Apparently, all the universe is a hologram: http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20126911.300-our-world-may-be-a-giant-hologram.html?full=true. Including us. And all the nice things out there like puppies and ice cream (though I always suspected something as bland as vanilla couldn't have much real substance to it). But let’s keep in mind this is coming from the man who, in my childhood, helped perpetuate myths about corpulent, Communist gift-dropping arctic elf dictators and bunnies who squeeze out chocolate eggs and feel compelled to stash them in secret places.
What’s clear from this article is that my dad has either had a ground-breaking insight into the nature of space and time, or that he’s highly qualified to write for Star Trek. With little modification, direct quotes become lines that would look snugly at home on the page of a Next Generation script: "[Captain,] It looks like GEO600 is being buffeted by the microscopic quantum convulsions of space-time," says [Lieutenant Commander] Hogan. (The holographic principle would also explain why Captain Picard can get away with saying things like “On the holodeck, even a holographic bullet can kill.” Indeed, good Captain, it is the only sort that ever has).
Yet it seems to me that there’s something terribly dangerous in revealing that we’re all living inside a giant hologram, that it may be best to put holographic noise back in its scientific pandora’s box (or at least to turn down the volume). For if it was an existential struggle to find a point to it all before, how much more so now that we discover that we’re really just holographic reflections within a giant, cosmic limited-edition Topps trading card? (or a “Pringle,” to which I think one physicist cited in the article compares the universe). Indeed, one conceivable consequence of letting the holographic principle go public seems to be the possibility of a sudden, overwhelming surge of global apathy. If it’s all just a bloody hologram anyway, why should I go to work tomorrow?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Ah ha! You see, my dear Watson, this isn't the real free market at all...
The “free market” has been grabbing a lot of headlines since it was found lying bruised and battered in the middle of Wall Street (to be fair, it started the fight). Conservatives, in between beating their chests, rending their clothes and wailing, have been printing their “get well soon” editorials. Liberals, in between bouts of gloating, have been squabbling about how to carve up the ideological inheritance. Some on both sides have been busily eulogizing, wishing capitalism all the best in the socio-economic afterlife (feudalism, mercantilism, and pinko commie-ism must be thrilled to be getting a new poker buddy).
Amidst all this grim funereal nonsense, I was recently surprised to find a headline posing a relatively interesting question about the free market: does it corrode moral character? My initial response was, surprise, “of course it does! The free market sanctions hedonism and greed and preaches that selfishness is good!” But then, after reflecting a moment, I came to the rather depressing conclusion that, perhaps, the free market is really just a neutral tool, a lens that gets held up to human nature and magnifies whatever happen to be its most dominant characteristics, in which case there’s maybe not much we can do. If that’s the case, I gotta say that given all the current economic news, human nature’s not looking so good at the moment; greed and selfishness make for bad combination skin and a nasty complexion. The end result is the same – ultimately, greed and its ilk win out – but it’s not really the free market’s fault; the market merely provides the stage on which the tragic drama gets acted out. And then I realized that the original question wasn’t really fair, as free market economics by definition refuses to concern itself with such bothersome issues as morality and equity (how nice it must be for free market economics, that it can so airily dismiss those nettlesome questions!).
So asking if the free market corrodes moral character is really kind of unfair, as it obviously has no idea what moral character is, and is not particularly interested in finding out. It’s a bit like asking a nuclear physicist if the Balanchine school of ballet corrodes the art of dance (“Hey man, I just split atoms, don’t ask me”).
Rather, the concern of free market economics is efficiency, that is, the most efficient allocation of this world’s scarce (and some might add dwindling) resources. This principle of economic efficiency – which underpins all the modern mantras about the glories of economic growth – has become something of a religion in modern western society, the prime organizing social creed. For the record, I think it’s about time we collectively freed ourselves from the vice-like grip of the Invisible Hand, cast it off and defy it by having the courage to live as inefficiently as possible. I’m still working out how exactly to do this, but I think it involves wearing ski boots to work every day (or moccasins, if you happen to be a ski instructor) and then when you get to work, writing poetry or playing music or painting instead of doing anything typically considered “productive.”
Of course, the irony is that the free market that keeps appearing in the headlines – the smoldering ruins that everyone’s busy crying over – aren’t really the House That Adam Smith Built at all, but rather represent the blasted remnants of a pale imitation, a two-dimensional free market-lite movie set. The Free Market ideal that formed the ideological bedrock of modern conservatism, and that now lies ideologically bankrupt and interred, was, in fact, an imposter bearing no resemblance to the theoretical perfection of the “free market.” So everyone should take a breath and stop worrying about the free market; it’s not the one on the autopsy table.
The corpse that is, however, has all but usurped any meaning that term may once have had. The reason this house-of-cards that was apparently underpinning our entire financial system came crashing down is that it violated one of the core principles of the true free market: transparency and equal access to information. The free market, at least as originally formulated, only works if all actors have equal access to information about the goods and services being exchanged. The most important piece of information about these goods and services – their price – is assumed to be real and accurate, reflecting all the social costs of that good or service. This ensures that market actors can weigh all available options and make the choice that’s most sensible for them; this pursuit of self-interest on the part of individuals ultimately leads to the best outcome for society. Theoretically, it means that government regulation would be irrelevant; if a company were making, say, tainted milk that sickened anyone who drank it, all milk consumers would know this and buy other brands milk. The point is, for anything approaching a free market system to function properly, transparency is key.
Of course, perfect access to information and full transparency is a theoretical impossibility. But the imposter free market that’s shredded the financial system went too far in the other direction; the mess we find ourselves in now stems from the fact that, basically, its underlying paradigm was built on lies and nobody really knew what was going on. Housing prices were falsely inflated, and therefore meaningless. Far from including any sort of transparency, risks were hidden and tossed from actor to actor in a game of economic pass-the-parcel to the point that they were no longer apparent, and no one knew what they were or who was supposed to be responsible for them. Equating this opaque train-wreck to the “free market” doubtless has Smith and his intellectual successors down in their graves spinning faster than the offspring of Karl Rove’s homemade perpetual motion machine and an Iranian centrifuge.
Amidst all this grim funereal nonsense, I was recently surprised to find a headline posing a relatively interesting question about the free market: does it corrode moral character? My initial response was, surprise, “of course it does! The free market sanctions hedonism and greed and preaches that selfishness is good!” But then, after reflecting a moment, I came to the rather depressing conclusion that, perhaps, the free market is really just a neutral tool, a lens that gets held up to human nature and magnifies whatever happen to be its most dominant characteristics, in which case there’s maybe not much we can do. If that’s the case, I gotta say that given all the current economic news, human nature’s not looking so good at the moment; greed and selfishness make for bad combination skin and a nasty complexion. The end result is the same – ultimately, greed and its ilk win out – but it’s not really the free market’s fault; the market merely provides the stage on which the tragic drama gets acted out. And then I realized that the original question wasn’t really fair, as free market economics by definition refuses to concern itself with such bothersome issues as morality and equity (how nice it must be for free market economics, that it can so airily dismiss those nettlesome questions!).
So asking if the free market corrodes moral character is really kind of unfair, as it obviously has no idea what moral character is, and is not particularly interested in finding out. It’s a bit like asking a nuclear physicist if the Balanchine school of ballet corrodes the art of dance (“Hey man, I just split atoms, don’t ask me”).
Rather, the concern of free market economics is efficiency, that is, the most efficient allocation of this world’s scarce (and some might add dwindling) resources. This principle of economic efficiency – which underpins all the modern mantras about the glories of economic growth – has become something of a religion in modern western society, the prime organizing social creed. For the record, I think it’s about time we collectively freed ourselves from the vice-like grip of the Invisible Hand, cast it off and defy it by having the courage to live as inefficiently as possible. I’m still working out how exactly to do this, but I think it involves wearing ski boots to work every day (or moccasins, if you happen to be a ski instructor) and then when you get to work, writing poetry or playing music or painting instead of doing anything typically considered “productive.”
Of course, the irony is that the free market that keeps appearing in the headlines – the smoldering ruins that everyone’s busy crying over – aren’t really the House That Adam Smith Built at all, but rather represent the blasted remnants of a pale imitation, a two-dimensional free market-lite movie set. The Free Market ideal that formed the ideological bedrock of modern conservatism, and that now lies ideologically bankrupt and interred, was, in fact, an imposter bearing no resemblance to the theoretical perfection of the “free market.” So everyone should take a breath and stop worrying about the free market; it’s not the one on the autopsy table.
The corpse that is, however, has all but usurped any meaning that term may once have had. The reason this house-of-cards that was apparently underpinning our entire financial system came crashing down is that it violated one of the core principles of the true free market: transparency and equal access to information. The free market, at least as originally formulated, only works if all actors have equal access to information about the goods and services being exchanged. The most important piece of information about these goods and services – their price – is assumed to be real and accurate, reflecting all the social costs of that good or service. This ensures that market actors can weigh all available options and make the choice that’s most sensible for them; this pursuit of self-interest on the part of individuals ultimately leads to the best outcome for society. Theoretically, it means that government regulation would be irrelevant; if a company were making, say, tainted milk that sickened anyone who drank it, all milk consumers would know this and buy other brands milk. The point is, for anything approaching a free market system to function properly, transparency is key.
Of course, perfect access to information and full transparency is a theoretical impossibility. But the imposter free market that’s shredded the financial system went too far in the other direction; the mess we find ourselves in now stems from the fact that, basically, its underlying paradigm was built on lies and nobody really knew what was going on. Housing prices were falsely inflated, and therefore meaningless. Far from including any sort of transparency, risks were hidden and tossed from actor to actor in a game of economic pass-the-parcel to the point that they were no longer apparent, and no one knew what they were or who was supposed to be responsible for them. Equating this opaque train-wreck to the “free market” doubtless has Smith and his intellectual successors down in their graves spinning faster than the offspring of Karl Rove’s homemade perpetual motion machine and an Iranian centrifuge.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Wanted: Emissions-Lite Girls. And Thawed Dinosaurs.
I work in the most unsexy profession there is.
Before I tell you what I do for a living, I want to see if you can guess. Am I a…chess grand master? Nope, guess again: that cerebral intensity and rare talent for sweeping queens off their feet put Bobby Fischer and his coworkers a safe distance from the bottom of the rankings. Perhaps a fast food chef? Closer, but again, perhaps there’s a layer of meaning to “i’m lovin’ it” that not all of us can appreciate. Plumber? Nay! Despite a bad rap earned by a few careless tradesmen wearing their jeans one size too large and one inch too low, the prurience of the plumber is attested to by the fact that, next to pool boys, they probably have a starring role in more pornos than any other profession. Plus, as of the recent election, plumbers have now been elevated to the status of amateur politician and foreign policy expert.
Nope, my profession’s inherent unsexiness dwarfs all of these. I am a climate policy wonk. It’s sort of like being a monk, except instead of making beer and occasionally trying to do good in the world through acts of charity, you stare at a screen and think about ways to reduce atmospheric concentrations of invisible, scentless gases that will lead to devastating effects on our planet and way of life many decades from now.
I know what you’re thinking. “Aww that’s great! Good for you!” And secretly, “Damn, that IS unsexy. I thought he might at least be a schoolteacher. But perhaps the accompanying levels of altruistic feel-fluffy-goodiness must compensate for that overwhelming level of unsexiness.”
Wrong. Here’s why working on climate change is inherently unsexy. First off, the subtext of the all-too-typical reaction above: whenever you tell someone that you work on climate change, the “that’s great” usually gets accompanied by a slightly pitying, slightly bemused smile, the same sort of smile you’d get if you said you banged your head against a wall for a living.
In our society, success is sexy. The problem with working on climate change – an invisible, long-term problem – is that there is no good metric for measuring success. In other professions, success is measured by real-world, tangible results. Successful doctors have healthy patients. Great musicians have sold-out concert halls and platinum selling albums. Talented plumbers have useable toilets and the occasional interview on Fox News. On the other hand, if you’re a brilliant climate policy tactician, you’ll have a great design for a cap-and-trade program or an amazingly efficient carbon tax…but you’ll get scolded for wanting to dismantle the economy or having too much sympathy for polar bears. In climate-wonk world, if you’re good at what you do, you quite literally have nothing to show for it. The whole point of being successful in addressing climate change is that you’ll never see any results; success is measured by a total absence of anything happening. Greenhouse gas emissions will go down, so temperatures won’t rise. Storms won’t increase in intensity or frequency. Droughts won’t get worse. And let’s face it, that’s incredibly boring. “Helping things stay the same” is hardly something to brag about. In fact, it’s one of the lowest-selling bumper stickers out there (just doing slightly better than “Proud Parent of an Honors Student…at a Suicide Bombers Academy!”). Success is decades away and invisible.
If you still doubt that climate policy is a notoriously unsexy line of work (perhaps your heart’s still aflutter over the idea of a baby polar bear savior) let me tell you exactly what I think about all day. I think about cap-and-trade. I see that you still have Knut paddling around in your eyes, so allow me to continue. Cap-and-trade is a market mechanism designed to achieve a desired level of pollution reduction (in this case, greenhouse gases) in the most low-cost manner possible. This is done by setting a cap on the total level of emissions allowed across the economy, and then creating a market (and thus a price) for these emissions by distributing tradable emissions “allowances” (basically, rights to emit). Sources have to hold allowances equivalent to their emissions, and since these allowances can be freely bought and sold, and some emitters will have more low-cost opportunities for emissions reductions than others, the market will ultimately find the most low-cost emissions reductions available to achieve the desired level of emissions.
Holy-shit-boring, right? And that’s just the tagline. Cap-and-trade design is enormously complex and tremendously unrewarding (again, if your policy works, you’ll likely see slightly higher energy costs, and suffer the blame for them, along with static sea levels that allow an extenuation of our love affair with Gulf Coast real estate).
I think about this a lot, but the sad truth is, there is just no way to make cap-and-trade sexy, despite the fact that it’s all about internalizing externalities (anyone? anyone? no?). I’ve tried desperately to think up plotlines to thrillers involving climate policy wonks racing against the clock to keep unchecked climate change from wreaking havoc on the world, but the storyline inevitably gets bogged down in questions about whether allowances get given away freely or auctioned, whether agricultural emissions should qualify as offsets projects, and other such timeless questions that I’m sure plague all Hollywood boilerplate actioneers. I’ve even fantasized about “Cap-and-Trade: The Porno!”, which would of course feature gratuitous “trading” of “emissions” [allowances] and “full coverage” [of the electricity sector]. But I always run up against the ineluctable truth that other professions are just sexier by varying, but always prohibitive, margins. Firemen sweat and pant as they pull victims from smoldering ruins; I consider the tradeoffs between going with a 10,000 metric ton emissions reporting threshold or a 2,500 metric ton emissions reporting threshold, while occasionally adjusting the thermostat in my office. Lawyers stand up for justice and righteousness and maintain the rule of law; I think about various ways of limiting atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide equivalent to 500 parts per million over a span of decades. Other branches of work involve people who jump into volcanoes or discover holy grails hidden inside of lost arks stored deep within Thuggy temples; climate change has people who watch ice flow or sift through dirt trying to get a better sense of carbon cycles. It is really, really hard to make that sexy.
Yet, I’m working hard to think of ways that it can be. The emissions that contribute to global warming come from every sector of our economy, and meeting this challenge requires the active involvement of individuals at every level of society. But inspiring that involvement is going to take some work. Even if they grudgingly accept it’s a real problem, people are put off by climate change; switching light bulbs or wearing a sweater indoors in the winter or keeping your tires inflated is about as sexy as Dick Cheney reading his own medical records out loud. So finding a way to make climate change sexy is the first, and perhaps most crucial, step on the path to its invisible, thankless solution.
First off, media treatment of climate change needs a sexover. CNN’s “Planet in Peril” is a good start with its dramatic music and Bourne Identity editing style (who knew that rapidly cutting between pine trees and glaciers before quickly splicing to a worried-looking gazelle could be so stimulating?), but more could be done. First, Anderson Cooper should probably be greased up and shirtless, and carry a large semiautomatic weapon. As with anything on T.V., it would also help if there were dinosaurs. Perhaps Anderson could imply, between bursts of machine gun fire aimed at encroaching velociraptors, that warmer temperatures had awoken them from a 65 million year hibernatory slumber…and now they’re hungry! Also, it’s generally accepted that losing weight is a sexy thing to do. As it happens, it’s also good for the planet! Heavy people eat more (which requires more carbon-storying trees cut down to grow more food, or more methane-spouting cows, or more fertilizer, or all of these things) and require more energy (i.e. fuel) to move around in cars or on trains. So, we should pay people to lose weight, and calculate how much emissions go down for each pound they lose, achieving the coveted double dividend of a healthier planet and healthier populations (assuming, of course, they keep it off). Coupled with this, not nearly enough is being done to market a low-carbon lifestyle in a sexy way. Why haven’t we had a television campaign featuring the Emissions Lite girls giggling in bikinis as they switch their old light bulbs out for new compact fluorescents? Also, they should start giving glaciologists and climate modelers their own exhilarating soundtracks anytime they appear on T.V. (maybe they could borrow Anderson Cooper’s).
Alas, while this may offer a start, it fails to get at the inescapable unsexy fact that the rewards of good climate policy work consist of seeing absolutely nothing change in the world around us. I’m looking into playing chess or fixing sinks, but in the meantime, I remain condemned to thinking about how to keep those baby bears from drowning…and the negative consequences of “busting” the “cap”.
Before I tell you what I do for a living, I want to see if you can guess. Am I a…chess grand master? Nope, guess again: that cerebral intensity and rare talent for sweeping queens off their feet put Bobby Fischer and his coworkers a safe distance from the bottom of the rankings. Perhaps a fast food chef? Closer, but again, perhaps there’s a layer of meaning to “i’m lovin’ it” that not all of us can appreciate. Plumber? Nay! Despite a bad rap earned by a few careless tradesmen wearing their jeans one size too large and one inch too low, the prurience of the plumber is attested to by the fact that, next to pool boys, they probably have a starring role in more pornos than any other profession. Plus, as of the recent election, plumbers have now been elevated to the status of amateur politician and foreign policy expert.
Nope, my profession’s inherent unsexiness dwarfs all of these. I am a climate policy wonk. It’s sort of like being a monk, except instead of making beer and occasionally trying to do good in the world through acts of charity, you stare at a screen and think about ways to reduce atmospheric concentrations of invisible, scentless gases that will lead to devastating effects on our planet and way of life many decades from now.
I know what you’re thinking. “Aww that’s great! Good for you!” And secretly, “Damn, that IS unsexy. I thought he might at least be a schoolteacher. But perhaps the accompanying levels of altruistic feel-fluffy-goodiness must compensate for that overwhelming level of unsexiness.”
Wrong. Here’s why working on climate change is inherently unsexy. First off, the subtext of the all-too-typical reaction above: whenever you tell someone that you work on climate change, the “that’s great” usually gets accompanied by a slightly pitying, slightly bemused smile, the same sort of smile you’d get if you said you banged your head against a wall for a living.
In our society, success is sexy. The problem with working on climate change – an invisible, long-term problem – is that there is no good metric for measuring success. In other professions, success is measured by real-world, tangible results. Successful doctors have healthy patients. Great musicians have sold-out concert halls and platinum selling albums. Talented plumbers have useable toilets and the occasional interview on Fox News. On the other hand, if you’re a brilliant climate policy tactician, you’ll have a great design for a cap-and-trade program or an amazingly efficient carbon tax…but you’ll get scolded for wanting to dismantle the economy or having too much sympathy for polar bears. In climate-wonk world, if you’re good at what you do, you quite literally have nothing to show for it. The whole point of being successful in addressing climate change is that you’ll never see any results; success is measured by a total absence of anything happening. Greenhouse gas emissions will go down, so temperatures won’t rise. Storms won’t increase in intensity or frequency. Droughts won’t get worse. And let’s face it, that’s incredibly boring. “Helping things stay the same” is hardly something to brag about. In fact, it’s one of the lowest-selling bumper stickers out there (just doing slightly better than “Proud Parent of an Honors Student…at a Suicide Bombers Academy!”). Success is decades away and invisible.
If you still doubt that climate policy is a notoriously unsexy line of work (perhaps your heart’s still aflutter over the idea of a baby polar bear savior) let me tell you exactly what I think about all day. I think about cap-and-trade. I see that you still have Knut paddling around in your eyes, so allow me to continue. Cap-and-trade is a market mechanism designed to achieve a desired level of pollution reduction (in this case, greenhouse gases) in the most low-cost manner possible. This is done by setting a cap on the total level of emissions allowed across the economy, and then creating a market (and thus a price) for these emissions by distributing tradable emissions “allowances” (basically, rights to emit). Sources have to hold allowances equivalent to their emissions, and since these allowances can be freely bought and sold, and some emitters will have more low-cost opportunities for emissions reductions than others, the market will ultimately find the most low-cost emissions reductions available to achieve the desired level of emissions.
Holy-shit-boring, right? And that’s just the tagline. Cap-and-trade design is enormously complex and tremendously unrewarding (again, if your policy works, you’ll likely see slightly higher energy costs, and suffer the blame for them, along with static sea levels that allow an extenuation of our love affair with Gulf Coast real estate).
I think about this a lot, but the sad truth is, there is just no way to make cap-and-trade sexy, despite the fact that it’s all about internalizing externalities (anyone? anyone? no?). I’ve tried desperately to think up plotlines to thrillers involving climate policy wonks racing against the clock to keep unchecked climate change from wreaking havoc on the world, but the storyline inevitably gets bogged down in questions about whether allowances get given away freely or auctioned, whether agricultural emissions should qualify as offsets projects, and other such timeless questions that I’m sure plague all Hollywood boilerplate actioneers. I’ve even fantasized about “Cap-and-Trade: The Porno!”, which would of course feature gratuitous “trading” of “emissions” [allowances] and “full coverage” [of the electricity sector]. But I always run up against the ineluctable truth that other professions are just sexier by varying, but always prohibitive, margins. Firemen sweat and pant as they pull victims from smoldering ruins; I consider the tradeoffs between going with a 10,000 metric ton emissions reporting threshold or a 2,500 metric ton emissions reporting threshold, while occasionally adjusting the thermostat in my office. Lawyers stand up for justice and righteousness and maintain the rule of law; I think about various ways of limiting atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide equivalent to 500 parts per million over a span of decades. Other branches of work involve people who jump into volcanoes or discover holy grails hidden inside of lost arks stored deep within Thuggy temples; climate change has people who watch ice flow or sift through dirt trying to get a better sense of carbon cycles. It is really, really hard to make that sexy.
Yet, I’m working hard to think of ways that it can be. The emissions that contribute to global warming come from every sector of our economy, and meeting this challenge requires the active involvement of individuals at every level of society. But inspiring that involvement is going to take some work. Even if they grudgingly accept it’s a real problem, people are put off by climate change; switching light bulbs or wearing a sweater indoors in the winter or keeping your tires inflated is about as sexy as Dick Cheney reading his own medical records out loud. So finding a way to make climate change sexy is the first, and perhaps most crucial, step on the path to its invisible, thankless solution.
First off, media treatment of climate change needs a sexover. CNN’s “Planet in Peril” is a good start with its dramatic music and Bourne Identity editing style (who knew that rapidly cutting between pine trees and glaciers before quickly splicing to a worried-looking gazelle could be so stimulating?), but more could be done. First, Anderson Cooper should probably be greased up and shirtless, and carry a large semiautomatic weapon. As with anything on T.V., it would also help if there were dinosaurs. Perhaps Anderson could imply, between bursts of machine gun fire aimed at encroaching velociraptors, that warmer temperatures had awoken them from a 65 million year hibernatory slumber…and now they’re hungry! Also, it’s generally accepted that losing weight is a sexy thing to do. As it happens, it’s also good for the planet! Heavy people eat more (which requires more carbon-storying trees cut down to grow more food, or more methane-spouting cows, or more fertilizer, or all of these things) and require more energy (i.e. fuel) to move around in cars or on trains. So, we should pay people to lose weight, and calculate how much emissions go down for each pound they lose, achieving the coveted double dividend of a healthier planet and healthier populations (assuming, of course, they keep it off). Coupled with this, not nearly enough is being done to market a low-carbon lifestyle in a sexy way. Why haven’t we had a television campaign featuring the Emissions Lite girls giggling in bikinis as they switch their old light bulbs out for new compact fluorescents? Also, they should start giving glaciologists and climate modelers their own exhilarating soundtracks anytime they appear on T.V. (maybe they could borrow Anderson Cooper’s).
Alas, while this may offer a start, it fails to get at the inescapable unsexy fact that the rewards of good climate policy work consist of seeing absolutely nothing change in the world around us. I’m looking into playing chess or fixing sinks, but in the meantime, I remain condemned to thinking about how to keep those baby bears from drowning…and the negative consequences of “busting” the “cap”.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Classic revival
For those of you interested in re-connecting with O'Smiley's roots, I've posted some archived selections from the original column further below, after the latest post (for no particular reason I decided to pretend that they were published in December 2007). More coming soon.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Late but smiling
All right. I’ve finally managed to stop pinching myself…my arm is raw. The thrilled trembling in my fingers has receded to the point that I can actually type again. And the eye-mist (okay, they were tears; two parts unbridled joy, one part profound exhaustion) has dissipated to the point that I can once again bring a screen into focus. But it seems I am too late! After surfing to the edges of the post-election internet, with several navigations around the blogosphere, the news sites, and the various ‘tubes, this cyber Marco Polo is forced to admit that it’s all been said and written and posted by now, in a manner far more moving and eloquent than any words I might put down here. However, given the nature of this moment (which I absolutely refuse to stop savoring) I think that’s okay. I’m here to add my brief shout from the rooftop to the global chorus…
…starting with an apology to all those who have had to look me in the face the last couple days. I haven’t been able to stop smiling for nearly 48 hours. My face has frozen in what, since I can’t bring myself to look in a mirror, I can only imagine to be a sort of obnoxious, gleeful rictus. I attribute this to the heavy dose of Obamatox I received on Tuesday night (side effects may include a revitalized national spirit, cornucopian abundance of international good will, and unrelenting exuberance). The worst part is that just when I think I’ll be able to straighten out my mouth again, I happen to see another picture from Grant Park or D.C. or Indonesia, another headline reminding me that yes, this has actually happened, and suddenly I’m back to grinning wider than the Cheshire Cat on his way out of the dentist’s office. Normally, I would be very self-conscious about this, worried that people might be put off by the fact that I was flashing more tooth than a teratoma cultivated in the Joker’s mouth. Fortunately, Obamatox smiles are everywhere; everyone else seems to be stricken with a case of unrestrainable joy as well! So perhaps apologies aren’t necessary.
I’m smiling for a host of reasons, which you all know by now, and all of which have been polished to the shiniest of prose nuggets in editorials and blog entries stretching from here to the internet’s farthest shore. But in addition to all of those reasons, I’m smiling because I am unabashedly proud of this country again, for what it stands for and what it’s capable of – that despite the best efforts of the shadowy cabal or whoever’s been calling the shots these last eight years, the system can actually still work (and work wonders). I’m proud because, for the first time in my adult life, I feel that I don’t have to mumble apologies or hide in the shadows when I’m outside of the country. I’m proud of my generation for finally getting its act together. Really people, it was beyond time.
And I’m grinning like an idiot at the Shiny Object store because of what I saw, and was a part of, on Tuesday night. By historical accident I was fortunate enough to be in Washington D.C. when Obama was making the world tear up with talk of puppies and hope and such, and ended up as a participant in the most impromptu outpouring of joy I’ve ever seen as people danced and sang in front of the White House. After watching Obama's victory speech (yet another one to add to the Greatest Hits album) I took to the streets with a couple friends. We kept passing small knots of whooping, hollering people. And gradually, these small knots of whooping, hollering people merged into big globs of whoopers and hollerers, all walking in more or less the same direction, until, without any explicit signal or verbal cue, everyone started running towards the White House, gaining more momentum and more cheering throngs by the second and arriving just a hundred yards outside of a certain Mr. W.’s (soon-to-be-vacant) bedroom...where it joined with similar jubilant mobs from all over the city, hundreds of people singing, cheering, dancing, hugging and screaming, as if a physical and emotional dam had given way.
Nothing approaches that euphoric mob’s expression of spontaneous exuberance on Tuesday night. The whole scene was like stepping back in time into one of those videos of the Berlin Wall tumbling down, or witnessing the exultations of the happy multitudes following the toppling of a tyrannical dictator in some forgotten country, a great exhalation from a long-oppressed people (the only thing lacking to complete the image was a colossal bronze Bush being pulled to the ground...but I guess that was going on figuratively, at least).
And now, I’ve woken up the last two mornings to a world that feels palpably different. Some of that change is inside myself. There is no longer the oppressive weight of the relentless anxiety associated with the last several months. More importantly, there is no longer the weight, heavier still, that I had grown so accustomed to over the last eight years I had forgotten it was there, though it weighed my spirits down mightily: the weight of hopelessness, helplessness, and isolation that has been the burden of so many both here in American and all around the world for nearly a decade, and that now, finally, has been cast off. And spirits are soaring.
Much has been spouted about how this election marked a turning point, a crossroads, and a decisive moment in history that would steer our nation towards one of two very divergent paths. And for once, I feel like all the hyperbole, while always flirting with the ridiculous, was not completely off. It is as though the nation, and the world, has been decisively nudged by a guiding and concerned benevolent hand (not to be confused with Adam Smith’s invisible appendage; that thing’s lying bruised and battered on Wall Street somewhere. Either that, or trying to sneak into the bailout coffers). In the epic fantasy world of my imagination, this hand has steered us onto a path towards a better and brighter destiny, diverted us from a fate descending into gloom and chaos. I’m almost positive that somewhere – probably in rural Virginia, or North Carolina, or Colorado, or Indiana – there stands a wizened, bearded old man in a pointy hat looking out over the country, leaning on his staff as he nods sagely, just before muttering something ominous about a One Ring and vanishing mysteriously into thin air. Wait…has anyone seen David Axelrod or David Plouffe since the election??? I always thought they looked a little too disheveled to be from around here…
Okay, this is getting a bit silly. Obviously the guiding, benevolent hand was all of us. So now that we’ve found it again, let’s keep it at the tiller.
Giving into hyperbole again, the promise of the next four (ahem, eight) years seems boundless right now. Yet the realist in my knows that of course President Obama won’t be perfect. The thankless task he has undertaken may involve disappointment and unfulfilled promises as much as it brings inspiration and long-alluded-to change. There will still be problems facing this country after he leaves office. But at least I will be able to tolerate listening to him speak; more than that, I will make an effort to tune in daily and lend a rapt ear. And on top of everything else, I’m thrilled that on January 20th, we’ll have the Cutest First Family of All Time moving into the White House. The celebrity of the Barackstars and the accompanying paparazzi bonanza means that soon, I won’t have to feel embarrassed when I get caught browsing the tabloids picking up a copy of Us Weekly; I’ll just be reading up on my political news, and obviously, People will become the go-to mag for the politically savvy…and all those who like watching pictures of puppies frolicking in the rose garden.
For now though, it’s still all Obamatox smiles, and, perhaps, a brief respite from Hope as we take a break to enjoy where it’s taken us.
…starting with an apology to all those who have had to look me in the face the last couple days. I haven’t been able to stop smiling for nearly 48 hours. My face has frozen in what, since I can’t bring myself to look in a mirror, I can only imagine to be a sort of obnoxious, gleeful rictus. I attribute this to the heavy dose of Obamatox I received on Tuesday night (side effects may include a revitalized national spirit, cornucopian abundance of international good will, and unrelenting exuberance). The worst part is that just when I think I’ll be able to straighten out my mouth again, I happen to see another picture from Grant Park or D.C. or Indonesia, another headline reminding me that yes, this has actually happened, and suddenly I’m back to grinning wider than the Cheshire Cat on his way out of the dentist’s office. Normally, I would be very self-conscious about this, worried that people might be put off by the fact that I was flashing more tooth than a teratoma cultivated in the Joker’s mouth. Fortunately, Obamatox smiles are everywhere; everyone else seems to be stricken with a case of unrestrainable joy as well! So perhaps apologies aren’t necessary.
I’m smiling for a host of reasons, which you all know by now, and all of which have been polished to the shiniest of prose nuggets in editorials and blog entries stretching from here to the internet’s farthest shore. But in addition to all of those reasons, I’m smiling because I am unabashedly proud of this country again, for what it stands for and what it’s capable of – that despite the best efforts of the shadowy cabal or whoever’s been calling the shots these last eight years, the system can actually still work (and work wonders). I’m proud because, for the first time in my adult life, I feel that I don’t have to mumble apologies or hide in the shadows when I’m outside of the country. I’m proud of my generation for finally getting its act together. Really people, it was beyond time.
And I’m grinning like an idiot at the Shiny Object store because of what I saw, and was a part of, on Tuesday night. By historical accident I was fortunate enough to be in Washington D.C. when Obama was making the world tear up with talk of puppies and hope and such, and ended up as a participant in the most impromptu outpouring of joy I’ve ever seen as people danced and sang in front of the White House. After watching Obama's victory speech (yet another one to add to the Greatest Hits album) I took to the streets with a couple friends. We kept passing small knots of whooping, hollering people. And gradually, these small knots of whooping, hollering people merged into big globs of whoopers and hollerers, all walking in more or less the same direction, until, without any explicit signal or verbal cue, everyone started running towards the White House, gaining more momentum and more cheering throngs by the second and arriving just a hundred yards outside of a certain Mr. W.’s (soon-to-be-vacant) bedroom...where it joined with similar jubilant mobs from all over the city, hundreds of people singing, cheering, dancing, hugging and screaming, as if a physical and emotional dam had given way.
Nothing approaches that euphoric mob’s expression of spontaneous exuberance on Tuesday night. The whole scene was like stepping back in time into one of those videos of the Berlin Wall tumbling down, or witnessing the exultations of the happy multitudes following the toppling of a tyrannical dictator in some forgotten country, a great exhalation from a long-oppressed people (the only thing lacking to complete the image was a colossal bronze Bush being pulled to the ground...but I guess that was going on figuratively, at least).
And now, I’ve woken up the last two mornings to a world that feels palpably different. Some of that change is inside myself. There is no longer the oppressive weight of the relentless anxiety associated with the last several months. More importantly, there is no longer the weight, heavier still, that I had grown so accustomed to over the last eight years I had forgotten it was there, though it weighed my spirits down mightily: the weight of hopelessness, helplessness, and isolation that has been the burden of so many both here in American and all around the world for nearly a decade, and that now, finally, has been cast off. And spirits are soaring.
Much has been spouted about how this election marked a turning point, a crossroads, and a decisive moment in history that would steer our nation towards one of two very divergent paths. And for once, I feel like all the hyperbole, while always flirting with the ridiculous, was not completely off. It is as though the nation, and the world, has been decisively nudged by a guiding and concerned benevolent hand (not to be confused with Adam Smith’s invisible appendage; that thing’s lying bruised and battered on Wall Street somewhere. Either that, or trying to sneak into the bailout coffers). In the epic fantasy world of my imagination, this hand has steered us onto a path towards a better and brighter destiny, diverted us from a fate descending into gloom and chaos. I’m almost positive that somewhere – probably in rural Virginia, or North Carolina, or Colorado, or Indiana – there stands a wizened, bearded old man in a pointy hat looking out over the country, leaning on his staff as he nods sagely, just before muttering something ominous about a One Ring and vanishing mysteriously into thin air. Wait…has anyone seen David Axelrod or David Plouffe since the election??? I always thought they looked a little too disheveled to be from around here…
Okay, this is getting a bit silly. Obviously the guiding, benevolent hand was all of us. So now that we’ve found it again, let’s keep it at the tiller.
Giving into hyperbole again, the promise of the next four (ahem, eight) years seems boundless right now. Yet the realist in my knows that of course President Obama won’t be perfect. The thankless task he has undertaken may involve disappointment and unfulfilled promises as much as it brings inspiration and long-alluded-to change. There will still be problems facing this country after he leaves office. But at least I will be able to tolerate listening to him speak; more than that, I will make an effort to tune in daily and lend a rapt ear. And on top of everything else, I’m thrilled that on January 20th, we’ll have the Cutest First Family of All Time moving into the White House. The celebrity of the Barackstars and the accompanying paparazzi bonanza means that soon, I won’t have to feel embarrassed when I get caught browsing the tabloids picking up a copy of Us Weekly; I’ll just be reading up on my political news, and obviously, People will become the go-to mag for the politically savvy…and all those who like watching pictures of puppies frolicking in the rose garden.
For now though, it’s still all Obamatox smiles, and, perhaps, a brief respite from Hope as we take a break to enjoy where it’s taken us.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Pinko Commie...runners? (originally published spring 2006)
Some friends and I were sitting around after dinner, coming to the grim realization that, after a good hour-and-a-half of shooting the shit, most of the shit had been blasted to pieces and it was getting late. It happened to be that season in college when for whatever reason Marx takes all social science classes by storm, and someone mumbled a brief lament about having to wade through the Manuscripts of 1800-and-whatsit…you know, the one which makes legal briefs look like light fiction.
For whatever reason, this offhand comment prompted the formation of a whole new shit-shooting firing squad and sparked a discussion with profound ramifications for gym class, the core curriculum, and those still hoping for global revolution.
Every year, most students stagger away from Marx feeling as though he’s less readable (perhaps for different reasons) than a transcript of any presidential address delivered in, oh, I dunno, say, the last eight years. I still consider Marx the most challenging author I’ve read since arriving at Chicago; the guy’s brilliant, yes, but good lord could he have used a better editor. Yet reflecting back on that little discussion at the tail end of dinner, it seems obvious to me that a mastery of Marx is not beyond anybody; all that’s needed is a little combining of sosc class with gym class.
The best way to work towards understanding Marx is – ready? – through running. Running completely embodies the Marxist ideal by allowing people to reclaim their labor as their own. Through running a person is no longer alienated from his or her labor; on the contrary, individual and labor are united, one and the same: a person in essence becomes his or her labor. Running regularly allows one to come to a fuller understanding of Marx simply through living out his ideal. If you feel a little out of touch with your species being, strap on some jogging duds, take a few turns around the quads, and maybe you’ll bump into it along the way, turning into your own little self-contained revolution as you do.
Granted, this probably isn’t quite the solution Marx had in mind. Odds are the notion of cardiovascular exercise was more theoretical back then than any talk about dialectical materialism. Really, though, it makes perfect sense. Ask anyone who runs why they do it, and they’ll respond with some nonsensical babble about how cathartic it is, how running clears and relaxes the mind, etc. Where exactly does this fabled “runner’s high” come from though? Released endorphins? Restored chemical balance? Both explanations reek like a bull’s outhouse. No, the real reason you feel good as a result of running is because you’re as unalienated from your labor as you can get, a result probably not applicable to all physical activity. Consider a sport such as crew, which more closely resembles feudalism than anything else: you’ve got your feudal overlord cockswain lounging around in the back of the boat, barking orders at and living high off the exploited labor of a bunch of poor lowly rowing serfs. And most team sports, such as football or baseball, embody a capitalist mode of production in which labor is divided and specialization in specific tasks essential.
One of the most robust criticisms of Marx is that, despite his predictions, society has yet to be shaken by a popular revolution against the capitalist system, and a global class revolt doesn’t seem to be in the works any time soon, either. Why? Clearly because of the jogging and fitness craze which first germinated back in the 1970s and is in full bloom today. Although they may comprise a small percent of the population, I’d have to say the reason we’re all still waiting for fulfillment of that utopian promise is due to runners and joggers. No matter how dreary the day job is, they are still by and large happily united with their labor at least a few times each week. As a result, things never quite reach the boiling point necessary for a real gloves-off revolution. We could try to usher in a communist era by getting rid of running and runners completely, but that seems impractical and, well, a bit hostile. Perhaps, had he lived in a different age, Marx would have been a physical trainer or a P.E. major, and the social upheaval he envisioned would have come not from one massive thrust, but millions of individuals discovering this: run, and become your own revolution.
For whatever reason, this offhand comment prompted the formation of a whole new shit-shooting firing squad and sparked a discussion with profound ramifications for gym class, the core curriculum, and those still hoping for global revolution.
Every year, most students stagger away from Marx feeling as though he’s less readable (perhaps for different reasons) than a transcript of any presidential address delivered in, oh, I dunno, say, the last eight years. I still consider Marx the most challenging author I’ve read since arriving at Chicago; the guy’s brilliant, yes, but good lord could he have used a better editor. Yet reflecting back on that little discussion at the tail end of dinner, it seems obvious to me that a mastery of Marx is not beyond anybody; all that’s needed is a little combining of sosc class with gym class.
The best way to work towards understanding Marx is – ready? – through running. Running completely embodies the Marxist ideal by allowing people to reclaim their labor as their own. Through running a person is no longer alienated from his or her labor; on the contrary, individual and labor are united, one and the same: a person in essence becomes his or her labor. Running regularly allows one to come to a fuller understanding of Marx simply through living out his ideal. If you feel a little out of touch with your species being, strap on some jogging duds, take a few turns around the quads, and maybe you’ll bump into it along the way, turning into your own little self-contained revolution as you do.
Granted, this probably isn’t quite the solution Marx had in mind. Odds are the notion of cardiovascular exercise was more theoretical back then than any talk about dialectical materialism. Really, though, it makes perfect sense. Ask anyone who runs why they do it, and they’ll respond with some nonsensical babble about how cathartic it is, how running clears and relaxes the mind, etc. Where exactly does this fabled “runner’s high” come from though? Released endorphins? Restored chemical balance? Both explanations reek like a bull’s outhouse. No, the real reason you feel good as a result of running is because you’re as unalienated from your labor as you can get, a result probably not applicable to all physical activity. Consider a sport such as crew, which more closely resembles feudalism than anything else: you’ve got your feudal overlord cockswain lounging around in the back of the boat, barking orders at and living high off the exploited labor of a bunch of poor lowly rowing serfs. And most team sports, such as football or baseball, embody a capitalist mode of production in which labor is divided and specialization in specific tasks essential.
One of the most robust criticisms of Marx is that, despite his predictions, society has yet to be shaken by a popular revolution against the capitalist system, and a global class revolt doesn’t seem to be in the works any time soon, either. Why? Clearly because of the jogging and fitness craze which first germinated back in the 1970s and is in full bloom today. Although they may comprise a small percent of the population, I’d have to say the reason we’re all still waiting for fulfillment of that utopian promise is due to runners and joggers. No matter how dreary the day job is, they are still by and large happily united with their labor at least a few times each week. As a result, things never quite reach the boiling point necessary for a real gloves-off revolution. We could try to usher in a communist era by getting rid of running and runners completely, but that seems impractical and, well, a bit hostile. Perhaps, had he lived in a different age, Marx would have been a physical trainer or a P.E. major, and the social upheaval he envisioned would have come not from one massive thrust, but millions of individuals discovering this: run, and become your own revolution.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
A Letter from Abroad (originally published May 2006)
By now, everyone’s heard about the historic personal letter recently sent from President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran to President Bush. Well, we here at the Factor have the next big development in this story; just yesterday, one of our correspondents intercepted another letter sent from the Iranian head of state, and in a worldwide exclusive, we present it here translated and uncut...
5/11/06
To His Most Esteemed Excellency, George Dubya:
You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? I got the Most Esteemed Excellency bit from Fox News, so I assume that’s okay. How’ve you been, my regime-toppling friend? I know, you probably rolled your eyes as soon as you saw a return address in Tehran for the second time in a week. But frankly, I’m a little distressed that you still haven’t replied to my first letter; if we’re serious about doing this pen pal thing, I can’t be the one doing all the work. So I was sitting around playing with one of these neat new enrichment centrifuges (haha kidding! I’m just using it as an office desk toy) and thought I’d send along another note, let you know what’s new back here in my incredibly oil rich country whose government I’m sure you’d like to shake up more than the CIA Iran, maybe call you out on a few more double-standard policies, remind you again that democracy has failed to solve the world’s problems, etc.
Actually, I’m not sure how much I feel like releasing another salvo of anti-American rhetoric just now; with that last letter and all these provocative announcements I have to keep making about our...err...really cool science experiment (I think we’re going to name it “The Tehran Project!” Isn’t that a nifty title?) I’m starting to get a little sick of my own voice. We’re probably all tired of hearing how sure I am that your government’s fueling anti-American hatred across the globe, that Iraq’s a bit of a mess even if I’m glad that old batshit Saddam’s out of town, and that maybe I made some vague comments about Israel not having the right to exist. Really, it’s your turn; all you did after my last letter was trot out that Condolences Rice woman and have her mutter a dismissal. You didn’t address anything I said! Didn’t you get even a little riled up? Didn’t you reflect for a moment on my point that all the money you’re spending going to war with the world and pissing everyone off could be better spent combating poverty and disease? Not that I’m a bleeding heart liberal or anything like that (far from it; you know me!). But come on! I was hoping you’d conjure your most squinty-eyed, smarmy-grinned presidential face and at least issue a rebuttal on T.V.! I’m assuming you’re replying late because you’re putting some real quality time into writing a full response that will keep me occupied between secret underground tests of...
Oops! Almost let the heavily irradiated cat out of the bag there! Where was I? Oh yes...I can’t blame you for taking time to get back to me, it does sound like you’ve been under a bit of heat. What did I read just the other day? Only 31% of your people think you’re handling your job as president well? Only 29% approve of your policy in Iraq, and only 27% like your foreign policy in general (read: don’t bomb me!)? Don’t get me wrong, I’m hardly one to criticize. I’m sure my public approval ratings haven’t been great...though of course I’d never know since all our polls are rigged anyway! Seriously though Mr. Decider, just shrug it off. Whatever your American Idol-addled public may think, and despite what may have come across as a biting critique in my last letter, I personally think you’re doing okay. I really dug your style with the illegal wire-tapping (though I can’t help saying you’re way behind the curve on that one; it’s the only way we do things back here) and I’m glad to see you agree with my statement that a religious basis for government is the only basis for government. I like what you’re doing in making over that Supreme Court of yours, for example, and I’m sure if you keep at it you can get intelligent design recognized in the rule books eventually.
Still, I have to admit all this rhetoric about the U.S. coming after our quiet little Republic has me a bit nervous. I mean, don’t just decide to bomb us on a political whim, to try and rally public support and consolidate your grip on power like you did last time, yeah? I think it’s pretty clear you’ve got enough problems at home. What about that funny man, that Colbert character? Why not send some special forces chasing after him for all those jibes at your fancy dinner? I tell you, if anyone at one of my fancy dinners got up and started talking like that, he’d have a hard time flapping his tongue after the kind of rusty blade justice I’d dish out. Haha, just kidding!...sort of.
But seriously...promise me you won’t bomb us, all right? It wouldn’t be good for either of us. Didn’t your Mr. Rumsfeld just say something about how the “wrong” intelligence used to justify going to war with Iraq should make you more prudent in the future? You won’t get away with the same trick twice, believe me; intelligence doesn’t become “wrong” by falsifying and doctoring itself indefinitely, does it?
Oh! Got to go! Looks like some yellow cake urani...I mean, yellow velvet cake just arrived! Mmm...tell you what, promise not to bomb us and I’ll send you a slice!
Your Pal,
M. A.
5/11/06
To His Most Esteemed Excellency, George Dubya:
You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? I got the Most Esteemed Excellency bit from Fox News, so I assume that’s okay. How’ve you been, my regime-toppling friend? I know, you probably rolled your eyes as soon as you saw a return address in Tehran for the second time in a week. But frankly, I’m a little distressed that you still haven’t replied to my first letter; if we’re serious about doing this pen pal thing, I can’t be the one doing all the work. So I was sitting around playing with one of these neat new enrichment centrifuges (haha kidding! I’m just using it as an office desk toy) and thought I’d send along another note, let you know what’s new back here in my incredibly oil rich country whose government I’m sure you’d like to shake up more than the CIA Iran, maybe call you out on a few more double-standard policies, remind you again that democracy has failed to solve the world’s problems, etc.
Actually, I’m not sure how much I feel like releasing another salvo of anti-American rhetoric just now; with that last letter and all these provocative announcements I have to keep making about our...err...really cool science experiment (I think we’re going to name it “The Tehran Project!” Isn’t that a nifty title?) I’m starting to get a little sick of my own voice. We’re probably all tired of hearing how sure I am that your government’s fueling anti-American hatred across the globe, that Iraq’s a bit of a mess even if I’m glad that old batshit Saddam’s out of town, and that maybe I made some vague comments about Israel not having the right to exist. Really, it’s your turn; all you did after my last letter was trot out that Condolences Rice woman and have her mutter a dismissal. You didn’t address anything I said! Didn’t you get even a little riled up? Didn’t you reflect for a moment on my point that all the money you’re spending going to war with the world and pissing everyone off could be better spent combating poverty and disease? Not that I’m a bleeding heart liberal or anything like that (far from it; you know me!). But come on! I was hoping you’d conjure your most squinty-eyed, smarmy-grinned presidential face and at least issue a rebuttal on T.V.! I’m assuming you’re replying late because you’re putting some real quality time into writing a full response that will keep me occupied between secret underground tests of...
Oops! Almost let the heavily irradiated cat out of the bag there! Where was I? Oh yes...I can’t blame you for taking time to get back to me, it does sound like you’ve been under a bit of heat. What did I read just the other day? Only 31% of your people think you’re handling your job as president well? Only 29% approve of your policy in Iraq, and only 27% like your foreign policy in general (read: don’t bomb me!)? Don’t get me wrong, I’m hardly one to criticize. I’m sure my public approval ratings haven’t been great...though of course I’d never know since all our polls are rigged anyway! Seriously though Mr. Decider, just shrug it off. Whatever your American Idol-addled public may think, and despite what may have come across as a biting critique in my last letter, I personally think you’re doing okay. I really dug your style with the illegal wire-tapping (though I can’t help saying you’re way behind the curve on that one; it’s the only way we do things back here) and I’m glad to see you agree with my statement that a religious basis for government is the only basis for government. I like what you’re doing in making over that Supreme Court of yours, for example, and I’m sure if you keep at it you can get intelligent design recognized in the rule books eventually.
Still, I have to admit all this rhetoric about the U.S. coming after our quiet little Republic has me a bit nervous. I mean, don’t just decide to bomb us on a political whim, to try and rally public support and consolidate your grip on power like you did last time, yeah? I think it’s pretty clear you’ve got enough problems at home. What about that funny man, that Colbert character? Why not send some special forces chasing after him for all those jibes at your fancy dinner? I tell you, if anyone at one of my fancy dinners got up and started talking like that, he’d have a hard time flapping his tongue after the kind of rusty blade justice I’d dish out. Haha, just kidding!...sort of.
But seriously...promise me you won’t bomb us, all right? It wouldn’t be good for either of us. Didn’t your Mr. Rumsfeld just say something about how the “wrong” intelligence used to justify going to war with Iraq should make you more prudent in the future? You won’t get away with the same trick twice, believe me; intelligence doesn’t become “wrong” by falsifying and doctoring itself indefinitely, does it?
Oh! Got to go! Looks like some yellow cake urani...I mean, yellow velvet cake just arrived! Mmm...tell you what, promise not to bomb us and I’ll send you a slice!
Your Pal,
M. A.
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