don't call it a comeback

oof
snarf
erm

*back*

could robin hood do good?

Last week, Syon sent me a link for a group called ‘The Robin Hood Tax’, advocating a financial transactions tax in the UK and globally. I have been thinking about it over the past week and decided to post some of my thoughts here. I hope some of you will respond, whether here or elsewhere, as we could all benefit from thoughtful dialogue.

To quote directly from the website, the pitch is broadly as follows:

The Robin Hood Tax is a tiny tax on bankers that would raise billions to tackle poverty and climate change, at home and abroad.

By taking an average of 0.05% from speculative banking transactions, hundreds of billions of pounds would be raised every year.

That’s easily enough to stop cuts in crucial public services in the UK, and to help fight global poverty and climate change.

There are a few implicit assumptions underlying the proponents’ line of reasoning. The first is that the volume of transaction in the financial services industry is unnecessarily large relative to the economic activity, and effectively just bloats the financial industry. As I will discuss below, I think there is some truth to this argument, although a tax as outlined must be globally adopted in order to address this. The second is that bankers and their speculative trading were largely to blame for the current crisis, and therefore it is appropriate that they should be punitively taxed. This argument, I think, oversimplifies the issue and has more to do with targeting misinformed public sentiment than in making a thoughtful claim.

Framing and the Fungible

While I believe there is merit in considering the implications of a financial transactions tax, I take exception with the campaign’s framing of the policy. Invoking Robin Hood alludes clearly to the idea of stealing from the rich to provide for the poor. The notion of the fortunate subsidizing the less fortunate in society is nothing new. Most developed nations, for example, have progressive income tax rates (the tax treatment of capital gains and dividends for US investors is a glaring counterexample). A tax on financial transactions may have substantive merit and should be defensible as a natural extension of this philosophy and through appeals to reason. Instead, the focus on vilifying bankers creates an adversarial scenario that appeals more to rage than to thoughtful consideration.

The other aspect that irks me is the false assertion that the revenues produced by the tax will solely serve to benefit domestic poverty programs, social services, and climate change initiatives. These are worthy causes, to be sure. While the framers may legitimately be advocating for this allocation, the reality is that existing commitments to these causes are likely to be reduced. Unfortunately, money is fungible. Governments have revenue and they have expenses. An increase in revenue will broadly impact the amount a government can spend, and is likely to do so across the board. While money from programs can be earmarked to a specific cause, there is always enough money to move around elsewhere in a budget to render this meaningless. Given the amount of discretion available to governments in setting budgets, it is at best naïve (and at worst misleading) to put forth the notion that these new revenues will be strictly additive to the intended programs.

Blaming Bankers

Are bankers solely responsible for the economic crisis, and are they fair targets of punitive measures? Without a doubt, bank share a role in the blame. On one hand, the banks in many cases took on irresponsible levels of risk in order to produce profits. Furthermore, their role in packaging huge amounts of risky loans surely contributed to a global decline in the quality of outstanding credit. When the banks were on the verge of collapse, governments around the world rescued them. Given this eventuality, should we be surprised that they were driven to take excessive risks? It may be unreasonable to expect corporations to act in socially responsible ways, which is why government is so critical to establishing boundaries and rules. In Canada, for example, banks are more heavily regulated than they are in the UK or the US. Consequently, these banks had few of the major problems that were happening elsewhere. Canadian authorities, on these grounds, have expressed skepticism about adopting a financial transactions tax in Canada.

In the case of the risky loans, I would argue that banks were trying earnestly to help society better manage risk. That the models underlying these efforts ended up being seriously flawed is hardly evidence of malicious intent. Moreover, many other agents were involved. Governments that irrationally and excessively encouraged home ownership, and most importantly that failed to adequately regulate the banks. Perhaps most significantly, the high frequency trading most likely to be affected by the proposed financial transactions tax is quite distinct from the securitization markets that were at the heart of the credit crisis. Thus, when the website claims “So it’s time for the people who caused this mess to pay to clean it up.”, it seems misguided.

My point here is that law and policy should prevent banks from being able to make a mess of the entire economy. To put in place a framework that motivates these institutions to act dangerously and to demonize them when they do so seems unreasonable.

Substantively Speaking

A financial transactions tax of .05%, while it may seem nominally small, would have tremendous effects on most traded markets. In particular, businesses that make profit through high frequency trading would be adversely affected. Keep in mind that .05% of the notional value of every transaction may represent a far more substantial share of the profit. With many trading strategies, this would probably eliminate all profit. So while the figure may appear small, the implications are huge. Those engaged in high frequency trading argue that they are providing a service by making markets more efficient and liquid, which benefits companies that use markets to finance themselves. I don’t find this argument terribly convincing. Primary market participants don’t typically have a need to transact at these speeds. The main beneficiaries turn out to be speculators who are involved in the markets to make money as secondary participants. To the extent that their businesses are harmed, this may not be socially problematic.

My substantive critique of the financial transactions tax is that these ends are only met if the policies are adopted globally and across asset classes. This is incredibly difficult to effect in practice. The Robin Hood website bizarrely cites a tax in the UK on stock transactions as evidence of why this idea could be successful. I say bizarrely because the consequences of this policy were a shift of stock trading from London to other markets, and a dramatic increase in the use of untaxed derivatives rather than stocks in London. Sophisticated investors were able to replicate the economics of a stock transaction through the derivatives, thus avoiding the tax. I entertain serious doubts about whether the proposed tax could be coordinated globally and across different types of financial transactions.

I think I’ve written just about enough for now! Thoughts?

food in my neighborhood

fort greene / clinton hill

socks like me

The owner pulled up in a Jaguar and came into the building. From where I was working, I could hear him speaking to one of the supervisors. Shortly, he came into our room, with a smile:

"Thought I'd come in and meet the summer hires."
He faced me. "So what are your plans after the summer?"
"I'm going to University."
"Oh, congratulations. Where will you be studying?"
"At Princeton."
A pause. "What are you doing here?"
"I needed a job, and I couldn't get one anywhere else."

On a quiet part of Power Dam Road, in Cornwall, there used to be a sock factory run by Richelieu Hosiery. I had a job working there the summer before I started college. Later, I would convince myself of a narrative that said I had taken the job in order to 'gain perspective' on things, but the truth is just what I told the owner: I took the job because I needed money and it was the best job I could find that summer in Cornwall. I'd been rejected by, among others, the City of Cornwall, a call center called Startek, McDonald's and KFC. This last one particularly stung, as I had been resubmitting my resume almost every two weeks. I'd heard rumors that the employees working the night shift got free chicken at closing time, and I wanted in. I told the local managers about how much I loved KFC, and about how I'd once even written to their head office, but to no avail. Maybe it was a problem with my cover letters, but I spent that summer working with socks.

I performed a variety of different functions relevant to the sock industry. Labeling socks. Sorting socks. Packaging socks. Counting socks. Moving socks from one package to a different package. I came to learn that any number of different sock 'brands' (Nautica, Polo, KMart, Osh Kosh B'Gosh) were exactly the same socks!

The task that I remember most vividly is stretching socks. Most people don't know this, but socks are very small when they are first sewn. They resemble baby socks. How do they reach their eventual adult size? Somebody has to stand in front of a large machine that with a conveyor belt carrying many feet-shaped metal casts. To his right is a board full of unstretched socks. As the belt moves, he has to take the unstretched socks and place them on the hot metal casts, taking care to line up the heel and toes. When the stretched sock comes back around, he has to remove it and place it on a second board for the stretched socks. I spent hours doing this, often burning my hands when I would accidentally touch one of metal casts. Sometimes, I'd put a sock on backwards, and share a conspiratorial laugh with the person working the machine next to me. Stretching socks is, to be frank, one of the most boring things I've ever done.

Motivation aside, working in the sock factory really did help my sense of perspective. It continues to remind me of just how fortunate I am to be in a situation where I can pursue almost any profession that interests me. It elucidates the mental resilience that people who work these jobs have. The thought of spending my days carrying out boring, menial tasks with no end in sight is a frightening one, but thanks to my summer at the sock factory, I can at least begin to imagine it.

hiatus

I apologize for the dearth of posts as of late. The blog is on hiatus, but I will return with full force in early February.

mr. nation

Imagine yourself at a dinner party, where everybody speaks English, but many are more comfortable in another language. There are enough people in the room to allow for several conversations to happen simultaneously. If three native speakers of Hindi are engaged in a conversation, should they feel a social obligation to carry on their conversation in English? I'm not sure where I fall on this question. Certainly, this action precludes the possibility that anybody at the table who doesn't speak Hindi can enter the conversation. Practically speaking, is this different from carrying on a conversation about a topic that certain members of the party can't speak to? I think it clearly is-- the feeling of not being able to meaningfully contribute to a conversation is surely different, and less isolating, from the inability to contribute in any way at all. Does the situation change if the majority of people at the table are conversational in Hindi? The sense of alienation for those who do not understand Hindi is stronger, I think. Perhaps we now have a stronger obligation to them, to attempt to carry our conversation on in English. While in this scenario, some may feel less comfortable in English, none will feel truly excluded.

On the other hand, when we convert the conversation to English, it is very likely that the quality of discourse will degrade. The bounds of conversation, in terms of ideas, concepts, and argument, is always constrained by the linguistic abilities of the speakers. One chooses which ideas to express from the range of available ideas, and this range is probably both broader and deeper in one's native tongue. Furthermore, while we make the English speakers more comfortable by switching to English, we are inevitably making the Hindi speakers less comfortable. Given that there are enough people for multiple conversations to be happening, should we really insist that they all happen in the shared language? Is it worth trading the quality of dialogue for a more complete sense of linguistic inclusiveness?

To make matters worse, the dialogue may be crippled because certain ideas do not translate. This has always been a fascinating (and humbling) idea to me. Culture and language are so closely intertwined; anybody who speaks multiple languages and has experienced multiple cultures has surely experienced that there are terms and phrases for which no suitable translation exists. The subtle meanings, implications and subtext in a phrase may be dependent on a cultural understanding generally only held by speakers of the language. This is a fascinating, if unnerving idea. Many areas of knowledge and ways of understanding are inaccessible without learning the relevant language.

At times I take for granted that English is, in some sense, the closest thing to a global language. All around the world, people grow up with the understanding that to be successful in a global sense, learning English is a near-necessity (at least so far). My Hindi and Punjabi, while conversationally adequate, are by no means strong. I'd have trouble carrying on a conversation of any depth in these languages. Despite having studied French and Spanish through school, I can't say that I speak either language very much. I opted out of studying them in college, and told myself that this was the right decision, since "I'm no good at learning languages." When I think about it now, it seems sort of obnoxious; arrogant, even. An luxury afforded to me by the fact that I speak the language of the conquerors. I think about when my mother first moved to Saskatchewan, and she would answer my father's white friends' questions with the word "yes" and a smile, regardless of what the question happened to be. I think about the fact that she overcame this with grace and persistence, and became a fluent speaker of English. She never had the option to decide that she wasn't very good with languages.

I have a friendly banter with Ming, the man who runs my neighborhod laundromat. "Mr Nee-teen!", he'll exclaim, when I walk in every Saturday morning. He is most comfortable speaking Mandarin, but he's made a life for himself here. His happiness and energy in this city of foreign tongues is inspiring to me. Whenever he takes my laundry, he writes down my name on a ticket and hands it to me. When I was first coming in, I'd tell him my name, and he'd write down "Mr. Nitin". Soon, as we began to recognize and know each other, he would take to writing it down without asking. One day he mistakenly wrote "Mr. Natin", and began writing my name this way for a few months. Most recently, this has morphed into "Mr. Nation." I chuckled at the irony the first time I saw this; perhaps I ought to brush up on my foreign language skills.

morning birds

fort greene, 6:50 am.

a quartet for humanity

A few days ago, I had the privilege of bearing witness to a beautiful experience. The C train was stopped at Hoyt-Schermerhorn station; four older gentlemen had a quick discussion on the platform, and decided to board the train together before the doors of the train closed. One man held a small paper bag. They surveyed the car, smiles on their faces, until one said to the others "Let's tell them about it. Let's talk about Him." With this, they began to sing a harmonious quartet; they sang a Christian hymn, and engaged people gently. It was a welcome change to the crowded isolation and social sterility that so often characterizes the anonymity of riding on a train. A good many people dropped money into the small paper bag. At the next stop, a homeless woman stepped onto the train, and stood by the door, withdrawn, while the men continued to sing. The lead singer approached her quietly, reached into the bag, and handed her some bills. She accepted the money without a word, signing the cross on her torso in gratitude. She seemed obviously hard up, and the scene was heartwarming (I use this word with the full knowledge of the cliche it normally carries).

Irrespective of my views on the accuracy and validity of their literal message, I felt as though I was seeing something fundamentally good. The men had visible warmth in their hearts, and nobody on the train seemed bothered-- on the contrary, most people I saw were smiling at the scene. These externalities of benevolence are, in my mind, some of the strongest reasons to view organized religion and communities of faith as a good thing. Examples abound, whether they are soup kitchens, free schools for the destitute, or the men lightening up so many days with their subway song. Put simply, people who profess to be religious often do great things, and in many cases, will assert that religion motivates them to act in the ways that they do.

On the other hand, if our measure is to be a utilitarian one built on tangible outcomes, then reason demands that we examine the full range of consequences. Now the picture is more muddled. What so often brings us together perhaps more often divides us. Think of the way certain major religious groups have sought to suppress the teaching and discovery of new and relevant scientific knowledge on global warming and on evolution. Consider the way Hindu fundamentalism has been used to galvanize large segments of the Indian population into tacitly and actively supporting the alienation and displacement of so many Indian Muslims. And this is only a start to the list. It is hard to think of any major community of faith whose name has not served at one point or another as cover for systematic killing and displacement.

There are some clear problems with my reasoning above. First, it could be argued that in each of the examples above, the behaviour of some small subset of a group is being used to describe the group as a whole. I take exception with this characterization. Those who choose a community, and then resort to complacency and a failure to actively tackle wrong behavior from within said community bear some of the responsibility. Furthermore, the sorts of division and communalism frequently engendered by fervent political movements seem to affect more than an insignificant minority. Perhaps more persuasively, my reasoning glosses over the fact that historically, religious and political systems have been so closely intertwined. Thus, attributing the actions to religious rather than political motivation can be seen as an arbitrary decision. To this, I would respond that many consider themselves more beholden to their religious convictions than to their political convictions. The fact that systems of political power may exploit this is hardly a defense of the negative impacts of religious communities of belief.

Ultimately, however, these arguments of consequentialism and of political and religious power are rendered moot by the 'truth card.' These contingent arguments are irrelevant if a religious philosophy espouses absolute truth (a claim confidently and impossibly made by most all religious groups). I remember one day when we were rehearsing Bach's St. Matthew Passion, our choir director said "this music makes you want to believe." I've fallen into this sort of thinking myself. How can something so beautiful not be divinely inspired? This sort of reasoning is flawed, and sells humanity short. Isn't a better explanation that the majority of composers at this time were working for some sort of religious institution? Has the last century, with its proliferation of secular artists, failed to produce beauty? We need to recognize the potential and ability of humanity itself to inspire, independent of the need to believe.

On consequences, there is no clear answer. If the question comes down to truth, then we are left in an intractable situation, for no amount of reasoning will lead to concensus. And critically, vast numbers of people are claiming ownership on absolute truths that are, to be plain, contradictory. Do I believe in God? Probably-- but I doubt that anybody knows very much about him, least of all those who profess most loudly to.

grimaldi's

Grimaldi's is one of those legendary New York pizza places that you always hear about. One of the many establishments said to have the best pies in the city, the wait for a table is normally an hour or more. They don't sell slices (you have to order an entire pie), they won't take your credit card (cash only), and the menu is charmingly short. If you haven't come for the pizza or the calzone, you're in the wrong place.

I first heard about Grimaldi's when I was a summer intern living downtown Manhattan. This mysterious pizzeria in Brooklyn was said to be the perfect way to complement an afternoon walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. So one afternoon, I set off on a walk across the bridge, with the intention of going to Grimaldi's on the other side. Unfortunately, when we got off of the bridge in Brooklyn, we couldn't find Grimaldi's! Everybody had told us that it was "right on the other side of the bridge", but none of the people we now asked could tell us how to get there! Most claimed not to have even heard of Grimaldi's. In the end, we went back home without the pizza; it would have to stay a legend in our minds.

Today, about five years later, I finally made it to Grimaldi's. The pizza was mediocre at best. The sauce lacked depth, and the cheese to sauce ratio was too high; the crust was great, but the pizza generally lacked flavor. It tasted fairly bland. The experience was fun, but this pizza was not worth the wait. Lucali's will, for the moment, easily retain my #1 spot, followed closely by Lombardi's and John's.

It's odd, but I almost found it difficult to admit that the pizza wasn't great. In an attempt to counter the hype, I'd preemptively lowered my expectiations. I wanted Grimaldi's to have a fair chance, and I think it did. Nevertheless, there is no denying that the pizza disapointed. There is a sense in which I question my judgement, given how much my own conclusions differ from popularly held opinion. I remember that a few months ago when I saw The Class with a friend, I was underwhelmed. I thought the film was good, but not great, and I had a number of sound reasons and arguments for feeling the way I did. When I went home and saw that it had a staggering 98% on Rotten Tomatoes, I could almost feel my actual view on the movie changing. How could so many people be wrong? Such is the power of the crowd.

In both cases, though, I think my judgment was sound, contrary to mass public opinion. Certainly, in matters of taste, there doesn't always need to be an objective right answer. It also helped to have a friend present (in fact, the same friend in both cases!) to reaffirm that I wasn't crazy, and that every now and then, hype really is just hype.

girls

Laura

Since last night, I've been listening to the new album by Girls, called Album, almost continuously. I like to listen to different types of music, and occasionally, I will get into rhythms where I spend weeks listening to old, comfortable music that I know, and that is 'pleasant.' Album is a nice album, in that it reminds me of what rock sounds like, and why I like it so much. This is a work that, to my ear, makes no pretenses about being groundbreaking, but is just very, very good. It sounds reminiscent of very aesthetically conscious efforts of the late 60s-- in particular, it really evokes The Velvet Underground and Nico to my ear. At times, the songs are simple variations on four bar blues.

The song above, Laura, is by far the poppiest song on the album; the rest of it has a grittier, darker edge to it. Laura makes me think of Sloan. Please give it a listen, and I think you'll want to hear the whole album afterwards. I highly recommend it.

zoo ambivalence

As a child, I loved the zoo. At some point, like most children, I became intensely interested in learning as much as I could about different kinds of animals. This was probably also encouraged by a Canadian school system that was, at the time, very much focussed on educating students on issues around environmentalism. While green issues that have only recently become part the mainstream conversation in the USA, I was fortunate to have grown up with an active awareness of these important issues. Getting back to the point, though, I loved to learn about animals. For a period of a couple of years, I even collected wildlife cards, that my parents graciously funded. Every month I would get 20 new ones in the mail, and I would spend hours reading about them and then try to tell anybody who would listen that pandas weren't bears and about just how slowly sloths ate their food.

The zoo was, thus, incredible. Poring over a book, no matter how intently, simply fails to capture the beautiful majesty of seeing a tiger up close, in the flesh. Beyond that, the zoo is an environment where noise is ubiquitous, making it an ideal place for kids to cut loose. I think the big cats and the monkeys were my favorite animals at the zoo, but much of the appeal was in the mere presence of so many different types of animals in one place. Lately, though, my experiences have been more mixed. I remember visiting the Bronx Zoo when I was a summer intern in NYC and finding the whole thing inexplicably disappointing. I chalked it up to the Bronx Zoo being subpar, relative to others that I'd seen. Still, that didn't seem to fully explain it. As a friend recently noted-- "It's weird. The zoo seems like it should be so much fun, but it isn't."

A few years ago, I had an experience that brought clarity to my feelings. It happened while I was visiting Robe in DC, who at the time, was living very close to the zoo. On our way to meet a friend, we decided to walk through the zoo and see some of the animals. In the monkey house, I abruptly and unexpectedly experienced a strong sense of pathos when I saw the orangutan behind in a small white room behind glass. Looking at him, I saw not a wild animal, but an old man, kept unjustifiably captive. I saw intelligence in his eyes, and most troubling, I saw what seemed to be a tragic sense of resignation. Across the room, a gorilla threw himself at the glass with such force that the loud thud made people gasp. The whole thing really messed with my head, and the zoo suddenly became something barbaric and distasteful to me.

At various points since, I've described myself as anti-zoo. In truth, my feelings are more ambivalent. Zoos can and do serve important preservation and education functions. Ironically, many of those who crusade for the rights of animals may owe their love of animals to some seminal experience in a zoo. Still, I question whether the end justifies the means, and I lean towards concluding that it does not. In fairness, there is also a wide variance in animal treatment across different zoos. At the end of the day, however, they all still forcibly confine animals in unnatural habitats and put them on display for many thousands of gawkers each day.

What about open air preserves and protected park areas? These serve some of the same positive purposes, and do so in a way that is not cruel to the animals. Are these problematic as well? Would be interested to hear others' thoughts on the zoo issue.

new moon

Taken from my roof. I could really stand to benefit from a tripod.

food, family and the freshman

One evening, during my freshman year of college, I decided to eat alone at an empty table in the corner of the dining hall. Some of my friends, sitting at a nearby table, looked at me curiously, trying to determine, I suspect, whether I was perhaps angry or upset about something. I had no books, no homework, and really nothing to make myself look busy. After a few minutes, a friend approached me:

Nitin, what’s the matter? Why are you sitting all alone?

Then another—

Is everything okay? Are you upset about something?

The truth is nothing was the matter. I thought it would be an interesting personal experiment to just focus on my food for a meal. I wanted to see what choosing to eat alone felt like. Turns out I hated it. I still find it very difficult to eat alone, although I’ve made some strides recently.

When I was growing up, eating dinner together as a family was a part of our daily routine. I consider myself very fortunate to have been raised by a mother who cooked fantastic food almost daily, and by a father who was active and present in a way that few others can claim. As a result, the five of us ate together most days between 5:30 and 6:00. This was when, clichéd as it may sound, we would talk about our days, about things that were coming up in our lives, and sometimes about general issues of interest or concern. It was in this context that I was first introduced to meals.

When I went away to boarding school, I began to eat with tables full of friends. Here, obviously, the dynamic was very different from eating at home with my family. Mischievousness and a more playful, as we adjusted to ‘independence’ and plotted our next set of pranks. And perhaps a little more guarded—everybody trying quietly to portray the person they wanted to be. Still, I treasured these times, and had some truly memorable experiences. Through four years of college, as well, I participated in meal plans and ate in dining halls with my friends. I’ve formed some of my closest friendships in these settings, and have grown with my family this way as well. It is for these reasons of precedent, possibly, that the social aspects of meals are so inextricably linked to the gastronomical ones.

The first period of my life where I was regularly eating dinner alone was when I lived in London in 2007. I remember feeling to odd-- I would fidget, sometimes even getting up and walking around the apartment between bites. I’d play music on my stereo or listen to the radio. I’d read a book or a magazine; anything to distract myself from the isolating quiet. This drew into focus just how much wrapped up I was in the social aspects of mealtimes.

Recently, as well, I have found myself eating alone more frequently. One of the main reasons for this is that I’ve really come to enjoy cooking at home. Further, I’ve tried to think more actively about food, as I eat. In doing so, I’ve sought to give thanks and also to appreciate the sensory experience of eating.

Still, I’ve found it difficult. Anybody up for pancakes?

"this must be what mechanics feel like"

In the (partial) spirit of Gaboworld, I am writing this post with no advance roadmap in mind. As a change of pace, there will likely be little to no thematic coherence, but I'm in a mood to ramble. Apologies to Gabo, but I will inevitably still self-censor as I write. Baby steps, I suppose, on the way to complete, unrestrained, stream of consciousness.

Over the past month or so, I've proven myself remarkably adept at taking things that were working just fine, and breaking them. In this week alone, I've broken my backpack (which, admittedly, had been terminal for some time), my headphones and my cell phone! This is frustrating, to say the least. My phone will occasionally receive calls, but all text messaging is completely gone, and I've been generally unable to place outgoing calls. In a way, the breakdown has been sort of liberating-- its nice to be forcefully disconnected for a time. I've been thinking about finally succumbing and getting myself an iPhone (because they're oh-so-pretty), but the recent quiet has me rethinking this move.

Today, as I engaged in conversation with colleagues at work, I fidgeted with a trinket I’ve had for a year. The device (pictured above) is much like a sand timer, only it’s filled, instead, with light sweet crude oil. Needless to say, I’ve spent a substantial amount of time watching the sludge drop slowly from the upper to the lower chamber. Today, unfortunately, I continued my recent trend of breaking things. I felt the weight in my hand grow lighter, and I looked towards the floor, only to see that the top had come off of my trinket, and black Texas oil was sliding over my shirt, chair, pants and shoes on its way to the ground. Awkwardly, I immediately shouted out “Oh my god, I got light sweet crude all over me!” My two coworkers laughed at me. Meanwhile, I took delivery of light sweet crude all over my pants. My clothes, my chair, and the carpet in my office are all damaged, perhaps irreparably.

The spill got me thinking about the disconnect between the functional and physical realities of my professional life. On a daily basis, I enter transactions to buy and sell many thousands of barrels of crude oil. Yet, when confronted with scarcely a litre of the substance, I was completely caught off guard, with no idea quite what to do. In an information-driven economy, this disconnect is increasingly prevalent and normal. Still, it is jarring to be made so acutely aware that I'm wholly unfamiliar with a substance that I transact in on a daily basis.

It occurs to me that my ability and competence with the manifest is quite limited. A few weeks ago, a neighbour helped me take the lock out of my mailbox, as I'd lost my keys. To date, my mailbox remains without a lock, though I've purchased a new one! Why? I haven't a clue how to install the lock. A close friend and I have recently been talking about 'the trades' and the value of skilled physical labour. Matthew Crawford, in Shop as Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into The Value of Work, examines this very topic. There is honour, and arguably, there are metaphysical benefits to be gained, from crafting things with one's hands. I've been meaning to pick this book up, and my recent experiences with my lock. backpack, and crude oil just may prove to be the final incentive I need. In any case, I have tremendous respect for craftsmen and tradesmen, and recent episodes only serve to heighten this sentiment.

So I've broken some things, and have been forced to think critically as a result. Perhaps, now that all is said and done, I might just find a way to put these things back together.

doubt

Academically and professionally, I have been taught to understand the world as fundamentally stochastic. People often underestimate the amount of randomness that drives nearly every human process, be it physical or social. We make decisions under uncertainty every day, and this is something that most people are intuitively comfortable with. At times, we can convince ourselves that some situation is effectively deterministic, by ignoring a small probability to the contrary. Perhaps most confounding: in situations where our sample consists of only a single observation of the event in question, who is to say?

I have been thinking recently about the feuding cousins called doubt and faith. Doubt seems a natural consequence of an uncertain world, and I've found faith to be an elusive way to deny probabilistic realities. The truth is, for all my textbook exhortations, I often struggle to live under uncertainty. To make decisions and take steps that, given what I know, should be obvious. I've found it difficult to overcome doubt. This in spite of a firm intellectual understanding that one never has perfect information with which to move forward. Enter faith. I bristled the other day when somebody advised me about a problem I'd been having, to "have faith and it will turn out fine in the end." What gives strength to this kind of a phrase, and on what authority can this really ease my worries? We all know that things don't always turn out fine in the end. Some situations go well, and others go poorly. I can't reasonably take solace here.

Yet this is hardly an argument for paralysis in the face of doubt and uncertainty. Rather, the very sense of reason that causes me to reject the 'faith formulation,' should itself instruct against any tendency to seize up. Ultimately, we have to live and confront challenges with the understanding that while uncertainty and doubt will persist, the best we can do is to act in accordance with the best information we have. Sometimes this means using reason and common sense to mount a violent rejection of one's own irrational tendencies. At other times, quieting the voices that amplify deep-seated fears that threaten to debilitate. We have to move on.

baby fever

"It's not something that I like to tell people, but yeah, I definitely want babies."

Growing up, I usually had cousins or cousins' children who were still babies, and I have fond memories of playing with them. I've always loved babies. A few weeks ago, a male friend spoke the opening quote to me in confidence. It's a funny feeling, reaching an age where babies suddenly become a realistic possibility. Now, suddenly, uttering the phrase 'I love babies' feels like a supercharged game of chicken against fate. The plausibility of the scenario draws the inevitable consequences into focus. In recent years, against the pressures implied by the opening quote, I've becoming increasingly open about my own sense of baby fever. Where does this impulse come from, and why are so many men so uncomfortable admitting to it?

I will comfortably assert that the impulse does not come from an intellectual place. We understand the consequences. Having a baby is (or should be) the single biggest shift in most peoples' lives. Your carefree life of thinking only of yourself is over. This is an incredibly dramatic shift in perspective for people. A few weeks ago, a friend described our car accident while on a road trip to Rhode Island as "the accidental baby of our trip." His point was that nothing was the same after the accident, and an air of seriousness had fallen upon the trip. His wit was funny, but nonetheless, it sheds some light on the way that many young people think about babies. The consequences are a focal point, and we are acutely aware of them.

In spite of all this, in spite of occasionally saying things like "once you have a baby, it's game over," I want a baby. Badly. Do I want the consequences? On the surface, no, but I am willing to take it all for a baby. This is an irrational sort of position to take, and seems to diminish the seriousness of having a baby. Maybe I just find babies cute and fun. But then, cats, dogs and turtles are cute and fun, and require notably less than a baby in terms of committment and responsibility. If I can hardly keep my own life together and running smoothly, what business do I have thinking about a baby? On the other hand, maybe the changes that come with having a baby are so big that it's not really possible to grapple with them until they actually happen. Does anybody ever 'want' the things that come with having a baby independently? Perhaps not, but that doesn't mean they won't be well worth it.

Someone close to me once suggested that 'baby fever', both for me and generally, is driven by a natural biological urge to procreate. I don't think this is the case, but my inability to explain it any other way makes me wonder. If it is true, however, that baby fever has something to do with masculine identity, it seems odd that so many men feel the need to be secretive about it. In any case, baby fever is alive and well, and hopefully a good thing in the end.

harry patch (in memory of)

radiohead have released a new song called 'harry patch (in memory of).' it's a beautiful piece with moving lyrics, and i recommend you give it a listen. you can read about it and check out lyrics in the august 5 entry at radiohead.com. here is the link to purchase the song. enjoy--

rude in rhode island

Recently, a friend from Tennessee told me that at times he finds it difficult living in New York, because people tend to lack the graciousness he is accustomed to. I have to admit, I was a little taken aback by the notion. I've always found New Yorker's to be helpful and friendly people. Still, southern notions of manners are something else altogether, and so I can understand where he is coming from. These things are conditioned, I suppose.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a road trip to Connecticut and Rhode Island. The landscape was beautiful, the company delightful, and my hosts were phenomenal. I was completely flabbergasted, however, by how rude so many strangers were over the course of the weekend. The experience certainly gave me a greater appreciation for what the aforementioned friend probably feels like from time to time. It started when our rental car accidentally gave the pickup truck in front of us what can only be described as a love tap. Below, see some excerpts of the conversation:

Crazy Old Rude Man: What the f*ck? Call 911. You just ran into my truck.
Us: Sir, I'm so sorry about running into your truck. This was completely our fault. We will call the
police.
...
Us: Sir, we called the police and-
Crazy Old Rude Man: I already called them! What is wrong with you? Get me your insurance
papers.
*to his wife* Get their license plate number down, I don't want a hit and run with these punks.
Us: I think we should move our cars onto the shoulder
Crazy Old Rude Man: Don't you move your car until the police gets here.
Us: We are on the highway. This is a serious safety hazard. Sir, this is clearly our fault, and we've admitted this to you plainly and repeatedly.
Crazy Old Rude Man: You know what else is a safety hazard? Running into someone's f*cking rear end.

For the rest of the ordeal, the man basically stood at his car and literally stared us down. Eventually, it became too much to bear, and we stared back aggressively, giving up any hope of an agreeable end to the encounter. This was the first and most memorable of a number of shockingly rude encounters over a two day period. It was really sort of infuriating, because our initial inclination was to be polite, apologetic, and generally reasonable.

I never know quite how to react when confronted with inexplicable rudeness. My instinct is often to ignore the other person's hostility and to respond with politeness. The hope is that the other person will see my commitment to calm dialogue and respond by adjusting his own tone or manners. All too often, however, this fails to happen. In these situations, this approach can begin to feel almost ingratiating; a form of defeat. The truth is that I somtimes get angry. Why should I indulge that kind of behaviour for even a minute? If I approach a situation with manners, and one proceeds to disrespect me and himself with unprovoked rudeness, he should be made aware of just how unreasonable his behaviour is. Maybe by reacting more actively and assertively, I can reduce the likelihood of other people having to deal with the same garbage.

I find it difficult, sometimes, being in Rhode Island.

the blue notebook

Recently, I read a new novel by James Levine called The Blue Notebook. The story is told from the perspective of Batuk, a fifteen year old child prostitute living in Bombay. Specifically, the novel is comprised of her notebooks. The narrative technique is very powerful, as it affords the author the opportunity to push traditional topical limits. In the novel, Levine goes further in description and exploration than most would, and creates scenes that he certainly could not through other (particularly visual) media.

Thematically, the novel exposes an important social issue. Child prostitution is a massive problem globally, is rampant, and is one of the more vile activities of the human race. Given the general lack of awareness and attention to the issue, it is admirable for Levine to bring it so much to the fore. Incidentally, all US proceeds from the novel are being donated to the International and National Centers for Missing and Exploited Children (http://www.icmec.org/). Further, since Levine has interacted with child prostitutes as a doctor and researcher, he can more credibly take on the narrative perspective of Batuk. In short, the book is socially important, and comes from a good place.

Nevertheless, reading the novel was a viscerally difficult experience. Levine's writing is believable, at times beautiful and touching in simple ways. What I found difficult were the frequent and graphic descriptions of violence, and in particular, of sexual violence against children. I found myself, variously, cringing, gasping, shuddering, and nearly became physically ill during in a particularly difficult passage. Reflecting on the novel, I have been questioning whether the graphic violence is necessary. As evidenced by my continued thought, and by this post, I was affected by my reading. At times I felt uncomfortable, as though I were reading Lolita without Nabokov's lyricality (and without the implicit social approval that one is given to read Lolita). It obviously moved me in some way, it challenged me, and it encroached upon my own personal boundaries. This is no small part of what good literature should do.

On the other hand, authors bear a greater responsibility than to merely push our boundaries. While important literature should do this, it is hardly a sufficient condition for success. Ultimately, challenges to our boundaries should come from meaning. In this case, I wonder: was the graphic depiction necessary? How did it enhance the work? One answer is that by making the situation real, via description, the author forces the reader to confront a truly despicable (and widespread) practice. While I acknowledge this, isn't the notion of child prostitution repellent enough in and of itself? In other words, wasn't I already there as a reader, given plot descriptions alone?

I probably wouldn't be writing this blog post, though.

Further, who among us has really done anything to educate themselves about child prostitution. Who among us has been moved to take action to help end it? Intellectual awareness of the problem, and a detached recognition of its gravity may not be enough. In this light, I'm left thinking Levine did the right thing in writing a compelling, moving, painful and realistic novel about this unfortunate world.

warmth

I think warmth is the character trait that I find most endearing.
How about you?

the need for discourse

Recently, I found myself discussing with a third party a friendship that I have with somebody whose political views are very different from my own. I can't remember my exact phrasing, but after describing how much I liked this person, I added the caveat-- "... oh, but we don't discuss politics." Along these lines, an unabashedly liberal friend was recently explaining to me that she doesn't interact much with 'hard core conservatives', because it only serves to frustrate her. We were both, I suspect, employing exaggeration. Nevertheless, there is some truth behind these statements, and I find it troubling.

At a very basic level, surrounding ourselves with only like-minded people seems antithetical to personal growth and to having an open, evolving mind. Engaging, earnestly and sincerely, with those who disagree with us allows us to see things from different perspectives, learn about the limits and problems with our views, and occassionally change our opinions. In other cases, our views can be made richer and stronger by having actively worked through challenges to them.

It's hardly a contentious notion that one will have more thoughtful, well informed ideas if one interacts with people with whom one disagrees. Nor is it particularly contentious that our ideas are more likely to stagnate if we surround ourselves with people who share our points of view. This feels intellectually lazy and unproductive. In his new book, Going To Extremes, Cass Sunstein argues that the threat posed by intellectual self segregation is actually much worse than this. Drawing on real world examples, and on studies in behavioural and social psychology, he makes the following point: when a group of like minded people engage in discussion on an issue about which they generally agree, the group will usually end up coming to a stronger, more extreme view than the average individual came into the discussion with. This makes sense, when we consider that one is likely to hear new arguments that support the same basic view, and have his own arguments reinforced. In the absence of credible challenges to the group's prevailing point of view, indivuals are likely to get an inflated sense that their view is 'right', and this, I think, is a dangerous thing.

I first considered the notion of mob mentality studying To Kill a Mockingbird in high school English. While probably an extreme example, there is a parallel. It does feel like we're embracing an intellectual 'mob mentality' when we choose to close ourselves off from people with differing views. Lost in a crowd of the like-minded, we can dispense with the inconvenience of questioning our positions. Inevitably, this will cause us to make decisions that are not warranted on merit.

College facilitated this discourse in a unique way. First and foremost, I spent four years living in close quarters with people from a wide variety of backrounds and ideological perspectives. Many of these people became close friends, and inevitably, many of them were different from me. Beyond this, the notion of classwork explicitly encourages this kind of discourse. Students are made, formally and informally, to challenge their views and defend them with rigour. In a post-college life, it is much harder to facilitate this discourse. The classwork is gone, and we interact with far fewer people on a day to day basis. Moreover, we naturally tend to socialize with people with similar perspectives. Freed from assigned coursework, we choose to read books that reinforce our views.

So what are the solutions? Public spaces and public forums can help. It is an unfortunate paradox that developed societies like ours, with such emphasis on free speech, tend to be so fixated on private life. Some of it comes down to us as individuals. We need to make the decision to cultivate relationships with people who disagree with us, to read books that challenge our beliefs, to engage in active public intellectualism. We'll all benefit from leaving our comfort zones.

Easier said than done.

mj

r.i.p.

doing good and doing well

When I was in high school, our principal would often claim that the school intended to educate boys capable of "doing good and doing well." I always regarded the phrase cynically, as a sort of moral tax paid by an institution with a long history of privileged alumni doing well. In retrospect, the dedication of our faculty to instilling this notion clearer to me than it was at the time. In any case, we heard the phrase often enough to not ever give it serious thought, or consider its implications on our own lives.

Societal barometers for success seem heavily tilted towards the doing well, as opposed to doing good. Even the simple phrase "(s)he has been very successful" implies financial success. While we do often celebrate people who make major, public impacts in public service, we don't necessarily appreciate the people working in public service every day without making the news. In the US, the emphasis on doing well is made all the more salient by the fact that so many politicians come from business backgrounds, and are held fairly captive by corporate interests. There is often a subtext that a business background somehow makes a politician more credible on account of their 'real world experience.' Implicit here is the idea that working for the public good is less 'real.'

Is there an expectation that educated, intelligent people ought to use their ability to enrich themselves? From another perspective, when thoughtful people make the decision to 'earn a good living', are they falling short of a moral standard? Perhaps one's ambition should be to focus on contributing positively to the world, rather than on doing well for one's self. Cynics cite examples like those of Bill Gates and of Warren Buffett. These are people who, because of their vast financial success, have been able to do far more good than if they'd dedicated their lives initially to "doing good." Still, these are obvious outliers, and it seems dubious to build an argument from them. Ultimately, people need to make a choice about how to spend their lives, and it ought to be something that is personally meaningful.

I've wondered myself whether I should be doing more to improve the world I live in. On the other hand, while it may be an admirable thing for people to dedicate their lives to public service, maybe it's enough to engage with these issues as a citizen, even if it isn't the focus of your work and livelihood. The reality is that those working for most non-profit institutions, teachers, often struggle to make ends meet. The challenge is even more daunting when one thinks about having a family. So it could be unreasonable to expect everybody to think about doing good in their career-- certainly, I think it is a step too far to call it any kind of moral obligation.

Still, I think doing good ought to enter the decision process, and this demands that we change the way we think about success. Meaning and purpose are important, and I've been thinking about these issues with respect to my own career decisions, past and future. I'd encourage you to do the same--

melanin vignette

Georgia Anne Muldrow is a neo-soul / r&b / hip hop artist from LA . She creates some very cool pieces that are on balance very dense and layered. Many of her songs are short and concentrated, rapidly introducing and exploring a single auditory theme or idea. Vignettes of songs.

LIsten to this one and let me know what you think--

the sound of silence

Person A: “I love the Paris metro.”
NKW: “Paris METRO.”

Person B: “The UN building is one of my favorite places in the city.”
NKW: “Ah yes, the UN building.”

It is a peculiar habit of mine to repeat phrases and words when I hear them spoken to me. Recently, a friend pointed this bizarre habit out to me and thought it was funny. I’ve been vaguely aware of my tendency to do this, but haven’t really thought about where it might come from or what it might mean before. I have some ideas.

At a very basic (and mostly subconscious) level, I think I use this device as a way to fill perceived voids in conversation. When I am with most people, silence makes me uncomfortable, and I think this is a reaction to that discomfort. The action is akin to nervous rambling—another occasional tendency of mine. I think this discomfort stems from some very fundamental and important questions.

Am I connecting with this person?
Am I interesting?
Do I have anything meaningful to contribute to the dialogue?
Are we engaging one another?
…

The irony is that thoughtless repetition of a simple phrase is meaningless, and doesn't constitute any sort of engagement with or connection to the other person. While this is apparent on reflection, I think the tendency comes from a reflexive place rather than a thoughtful one, and is much like a nervous tic. In particular, I think this urge is strong when I am drawn to somebody on an instinctive, primal level that I may not fully grasp. In this case, there is a subconscious desire to justify this pull ex-post-facto on more traditionally 'rational' grounds such as an explicit intellectual connection or a shared interest.

This effort to synthesize meaning is itself probably misguided. Tangible connections to others cannot be fabricated, and even if they can be encouraged, the mindless repetition of a simple phrase certainly doesn't advance this goal. Obliquely, this also brings to mind the notion that we often listen to others with an intention of crafting our response. Instead, we should really try to hear the other person. In this way, accepting silence can enhance conversation.

It takes some fortitutde to acknowledge that one might simply have little to share with somebody on a given topic, and it takes faith to realize that this is OK. Perhaps we ought to simply enjoy being with people, and listening to people. After all, can language even begin to describe the nature of human connection?

.