Brendan I. Koerner's Blog, page 24

"Power Creature of the Zephyr Lines"

Crashing on a major Wired deadline today. In my absence, please enjoy the North Korean propaganda video above, featuring the least enthusiastic narrator in the history of film. Back tomorrow with something truly splendid from the history of swindling.

Where is the Romance?

I got in a spirited discussion yesterday regarding New York's abundance of one-dollar dumpling shops. In my dozen-plus years of calling this metropolis home, the special these joints offer has never changed, even though their various costs (especially rent) have certainly increased a fair bit. And though I realize that many of them probably skirt labor rules, I can't imagine they have shaved enough off wages to compensate for other expenses.

In looking to explain why that one-dollar price has remained static, then, I began researching the various technologies that have kept pork prices so absurdly low. To my surprise, the real cost of pork has tumbled over the past four decades; a pound of pork that would've wholesaled for $3.95 in today's dollars in 1970 now goes for $1.52. I have to think one of the main reasons for the plunge is greater efficiency on farms, a product of gadgets like the Nedap Velos heat detector. As the machine's sales literature so eloquently phrases its benefits:

The more accurately it can be determined whether a sow is on heat, the more efficient the operational management…Nedap Velos alerts you on time to when a sow requires insemination. Without you having to monitor this yourself. Based on this information, you can organise the different tasks.

While I have no intention of giving up my affinity for pork-and-chive dumplings, I will confess that there's something a bit creepy about the cold mechanization of porcine reproduction. Napoleon would not approve.

More Than Just a Sandwich Eater

For those of y'all who follow my microblog, you might have noticed a recent fascination with pop-culture relics of the early Atomic Age. That interest is a spin-off of a book-related strand about America's early nuclear reactors, one of which plays a small-yet-pivotal role in the plot. As I iron out some kinks in that particular scene today, please check out Dagwood Splits the Atom, which I found to be a surprisingly cogent refresher course on nuclear physics. I'm embarrassed to admit how poorly I scored on the wrap-up test at the end.

(Image via The Ephemerist)

After the Lights Switch Off

So I have something pretty un-American to confess: this year, for the first time since my days in Dublin, I've been following Premier League soccer like mad. Things have gotten to the point, in fact, that I'm seriously considering a late-afternoon work break in order to watch the Sunderland-Everton FA Cup quarterfinal. I can't only blame Among the Thugs for this newfound obsession; slogging through the book has honed my interest in the limits of human performance, and there are few better laboratories for studying such a topic than the high-stakes realm of English soccer.

A big part of what I find fascinating about the sport is not necessarily the physical exertions involved, but the way that athletes are able to excel in spite of their many demons. Perhaps the classic example of a man who dealt with that inner tug-of-war is George Best, whose tragic career arc is well-chronicled in this humdinger of a photo gallery. Flipping through those hundreds of images spurred me to track down this brutally candid two-part interview with Best, in which one installment was done in 1984, the other in 1990. Best's demeanor really shifts from one part to the next, obviously in reaction to some tough times in retirement. I was just floored by his account of the wretchedness of a former star's post-career life in England:

JW: You're a fighter yourself?

George Best: I have no choice. I walk around the streets of London and, wherever I go, someone wants to pick a fight with me. I'm talking about kids, eighteen-year-olds. There's always some arsehole who wants to be the boss. They want to be Jack The Lads, tell their mates they gave a punch to George Best. I don't mind because I can take care of myself, even at my age. I don't lose many fights either. This is my local. I come here for a drink, a bit of peace and quiet. I'll happily sit here for hours doing the crossword, minding my own business. Every day someone has a go at me.

JW: Don't you ever walk away from these situations?

GB: I should walk away but I don't. Because I can't stand the idea that someone thinks they're better than me. Not being able to walk away from aggravation, that's my biggest problem. If anyone wants to give me hassle I'll stand up and give as good I get, then some more. I might get the sh*t kicked out of me but, at the same time, I'll never back down to anyone. I used to back down but not any more. If anyone gives me trouble I will beat the fucking shit out of them.

Just last week, these three guys followed me out of the pub and started in on me up the road. They were kicking lumps out of me. I sent two to hospital and they'll remain there for a long, long time. The other one wouldn't go down. But neither would I. In those situations I go nuts. They get to see the Belfast kiss. It's not a pretty sight. I'm Irish. I like fighting. If they want to fuck me, I'll fuck them. The other night fifteen of them came in here looking for trouble. England fans. They started smashing milk bottles and pint glasses over my head. They narrowly missed my eyes. Why should I put up with people smashing bottles over my head? Or trying to stick broken bottles in my eyes? Look at my face, Jon. Closer. I've got 268 stitches in there.

JW: It sounds like being George Best is a large burden to carry.

GB: That's a good way of putting it, actually. It's a fucking huge burden.

Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I can't remember ever hearing such tales from a retired American athlete. Does Michael Jordan have to deal with folks challenging him to fights all day?

(Image via mcshanebest)

The End in Sight

Starting off the week by immersing myself in Chapter Sixteen of the book. Twenty-six days 'til my deadline and I've got another ten thousand or so words to go. It ain't gonna be pretty, but I think I've got a shot at pulling this one out. While I focus on today's chunk of the narrative, listen to the fine selection above, culled from the latest Fresh Produce podcast. Back tomorrow with something on either maritime disasters or the high price of fame.

Wandering Minds

A big part of my book research has consisted of purchasing obscure, tattered tomes that have obviously passed through dozens of hands before reaching my global headquarters. One of the delights of obtaining such artifacts is the marginalia they sometimes offer—I just recently discovered, for example, a scribbled note in a discarded library book that read, "Nelly why not?" There is no Nelly mentioned in the printed text, so I can only assume that this mysterious Nelly had a hold on a reader's heart. (Or maybe he just couldn't get tickets to a Nelly show back in the early '00s.)

The Knoxville-based artist Jean Hess obviously shares my interest in these stray shards of daydreams, as evidenced by her awesome collection of what she terms "childhood graffiti." Here she is trying to explanation the fascination:

Much of what these children left behind spoke of familiar concerns – love and sadness; friendships and crushes; people, flowers, animals and mysterious creatures; homes and even the occasional car, truck or airplane. They have left messages, I think — poignant signifiers of a rather naïve or innocent past that is lost to us. So I am gathering the stuff of nostalgia, longing, and the idea of Eden. And, too, I like to think that this is an act of preservation and hence of respect for people who are now gone.

These doodles resonate because they were created in moments totally devoid of self-consciousness. The artists never intended for another living soul to see their work—these drawings were for them, and them alone. I so often find myself wishing I could achieve that uninhibited state of mind while writing. I'm actually not sure I ever have—or at least not since I scribbled "HOISOI RULES" on my 8th-grade algebra notebook.

A Bald-Faced Lie in Turkmenistan

Granted, you have to give (very minor) props to Turkmenistan's president for his guitar chops (see above). But don't be fooled into thinking he's helming a nation any less repressive than the one he inherited from his infamous predecessor. The Turkmen government has zero patience for those who might dare question its absolute authority to do whatever the hell it pleases:

"The people regularly broadcast reports on events that take place in Turkmenistan, about human rights, for example, and they share their opinions. It's fine for them to do so," Turkmen Deputy Foreign Minster Vepa Hadjiyev told the committee. "However, when it comes to journalism, that is somewhat different. People are allowed to collect information and disseminate it. Radio Azatlyk has the right to do so."

This must come as news to RFE/RL correspondent Dovletmyrat Yazkuliyev, who was arrested and sentenced to five years in prison in October 2011 on false charges that he had aided in the attempted suicide of a family member. The government's scurrilous allegations were widely believed to be connected to Yazkuliyev's reporting about an arms depot explosion that killed dozens in the Turkmen city of Abadan. He was later pardoned and released only after complaints from international advocacy organizations and intense diplomatic pressure from the United States led the Turkmen government to reconsider its position.

Yazkuliyev made out relatively lightly compared with Azatlyk contributor Sazak Durdymuradov, who in June 2009 was arrested and confined to a psychiatric institution known as the "Turkmen Gulag," where he was beaten and psychologically abused by Turkmen authorities.

And if she could still raise her own objections, Ogulsapar Muradova — an RFE/RL correspondent who died in 2006 while in government detention on trumped-up charges — might have a thing or two to say about Hadjiyev's response to UN inquiries.

Here's a slightly more thorough list of Turkmen journalists who've faced abuse (or worse) for simply doing their jobs. Alas, I see no reason why the situation should start to get better before it gets worse.

Dirty Tricks in the Land of Fire

You're gonna be hearing a lot more than usual 'bout Azerbaijan in the coming days, since the nation will be playing host to that wretched entertainment ritual known as Eurovision 2012. The event is supposed to be a coming-out party of sorts for the so-called Land of Fire, which would very much like to attract more Western investment. But those who might contemplate plunging their cash into Azerbaijan should be aware that the Soviet ways die hard in the country. Just ask Khadija Ismayilova, a journalist who is facing a most odious sort of persecution for investigating government corruption:

On March 7, Ismayilova received a letter with the words "behave, whore, or you will be shamed," along with an envelope of photos taken inside her house of her engaged in sexual activity. The same letter was also sent to two opposition-leaning newspapers, which did not publish the pictures.

On March 14, after Ismayilova stated said in public that she would ignore the threats, video footage – again clearly filmed with a spy camera – inside her home, was posted on a website ostensibly linked to Musavat, an opposition party which has a newspaper of the same name. Both denied any connection to the website, but many internet users were clearly misled into believing they were responsible for carrying the video, judging by the angry comments they posted.

Ismayilova believes the underhand campaign against her is a consequence of her investigations into high-level corruption in Azerbaijan. Her recent report into the business activities of President Ilham Aliyev's daughters, published by RFE/RL, was one of the very rare Azeri-language articles to discuss the first family.

Ismayilova quickly entered my pantheon of heroes for refusing to be cowed by the stealth footage of her bedroom activities—footage that was obviously taken by President Aliyev's security apparatus. The whole scheme actually has a Keystone Kops element to it, for the blackmailing backfired in spectacular fashion—Ismayilova is now so high-profile that she cannot be disappeared without causing massive backlash against Aliyev's regime. I hope Ismayilova will take advantage of that fact and now press forward with her reporting with renewed vigor.

I am curious to know what the dictator's wife thinks of all this. Perhaps she should have been asked in this laughably softball interview, in which she was allowed to parry accusations that the government was demolishing homes to make way for Eurovision-related structures. Gotta love the obsequiousness of the interviewer: "I have to ask the following question…" As if it pains him to do his job.

Child Educator Plus Head Amputator

Parent-teacher conference plus a gainfully employed Grand Empress equal Microkhan on full-time parenting duty today. Which is probably for the best, because a full weekend of writing has left my brain feeling like a desiccated sponge. Hoping to recharge by taking Microkhan Jr. for a trip on the Roosevelt Island tram.

Spot the Obscenity

It has been far too long since I have cast Microkhan's spotlight on Papua New Guinea, one of this project's most beloved topics of conversation. The troubled country has an election due this summer, one that could well be delayed by a government desperate to cling to power. In the meantime, that government is wrestling with a scandal involving Deputy Prime Minister Belden Namah, who was allegedly a very naughty bloke at an Australian casino:

The Deputy Prime Minister of PNG Belden Namah has been accused of sexually harassing a male blackjack dealer at the casino and behaving in a drunk and threatening manner.

According to the reports Mr Namah was allegedly gambling in the high roller room at around 7am on April 16 last year when he was asked to stop drinking due to "intoxication."

A blackjack dealer then alleges Mr Namah started "teasing me by asking my mobile number" and then allegedly said to the man "Can I f… you tonight?"

This was followed up with "Can I love you, u (sic) are so pretty to me" and repeated requests for sex and to meet the man outside according to the dealer's statement.

The staff statements from five separate employees say that despite the alleged sexual harassment the casino allowed Mr Namah back into the venue several hours later when it allegedly learnt he had paid $800,000 into a gambling account for use at the casino.

Namah's response to the casino's accusations has been, to be charitable, completely tone deaf. His lawyer has adopted the R. Kelly tactic of claiming that the man in the incident report simply isn't Namah. Meanwhile, Namah himself has threatened to sue the Australian media group that published the casino's allegations—though his reason for being upset is rather telling about the state of Papuan politics:

Mr Namah demanded the Fairfax group – publishers of the story – retract the "misleading and unfounded claims."

"I want to make it clear, I am not gay," the Port Moresby based National newspaper quoted him as saying.

Ah, so that is what Namah is worried about—the insinuation that he might be gay. Not a peep about being offended by claims that he was gambling away AUS$800,000, an outrageous sum for a longtime government official from a desperately poor country. The fact that Namah doesn't understand that this is the real scandal, rather than the questions over his sexuality, does not bode well for Papua New Guinea.