The Jane Addams Hull House Association is closing today. This is depressing for all sorts of reasons, not the least of which is the loss of a connection to one of the progressive movement’s greatest landmarks. The original Hull House complex was absorbed by the University of Illinois-Chicago and turned into a museum about 40 years ago, but the Association carried on the work begun by Jane Addams and Ellen Gates Starr in 1889, serving tens of thousands of poor Chicagoans who will now have to rely on the over-strained resources offered by the city’s remaining social service agencies.
Surely Newt Gingrich has some miraculous plan to lift Chicago’s destitute from the cavern of their self-inflicted misery — perhaps by putting their children to work as custodians on our new moon base, where they’ll be forbidden to speak the language of the ghetto — but I’m eager to hear Ron Paul’s important philosophical musings on the need to expose the poor to the moral hazards of the welfare state. Perhaps they’ll pick up a copy of Atlas Shrugged at the library and join him in his crusade to blow up the Federal Reserve.
Meanwhile, in the time I’ve spent this morning reading the news and perusing Addams’ Twenty Years at Hull House, Willard Romney’s money has metastasized by an additional $5000 — roughly a quarter of what a family of four earns in a year at the federal poverty level.
Bill Janklow, noted asshole, croaked today, and USA Today decided to stake its claim on the award for Most Unfortunate Choice of Metaphor:
He served four terms as governor and was elected to Congress in 2002. But he resigned in 2003 when he was jailed for manslaughter for causing the death of a motorcyclist by running through a stop sign.
Janklow changed the face of the state’s economy, education system and tax structure. Even his enemies admitted the Republican had a talent for getting things done, even as they complained that he ran roughshod over his opponents.
Um . . . yeah.
It will be interesting to see if any of the obits mention that Janklow may very well have gotten away with raping a girl in 1967. I won’t be holding my breath, though.
Somewhere in Bourdieu’s conversation with Wacquant, he observes — and I’m paraphrasing here — that the purpose of social science is to make it difficult to say idiotic things about the social world. Now I’m not an economist, of course, but to the degree that idiotic analogies are something of a hobby of mine, so I also have a passing interest in the moronic things people routinely have to say about macroeconomics. By far the worst of the lot, in my view, is the analogy between household and sovereign debt. Today, Krugman describes what might be the closest contender for top honors.
. . . [T]he fact is that running a business is nothing at all like making macro policy. The key point about macroeconomics is the pervasiveness of feedback loops due to the fact that workers are also consumers. No business sells a large fraction of its output to its own workers; even very small countries sell around two-thirds of their output to themselves, because that much is non-tradable services.
This makes a huge difference. A businessman can slash his workforce in half, produce about the same as before, and be considered a big success; an economy that does the same plunges into depression, and ends up not being able to sell its goods. Nothing in business experience prepares one for the paradox of thrift, or even the inflationary impact of increases in the money supply (which is real when the economy isn’t in a liquidity trap.)
All of which only reminds me of Berton Churchill’s famously idiotic harangue in Stagecoach (1939):
I don’t know what the government’s coming to. Instead of protecting businessmen it pokes its nose into business. Why, they’re even talking now about having bank examiners. As if we bankers don’t know how to run our own banks. Why, Boone, I actually have a letter from a popinjay official saying that they were going to inspect my books. I have a slogan that should be blazoned on every newspaper in the country. America for Americans. The government must not interfere with business. Reduce taxes. Our national debt is something shocking. What this country needs is a businessman for President.
Because, of course, that plan has always turned out well.
A judge in South Carolina has declared a black church to be the lawful owner of a building that is home to a store that peddles Ku Klux Klan paraphernalia — although it isn’t quite clear if the ruling will impede the sale of the racist stuff anytime soon.
The latest chapter in this long, weird and disturbing tale out of Laurens, S.C. — about an hour northwest of the capital city of Columbia — comes courtesy of Meg Kinnard of the Associated Press, who reports that Rev. David Kennedy and his New Beginnings church have been declared the rightful owners of an old theater building that houses the Redneck Shop, which trades in Klan robes, T-shirts with ethnic slurs and, according to its website, “bumperstickers, belts, mens and womens [sic] swimsuits, one or two piece, cotton or nylon flags, bird houses, and you name it…”
The bird houses, I should note, look pretty much like what you’d expect a birdhouse made by Klansmen to look like; alas, the site doesn’t tell us whether the birds who inhabit them are supplied with their own tiny robes and pamphlets detailing the international Papist-Zionist Conspiracy, nor do we learn whether they’re encouraged to cleanse the surrounding property of inferior avian species. The shop’s Wikipedia page — no shit, it exists — mentions as well that its owners sell posters of Warren Harding, of all people, who has long been rumored (however implausibly) to have been a member of the KKK. Sadly, the Redneck Shop lacks a website that might help us satisfy our great national craving for Warren Harding paraphernalia, but if you’re in the mood, I highly recommend my favorite picture of Harding, in which he displays an almost Nixonian sternness and seems to be on the verge of expressing a coherent idea of some kind or another.
She fails to mention, however, that Tim Tebow also believes the Obama administration is moving the nation toward a One World Currency. I’m pretty sure that’s what he was talking about during the Bears game a few weeks back.
Whatever else might be said about Michele Bachmann’s invocation of 2 Thessalonians (“The Bloodening”), we ought to remember that Bachmann — as a devoted and serious pupil of American history — must also have known that she was offering a shout-out to Captain John Smith, the belligerent self-promoter who served for a brief moment as president of the local council of the Virginia Company from 1608-1609. Under Smith, the Jamestown settlers were obligated to follow Bachmann’s Biblically-inspired command to work or eat, with Smith himself explaining that “by the hazard and endeavors of some thirty or forty, this whole colony [of several hundred] had ever been fed.” In his Genreral History, Smith noted that while the Virginia colony possessed a handful of skilled laborers — and a few others who, though incapable, at least wanted to contribute — “all the rest were poor gentlemen, tradesmen, serving-men, libertines, and such like, ten times more fit to spoil a commonwealth, than either begin one, or but help to maintain one.” When his patience with the idlers expired, Smith had a public hissy fit, announcing his famous policy that “he that gathereth not every day as much as I do, the next day shall be set beyond the river, and be banished from the fort as a drone, till he amend his conditions or starve.”
It’s worth noting, I suppose, that Smith’s orders were conceived with idling gentlemen as much in mind as the scrofulous poor. It’s also worth noting that Smith’s efforts did little to alleviate the long-term Hobbesian conditions that prevailed in Virginia for years after he left the colony forever. But I think it’s even more interesting that in trying to inspire her fellow citizens to great feats of self-reliance, Bachmann — who presumably remains a somewhat viable Presidential candidate for a major political party — would turn to a slogan befitting an experimental, disorganized, resource-strapped, unskilled menagerie of landless gentlemen, unemployed soldiers and indentured servants living in a 17th century malarial swamp. And the Republicans criticize Obama for not being sufficiently optimistic?
Lindsay Beyerstein points us to this piece in which Slate managing editor Rachael Larimore announces to the world that she’s available to purchase your fradulent goods and services. The short version is that Larimore recently decided, in the name of shedding “10 to 12 pounds” for her 20th high school reunion, to submit herself to a demonstrably insane diet that requires its marks patients to bang human chorionic gonadotropin on a daily basis while hacking their caloric intake to .5 kcal/day — roughly one-quarter of what someone like Larimore should be consuming — for several weeks. For those keeping score at home, hCG is a hormone derived from the urine of pregnant women and is used in the treatment of infertility; during the 1950s, however, a physician in Rome (Albert Simeons) became convinced that it could be used to fool the bodies of obese young boys into mimicking the early stages of pregnancy. He developed a notion that hCG basically “freed up” adipose tissue so it could be burnt off, since (by his theory) the recipient’s body — believing itself to be pregnant — needed the energy to, say, develop a placenta. Undeterred by the batshittery of his theory, Simeons produced an entire weight-loss regimen based on it. The catch was that Simeons happened to combine the hCG “treatments” with a starvation-level diet, so the fact that his subjects lost weight was less than remarkable.
Paul noted a few months back that the diet is essentially indistinguishable from anorexia, but Larimore seems convinced that her behavior isn’t pathological or dangerous because her OB-GYN — whom she actually names in the article — tells her that it’s completely fine to live on two apples, a handful of vegetables, a bowl of spinach and a few slivers of “lean protein” each day, so long as your Bataan Death March diet is accompanied by subcutaneous injections of a hormone that has never been shown to provide any specific weight-loss benefit whatsoever.
The entire piece is a masterful defense of consumer gullibility and scientific illiteracy — indeed, it’s so poorly reasoned that I’m not even confident the Huffington Post would accept it. As Lindsay points out, Larimore simply doesn’t care that no scientific data exist to support the diet she’s undertaken; but her doctor (who is perfectly happy to separate Larimore from her “iPad money”) recommends it, so who is she to argue? After all, there are results to contend with! Specifically, Larimore congratulates herself for losing 18 pounds in 6 weeks — a pace that well exceeds all the clinical guidelines for weight loss, especially for someone who claims (as the author does) to be interested in shedding a dozen pounds at most.
So to sum up: Larimore embarked on a scientifically-baseless crash diet, lost an inadvisably-large amount of weight in a short period of time by creating enormous calorie deficits, and somehow emerged from the experience feeling “sane.” Never mind that someone could achieve the same results by eating 500 calories and reading nothing but Instapundit every day for six weeks. Though I suppose if presented with the option of reading Glenn Reynolds or shoving off-label hormone treatments into your arm, the choice is kind of a wash . . .
I work in a plumassier – that’s a fancy word for “sweatshop.” I spend fourteen hours a days willowing ostrich feathers so that rich women can wear attractive hats. Because they want to wear these hats, I am able to HAVE A JOB. I used to make 15 cents an hour, but now there are so many young girls in the business that I only make seven or eight cents. The boss tells us that we will soon be paid only five cents.
BUT I DO NOT COMPLAIN, because I am determined to WORK HARD FOR EVERYTHING I HAVE.
Also, my boss will fire or rape me if I complain.
BUT I AM NOT A VICTIM.
The girl who used to work next to me got tuberculosis from inhaling all the dust and fluff from the feathers. But she did not expect the GOVERNMENT to pay for her health care while she recovered. Instead, she went out and got a job SEWING SLIPPERS during the day while her son PICKS OVER THE SWEEPINGS FROM COFFEE WAREHOUSES. They are saving up with THEIR OWN MONEY so she can have BOTH OF HER LUNGS COLLAPSED. This will leave her permanently short of breath and dizzy, but she will continue to WORK because that is the AMERICAN DREAM.
WE CAN DO ANYTHING IF WE SET OUR HEARTS TO IT. WE ARE THE 53 PERCENT.
The vast Siberian tundra holds untold mysteries, from once-secret nuclear installations to alleged UFO crash sites. Now, a team of scientists say they are “95%” sure that Russia’s wintry expanse is home to the mythical yeti, otherwise known as the abominable snowman.
More than a dozen scientists and yeti enthusiasts flew in from Canada, Estonia, Sweden and the US to exchange findings with their Russian counterparts at a day-long conference in the town of Tashtagol, some 2,000 miles east of Moscow in the Kemerovo region. Locals there have reported an increase in sightings of a creature in recent years.
A two-day expedition to the region’s Azassky cave and Karatag peak over the weekend “collected irrefutable evidence” of the yeti’s existence there, the Kemerovo government claimed in a statement. “In one of the detected tracks, Russian scientist Anatoly Fokin noted several hairs that might belong to the yeti,” it added. Scientists also found footprints, a presumed bed and various other markers.
“Conference participants came to the conclusion that the artefacts found give 95% evidence of the habitation of the ‘snow man’ on Kemerovo region territory,” the statement said.
“I know they exist – I see them every day,” a conference participant, Robin Lynn, said by telephone from Kemerovo. She says she has a family of 10 yeti-like creatures living on her land in the US state of Michigan.
Great. So now the North American yeti — or skunk ape, or bigfoot, or whatever they are — are organizing themselves into militias, training for the inevitable cryptid-human apocalypse. We really took our eye off the ball with this whole business about terrorists and zombies and monkey-robot hybrids. Too late now, I suppose. Nice work, America.
Look. Walter Russell Mead is correct to note that Columbus Day, at its origins, owes almost nothing to Christopher Columbus himself (though I’m modestly surprised that Mead didn’t use the occasion to show us how Columbus Day has everything to do with Al Gore being a fat hypocrite, or something.) Here, for example, is an interesting piece from 1913 that makes more or less the same point that Mead endorses, which is that Columbus Day was really intended to highlight the contributions of immigrants to the development of the United States. Among other things, we learn that Lithuanians are “born paraders” and that Bostonians were somehow able to overcome their hatred for the Chinese by awarding them the prize for best float in the 1912 pageant. So fine.
However, so long as dingbats like Glenn Reynolds continue citing Samuel Eliot Morison to defend Columbus against the suggestion that he was anything but an enlightened rationalist, it will continue to be worth pointing out that everyone hated Columbus. The men who worked for him wanted his head on a pike; his peers loathed him, his sponsors lost their trust in him, and his political superiors eventually arrested him and his two idiot brothers for being incompetent brutes. And that’s not even considering his reputation among the locals. He was a terrible geographer, picked a shitty location for the first Spanish town in Hispanola and watched as hurricanes leveled it twice by 1495 — which was just as well, since the soil in the area was completely unsuited to food production, and the farmers under Columbus’ harsh direction were unable to produce enough to keep their inhabitants from losing their minds with hunger. Always a religious zealot, Columbus grew increasingly so as Reiter’s syndrome enfeebled him at a relatively young age, wracking his body with arthritic pain and causing his genitals to howl with agony every time he had to take a leak. In the frothingly weird book of prophecies he published a few years before his death, he aimed to show how his efforts in the West Indies had set into motion three of the four essential preconditions for Christ’s return. And amid all of this, he spent his last days yammering to anyone who would listen that the Spanish crown had never really paid him appropriately for all his troubles — an argument that his family would carry on, to great public annoyance, for decades after he improved the world by taking leave of it.
Columbus wasn’t a misunderstood hero whose reputation needed a few centuries to season. He was properly regarded as a towering douchebag by the people who knew him best. So the hell with him. Immigrants everywhere — born paraders or not — should be embarrassed by the association.