student Debt Story.

(I think this story won the title in 2009.)

Some Thoughts on the Renunciation of Political Violence

Yesterday a deranged young man walked up to US congresswoman and shot her in the back of the head. He then turned his gun on the crowd gathered in a sunny Arizona parking lot who had come to meet her. Gabrielle Giffords survived, but six others did not. Three of the slain were over 70 years old, one was a federal judge, another a pastor, one was a nine year-old child.

Most of us were saddened and frightened, but I doubt that more than a few were surprised.

Today, we point fingers and make accusations. Those who have cloaked themselves in the language and imagery of violence deny responsibility and angrily demand absolution. Their Second Amendment Solutions and shouts of treason and conspiracy are not meant to be taken literally, only a crazy person would think otherwise.

It does not matter if the violent rhetoric caused this young man to act, it is wrong to call for violence against your political opponent in any circumstance.

There has been an almost 250% increase in militia groups in the last two years, and citizens turn up with guns at community meetings to show the bastards who’s really in charge.

It is a sad irony that a child who was interested in public service was gunned down amidst a cacophony of claims that all of those who work for the government are lazy, corrupt, and evil. We have made those who do the work of the taxpayer an enemy that deserves no mercy.

Last night a commenter posted this on Prison Planet:

The militia crowd, that constantly evokes its right to overthrow the government by force if necessary has made itself a victim of this tragedy. They will be blamed and oppressed, their rights taken away. It is all about them, not the families who lost loved ones or those who struggle to survive in the hospital.

What made George Washington a patriot wasn’t his victories in battle, but rather his peaceful relinquishing of power when his time to rule had come to an end.

We have made violent imagery the back drop of our political theater, yet we act surprised when the afflicted among us actually perform the script. Meanwhile, those who oppose the violence have ceded the stage. Instead of meeting the rhetoric straight on and appealing to our neighbor’s sense of decency, we have retreated into sarcasm and disdain. We have taken our sense of superiority and used it as a pretext to write off entire classes and groups of people who are not like us. Even though most of those people pray and weep just as we do at times like these.

We have let the smallest of threats intimidate us. If it is more comforting to be a coward than an aggressor then feel free to embrace it, but it gives me no consolation today.

I would like to think that this will be a turning point for us in this country and that we will embrace civility, but I cannot. I would like to think that my actions and attitudes make a difference, but they will not. I would like to know that Americans are better than this, but I do not.

Has The Rapture Index Dropped the Ball?

2 million fish were found dead in The Chesapeake Bay. 100,000 fish went belly up in Northwest Arkansas. Thousands of birds died in Arkansas, Louisiana and Sweden. They just fell out of the sky.

WTF?

Naturally, I turned to The Rapture Index (www.raptureready.com) for answers. Is it Armageddon? Is it Rapture Time? If you’ve missed my blog posts on the issue, The Rapture Index is self-defined as “the prophetic speedometer of end-time activity”. The Index measures a variety of categories including false christs, liberalism, plagues, droughts, and the occult. The record Index high was 182 on Sept 24, 2001. The record low of 57 was recorded on December 12, 1993.

There is no specific Index measure for dying birds or fish, but if I remember correctly from the movie The Seventh Sign, dying fish and birds falling from the sky are definitely a bad sign. I went right to The Rapture Index for answers and what do you think I found? Nothing! The Index has not been updated since January 3rd and it’s sitting steady at 173. That’s pretty high but there is no mention whatsoever of the bird/fish death plague and how it might affect the rapture. Should I pack for the rapture? Should I find heathens to watch my pets after the rapture? Should I bother to send in a check for this month’s mortgage? Dammit, I need answers. If I can’t turn to The Rapture Index, where can I turn?

Crossposted from bbqcornnuts.typepad.com

2012 Is Fiction

2012 has become the Unified Field Theory of apocalyptic scenarios.  Every other theory, from tales of Planet X colliding with Earth to the Rapture, have coalesced under the umbrella of the 2012 myth.  This unification of apocalypse scenarios seemed to happen within the past few years,  with rumors spreading that the Mayans predicted the end of the world on December 21, 2012.  That date caught on in the public’s imagination, most likely because of how close and specific it is.  Every theory comes back to the Mayans.

And it’s all bullshit.  For the moment, let’s put aside the assumption that the Mayans must have known things about the universe we don’t since they were ancient and therefore wiser than modern society could ever hope to be.  Let’s pretend the Mayan religion is the one true religion.  2012 theories would still be bullshit.

First we should cover the origin of this belief.  The Mayan calender was incredibly advanced for its day, and envisioned time in cycles not unlike our concepts of weeks and months, with the same patterns endlessly repeating. While our longest unit of time is the year, theirs was  the b’ak’tun, a period of 394.3 years.  They kept count from when they believe creation began, roughly 3114 B.C.  From that point, we are in the 13th b’ak’tun, which is set to end on December 21st (or 23rd depending on the translation) 2012.

That’s actually about it.  It’s sort of the Mayan equivalent of a new millennium.  Not really significant in and of itself, but fairly novel in that few people ever live to see the calender flip over to so many zeroes.  But don’t take my word for it, ask an actual Mayan elder from Guatemala who educates people on his heritage.

Now, aside from the testimony of real Mayans alive today, how did anyone ever come to the conclusion that the end of this b’ak’tun would be the end of time?  It was found on one tablet.  Just one.  It was badly damaged difficult to read.  Nothing on that tablet said anything about the end of time, it was just as far as the calender went.

The cartoonist who drew that probably thought he or she was just being a wiseass.  That’s really the main argument all Mayan scholars make against 2012 theories.  It was one tablet, and odds are that whoever made it figured that by 2012 someone could afford another stone and continue the calender.

Nowhere in Mayan mythology does an apocalypse even appear.  They never believed that time ends, they believed it was cyclical and eternal.  By all accounts, the very concept of a “Mayan apocalypse” is a pure modern invention that comes with assuming all religions are like Christianity.  It’s as absurd as talking about a Christian rain god.

If you’re still not convinced, you should also know that a Dutch scholar of Mayan history recently pointed out our Mayan translations may be off, and introduced a new codex that would put the end of the 13th b’ak’tun in 2220.  So please feel free to enjoy the next 2 years.

AIDS PSA: Does Fear Work?

I have very mixed feelings about this new HIV/AIDS PSA from the NYC Department of Health (warning: nsfw unless you work in an anal cancer research lab):
HIV PSA

A lot of folks are up in arms about how the ad stigmatizes people living with HIV. Fear campaigns don’t actually encourage testing or prevention, they assert (without evidence).

I feel like there’s a generational disconnect, though, because while people over 35 or so probably have some memory of the worst years of the epidemic, very young guys do not. At all. The only message young gay guys have heard is about how AIDS is a manageable illness. But that’s not the whole story. The fact is, young gays are not using protection because they don’t think AIDS is a big deal, hence the HIV transmission rates for very young guys are shockingly high (such as an estimated 40% of young African-American men who have sex with men in NYC infected with HIV).

What do you think? Overkill? It reminds me of the cigarette ads with disgusting photos of cancerous lungs. Which actually do work, with me at least. If by work you mean nauseate.

The Christmas Decorations of Academic Doom

This is not a tasteful nativity cut out. It is the harbinger of academic doom.

Once the Christmas lights are up, it starts– that aching, throbbing pain in my heart and mind.  Then the Christmas music starts playing on every radio station, and I get that worrying that I left the oven on except that I don’t have an oven because I live in a dorm room.

Finally, people start wishing me a Merry Christmas, and I realize what that horrible, sinking feeling has been: It’s the week before exams.  And that either means that the A’s and B’s that I have worked my ass off for the last 17 weeks are about to disappear, or that I will see how long the human body can function without sleep.

So wish me luck Crasstalk, and I’ll see you when my life is my own again.

My Personal “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” Moment

Big Bend National Park

I took a road trip back to Texas to see my family. I hauled ass along the 10 through Arizona and New Mexico. But once I cleared El Paso, I took the scenic route and swung down through Ft. Davis, Marfa, Terlingua, and the top of Big Bend, then back up to Junction and on to Austin.

I really miss road trips. I had forgotten how much you can see, even from the big highways. But the real pleasure comes from taking the smaller back roads. Sometimes it’s fun to take a little road, just see where you might end up.

Even when speeding along one of these county roads, you can still see a ton of wildlife. I saw deer, rabbits, turkeys, javelina, tons of different birds. But the highlight was seeing this red-tailed hawk and badger.

Mine, all mine. Muahahaha!

I was headed out of Big Bend and I saw some roadkill—no big deal, there’d been plenty of it on this trip. After all, I’m pretty much in the middle of nowhere. But then I noticed a hawk, on the ground. This is really unusual so I made a u-turn and went back to check it out.

When I got back, I saw that the hawk was actually a red-tailed hawk and was happily sitting on the roadkill. That bird was not going to move for anything! He’d rather have faced me down in my car than give up his meals for the next few days. It was only when I took out my camera and started to take pictures that I noticed the roadkill was a badger!

I’m going to geek out here for a minute and tell you guys that I have this sort of unofficial list of wildlife in my mind that I want to see, so when I see something new it’s a really big deal. I kind of freaked out and got really excited.

The other thing that was interesting is that hawks are birds of prey and don’t usually eat roadkill. They prefer to hunt and catch their prey live, which leads me to believe (along with the state of the entrails) that this must have been a very fresh kill that the hawk stumbled upon.

Several times, the hawk tried to fly away with his prize, but the badger was just too heavy and the poor guy (or girl) couldn’t really get off the ground. Didn’t keep him from trying though. Eventually he gave up and just started chowing down.

I took a few more photos, made another u-turn and snapped a few more, and drove away. Once I got to my hotel, I did a little research and found out that badgers are actually somewhat common in Texas, especially in desert scrubland like Big Bend. I’ve never seen one and neither has anyone in my family, including  my grandmother (who grew up on a farm/ranch).  But according to what I read, they are solitary creatures and tend toward being nocturnal. They are also burrowers (check out those long claws) so I guess that explains it.

Must. Get. It. Up. (Sadly, not the first time I have heard this)

Anyway, I thought you guys might find these photos interesting. The hawk is just gorgeous (the badger a little less so in this state). It’s nature in action!

The Wonder Dog

Kona at left, and Astro
Kona at left, and Astro

I took my dog Casey to the vet today — nothing too serious, just a persistent infection. While I was there, I couldn’t help thinking about other dogs, other trips to the vet, other Thanksgivings.

Let me tell you about Kona the Wonder Dog, the dog who’s faster than a speeding squirrel, who can climb sheer hillsides with a single bound, the scourge of cats from coast to coast. The same Kona who steals my dinner off the grill as it cooks, then hops onto the sofa and naps at my feet. The same Kona who bares her belly shamelessly, begging for tummy rubs. And the same one who lets me wrap my arms around her and cry into her fur, who lets me know that she’ll always be there for me.

A chunky, 70-lb shepherd mix, black and tan, with a big smile and a floppy ear, Kona is nearly 14. She’s slowing down some, but she remains as wondrous as ever.

Remains.
Remains.
Remains.

They are on the dining room table in a tin canister. Her tags, collar and leash are in a bag.

The night before Thanksgiving Kona’s back legs gave out. She needed to get to a pet hospital but I couldn’t handle it. I want to say I held her through the night, that I kissed her and told her I loved her, but the truth is, I don’t remember.

I do remember spending Thanksgiving Day at the hospital. Pneumonia. Possibly cancer. Tests and more tests. I couldn’t breathe: Friday morning I was supposed to get on a plane to California to see my father, who recently told me has cancer, a type of melanoma that doesn’t respond well to treatment, that is said to act quickly.

Couldn’t I postpone my visit a couple of days? Some friends — who know more about parents? who know less about dogs? — ripped me apart. It got too late to change plans, I was too tired. So that night, Thanksgiving night, I stayed with Kona for hours, telling her her life’s story — how she came to live with me and my ex. How we got her a sister dog. How she, Astro and I left their dad and moved to Washington, D.C.

A few hours’ break, clothes in a suitcase, hugs and kisses for Astro. Back at the hospital, Kona was too weak to walk to a private room. So I lay down on my belly on the floor in front of her cage, rested my head on her rear and continued with her story. Ten minutes into it, she turned around so we could be face to face, eye to eye, nose to nose. She was so beautiful, but so tired, so pale, so old. I cried more as departure time approached. I hadn’t finished her story. I told her I was saving the rest for my return, so she would have to wait for me.

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Four vets worked fiercely that weekend but cancer had spread through her body. The only question was which would kill her first — cancer or pneumonia.
Then Saturday they thought she’d stabilized! She might even be able to come home with me. But Sunday she was worse. They made a last attempt while my family took me out for dinner. It was my birthday.

The plasma transplant failed. Late that night I had to make the decision. It was easy, really: Everything we’d done so far had been to prolong her life; anything more would only prolong her death.

A sweet veterinarian cried on the telephone with me, then said something lovely: We don’t put her down, we don’t put her to sleep. We let her go.

I wasn’t there and when I got home Tuesday night, she wasn’t here. Only Astro, scared and skittish and lost. She needed me so I gave her enough love for two dogs.

Death is new to me. I’d expected a constant, crushing agony. Instead it is a numbness broken by brief but painful crying jags. It’s a feeling I’m afraid I’ll come to know very well: Dad is noticeably thinner and paler than he was six weeks ago.

Kona’s presence can be felt throughout the house, as can feel her absence. Both make me ache.

Astro and I are going to take a trip to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The three of us once spent a week there. Kona charmed all the beach boys into throwing tennis balls into the ocean for her to chase. I begged them not to throw so far. I was sure she would end up in England or France.

Who knows, when we scatter her ashes, maybe she will end up in France. Where she will eat baguette and pate while Astro and I grieve.

In memory of the Wonder Dog and Baby Astro, please hug your animals tonight.

Show me on the doll where the TSA touched you

So the new right-wing talking point of the week is that suddenly the TSA’s pat-down methods go too far. Jalopnik today gave space to a truly ridiculous piece of whining by an aggrieved USAirways pilot:

For approximately five years I have been questioned, wanded and patted down every morning each day I report for work. I’ve asked for help with a solution, I’ve been through all the company and union channels to no avail.

So this has been a pressing concern of yours for FIVE YEARS, long before Obama was ever in office… yet it’s suddenly a pressing concern for you?

Approximately one year ago, I encountered something new called a groin check. This is where they run the back of their hands down your fly from top to bottom one inch to either side. I said I would allow this if they don’t touch my stuff. The screener accused me of being a “homophobe” and said he can’t guarantee he wont touch me in this area. I said then I can’t go through the check. I called the airline for direction and they agreed to assist me in finding a solution if I would JUST take the flight out. I allowed him his groin check and was so humiliated and enraged that I was pretty much useless in the cockpit, I was self-absorbed.

Yes! A professional airport screener running the back of his hand over the outside of his pants made this guy “humiliated and enraged.” So enraged that he admits he basically couldn’t do his job. This is an example of a professional pilot, one so overcome by the mental and emotional turmoil of a pat-down that he couldn’t be bothered to help fly the plane. Oh, and this guy is being trotted out by the Rutherford Institute, the millenarian Christian right-wing think tank (best-known for representing Paula Jones) that’s now supporting this idiot’s crusade against airport frottage.

This guy tells us how later on he refused the full-body scanner and so was forced to get a private screening.

I requested a private screening with the Captain as my witness (you always have the right to a witness.) They started in my shirt collar, went inside my pants waistband all the way around, up inside my crotch and squeezed around from the front each side and up the backside both sides. I was groped 4 times total! Next they rubbed my whole body down with a full palm pressure…including my buttocks and the front groin one inch either side of my fly.

That poor, poor captain. I can’t even imagine having this guy for a co-worker, being begged to follow him into his TSA pat-down like a child about to visit his eccentric uncle. And the way he describes it is hilarious. It’s like he truly believes that poor, poor TSA agent was turned on by the whole thing. Keep dreaming, dude.

Look, I’m not saying the TSA pat-downs are a great idea. There’s evidence that they’re simply not an effective way to screen passengers and people shouldn’t be treated like criminals, but this is idea that TSA employees are “groping” travelers is ridiculous. Alex Altman of Time.com notes that 81% of Americans are ok with the TSA pat-downs.

Today while the TSA’s director testified before Congress, George LeMieux, the Republican Senator from Florida, said “I’m frankly bothered by the level of these patdowns. I wouldn’t want my wife to be touched in the way they’re being touched.”

Think about that for a second. This is absolutely in-fucking-sane. We’re talking about patdowns, in an airport, with all clothes on. Not exactly a night at BMCFC’s house with candlelights and a Frankie Beverly tune. No one is getting their jollies from patting down some Republican senator’s wife’s FUPA. Does he get this upset when his wife gets a pap smear? He must want to punch her OB/GYN in the face every single time.

All this talk of shame and humiliation…. I’m starting to wonder if this is merely the lastest manifestation of America’s Puritanism.

So from now on, I propose a new Teabagger-friendly rule: All physical contact with another person will now be considered state-sponsored rape. It’s the only way to overcome our sinful desires.