David Erik Nelson's Blog, page 38

CORRECTION: "Romney/Bain Capital Didn't Rely on a $10 million Bailout" -or- "Reality Makes for Boring Infographics"

Astute Mojonaut (and Obama supporter) Jeannie points out that the ThinkProgress infographic we featured the other day is both inaccurate and misleading. She pointed us to a September 5 piece from FactCheck.org, covering claims made at the DNC in Charlotte. It's a long and interesting piece, but the pertinent bit is here:

First of all, it wasn’t Romney’s company that was troubled; it was the consulting firm he had left — Bain & Co. — in order to form Bain Capital. And while Romney did negotiate a favorable debt settlement with banking regulators for Bain & Co’s partners, they did not receive taxpayer dollars.

. . .

Our fact-checking colleagues at the Washington Post and ABC News vetted similar claims made by Democrats.

Based on their reporting, here’s what happened:

Romney had left Bain & Co. in 1984 to form the spin-off private equity firm Bain Capital. But Romney came back in the early 1990s when Bain & Co. was on the brink of bankruptcy. The company’s founders — Romney wasn’t one of them — had taken $200 million of borrowed money out of the firm for themselves, which led to the firm’s financial problems.

The company owed $38 million to a failed bank, which had been taken over by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, an independent federal agency that insures bank deposits. Romney negotiated with the FDIC a reduction of $10 million in debt, and the FDIC forgave $4 million in interest.

The agreement didn’t amount to a loss for taxpayers. The FDIC is funded by bank insurance premiums and treasury security investments — not congressional appropriations.

In fact, as the Post points out, these kinds of agreements are typical and recover more of the outstanding loan. The FDIC’s own handbook said that restructuring a loan is more productive than spending money on litigation to recover the money.

But that obviously would make a crummy and not-very-inflammatory infographic: "Romney Negotiated a By-the-Books FDIC Settlement that Didn't Hurt Taxpayers!"--what the hell picture goes with that? A bunch of middle class workers shrugging? A dog looking quizzically at a copy of Vogue floating in an otherwise vacant aquarium tank? An AK-47 forgotten in a broom closet?

I've written about infographic rhetoric briefly before, and am increasingly skeptical of *anything* I see presented in infographic format. It's becoming the go-to method for hucksters with photoshop chops looking to manipulate the busy.

The triumphant return of the Sweet Obama stickers!

Obama Sticker > I like my coffee like I like my OBAMA

I found another short stack of these while cleaning out my office; get 'em while they're hot! Just 48 days until these are either visual white noise or super-depressing souvenirs (in either case, I'm adding zeros to the price on November 7; it ain't like these ferkakta schemes pay for themselves, folks).

I printed the first batch of these stickers four years ago, because I loved this crazy, nrrrdcore, quad-racial Chicago-Hawaiian law professor with the whackest name in all of American politics. I sold a few stickers to defray the cost of giving away a bunch so we could Awesome the Vote on November 4, 2008—MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

Since then, I've printed up a few more batches, because I continue to believe that we have a sweet-ass president. So, maybe you and everyone you know could use a few dozen stickers each? Just sayin': There's worse ways to spread the love.

Thanks!

Randy Newman pens a wry new anthem for many quiet Americans: "I'm Dreaming (of a White President)"

Man, I love Randy Newman, 'cause he's really good at taking everything I'm afraid of and making it into a catchy show tune:

Just in case folks are unfamiliar with Randy Newman's work outside of soundtracks, I'll include this lil chunk from an interview with Slate:

Slate: You’re releasing “I’m Dreaming” free of charge, but you’re encouraging listeners to donate to the United Negro College Fund. Why that particular cause?

Newman: I have some concern that kids will hear this and think, “What is he talking about?” If you have a kid and you try irony out on them, they don’t get it at 7, 8 years old. “What do you mean, you’re dreaming of a white president?” It’s a problem. You can’t really hide the Internet from kids. It worries me some particularly because I’ve done Disney and Pixar stuff. In Toy Story, there’s my voice saying, “You’ve Got a Friend in Me.” And then here’s my voice singing that I want “A real live white man / Who knows the score.” I’d like it to be clearer which side I’m on. Of course, it comes a little late.

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #141 (published July 3, 2003): "Deconstructing the construction workers."

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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #141 (published July 3, 2003)

Deconstructing the construction workers.

Giant Squid: Notes From The Giant Squid: A Tour of the Lab (part 1)

by the Giant Squid . . .

The Lab Proper:

The lab itself takes up the entirety of the 74th (i.e. topmost) floor of the majestic Renaissance Center in Detroit, Michigan. This amounts to something upwards of 15,000 square feet of relatively open space, punctuated by the occasional concrete column (the building having a reinforced concrete superstructure) with standard eight foot ceilings throughout. The perimeter wall is entirely composed of floor-to-ceiling windows and, frankly, the view in the lab would be of sweeping majesty, were it not haphazardly cordoned off with sliding curtains, cubicle walls and highly-suspect extruded-steel/dry-wall construction, much of it either initially installed or since maintained by Rob. Owing to the height of the building, there is a distinct sway to the lab during high winds.

The Aquarium:

The squid's aquarium seems to take up roughly one-quarter of the floor space of our floor of the Ren Cen, although it is difficulty to exactly reckon this, owing to the curved front of the tank. This arced wall, running several hundred feet, curves out from the outer perimeter on the eastern side of the building. I am fairly convinced the tank pierces the floor, going down into the 73rd floor, although this is also fairly difficult to determine, owing to the strong refraction of the immense, curved volume of water. It could go several floors deeper. I am told that there is access to the interior of the tank from the roof, but am confused as to how this could be managed with a pressurized salt-water tank of this size. In any case, I have yet to find a stairway allowing roof access and don't have a pass-key for the freight elevator (which smells like an escaping cocker spaniel, by-the-way).

"You know, if you're here, like, at six in the morning, it's totally awesome when the sun rises, and Lord Archeteuthis is there, and the light is coming in over Windsor and the River and through the pollution and then the windows and then all the little bits of floaty gunk in the tank, all around him. It's totally fucking awesome. It's like— like—"

This is Rob, the janitor, who I shudder to reflect, has something of a crush on me, despite our disparate ages. Also, he appears to believe that the giant squid— who is nonetheless a magnificent and curious specimen of his kind— is some manner of space-alien royalty.

"It just fucking rules."

. . .

Fiction: Inch Lak Flinch by Jerry VilhottiNo matter how old she would become nor how deformed her body would get enhanced with a large waist, the father would see her as the fourteen year old girl - whose looks rivaled actresses strutting themselves across silver screen above upturned heads trying to escape the realities of the Great Depression - he had fondled cleanly, as if she were still the six year old squirming on his lap reaching for real and imaginary objects, the fifteen year old that made actresses look like her baby sister he had touched un-cleanly which his wife saw calling him an animal - a visitor of sheep's pens touching the asses of animals - and finally the sixteen year old who had become "the knockout" of the whole The Bronx being pursed by men of all ages; charging the old ones twenty five cents a peek. . . .

Poetry: Birch Bark Creel by Marcy JarvisMy one, true find.

I didn't appreciate you enough

at the time. . . .

Rant: Wacky Iraqi Pinochle by Alan C. BairdAs a culture, America has become extremely adept at distilling international conflict into collectible items, widely touted via spam e-mail. For example, everybody realized our latest war had the potential to be far more entertaining than Vietnam when one Central Command briefing featured Brigadier General Vincent Brooks, holding up a sample of what is now known as "The Iraqi Deck of Death" and explaining that each playing card depicted a character on the Army's Most Wanted list. . . .

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #433 (published May 7, 2009): "Like a silk-screen in a submarine."

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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #433 (published May 7, 2009)

Like a silk-screen in a submarine.

Giant Squid: Ask The Giant Squid: On the Heels of Ambrose Bierce (In the Shadow of the Canyon of Death; part one of four) by the Giant SquidDear Giant Squid:

Something I read online led me to believe that I may be spending too much time on the internet. How can I tell if I should cut back on the time spent reading internet news sites and editorial columnists?

#

My Dear and Beloved and Devoted and Besottedly Drunk Reader,

I am reminded of something my dear, undead friend Ambrose Bierce once said while crouching over me in a Mexican tent. I was accompanying him on his trip south into Mexico. I had approached him some months earlier about writing his definitive biography, and he agreed on the condition that I help him with an important journey. At that moment, in the tent, we had been talking about his long career as a writer of published opinions, and although it bore not upon my mind at the time, I can say now that this conversation has since fundamentally influenced how I approach my own craft. . . .

Fiction: The Wreck of the Lizzie G. by Michael Pelc I'm just out of college and working graveyard at the Courier-Dispatch, which is as good a job as I can get seeing as how I got no experience yet, when this kid, this little piss ant kid who can't be more than nine or ten at the most, comes stumbling into the news room all dripping wet and disheveled from the storm that's raging outside. He's leaving puddles at his feet wherever he goes, what with the water pouring down off his yellow rain slicker the way it is, and all I'm thinking is that Mr. Grasso's gonna have my ass in a sling when he comes in in the morning on account of how, even if he ain't exactly the Charlie Pulitzer of newspaper editors, he does at least take pride in the appearance of the place. And so I'm making plans to get some towels and the like to mop things up, when the little portable lake of a kid holds up this Brownie camera he's toting with him and says, "I got pictures."

"Yeah? Pictures of what?" I ask, being all Joe College cool.

"The Lizzie G," he says. And then he adds, because he sees I ain't looking particularly impressed and/or interested, "getting smashed on the rocks." . . .

Poetry: In Case Of Toxins, Read Poetry by John GreyI did speak to my congressman about it. I'm not exactly sure what he said

(it was a bad connection)

but it sounded something like

"it being a lovely day,

go into deep woods,

seek out the gorgeous scarlet tanager."

Not bad advice . . .

Rant: And for This We Got What?
(A Poor Mojo's "My Travel Fiasco" Rant Contest Notable Entry) by Paul Baughman. . . Several years ago, my mother was moving from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Erie, Pennsylvania. My wife and I flew down from where we live in order to drive the rental truck containing her possessions back north. We would meet my sister and brother at our home, where they would continue driving the truck to Erie. We would arrive in Raleigh about 3:00 p.m., giving us time to go to the truck rental agency to sign for and pick up the truck, which we would load that evening for an early morning departure on Saturday. . . .

Attention Freelancers: Even in Brooklyn a Robin Isn't a Pigeon

Don't Get Screwed Over on "What it feels like to be a freelancer":

This is actually a splashy little viral landing page for Docracy, an open legal documents clearinghouse (especially handy for the freelancers out there):

In six years of freelancing, I've only had one client pull payment shenanigans like these--but, predictable, it was for over a grand, and it was a *helluva* hassle. Let the freelancer beware.

Neil Armstrong, My Grandmother, Moonwalking, and the Only Game in Town

The death of Neil Armstrong occasioned a lot of interesting reflections out in the geekosphere; the most unexpectedly enlightening was this from Charles Apple, the visual journalism columnist for the American Copy Editors Society [sic]:

Keep in mind as you put together your Neil Armstrong packages tonight… -- Charles Apple -- copydesk.org

The problem as Apple sees it? We don't have any good pics of Armstrong on the Moon, for the same reason that we don't have many pics of me on vacation: Armstrong was holding the camera. For example, the pic at the left--which you saw all over the place attached to Armstrong obits--is Buzz Aldrin, not Neil Armstrong, and is a primitive photoshop job, to boot.

Once Apple pointed this out, I realized that I'd actually seen the undoctored photo (shown to the right) on plenty of occasions, but the framing of the two is so different that I actually had always thought they were two distinct photos.

As Apple works through the scant selection of legit photos of Armstrong on the Moon, what we find are a tiny handful of candid shots that, in many ways, are more wonderful than the iconic posed photo of Aldrin. This unconventional view of Armstrong, focused on his work and so far from anything remotely like home, is really poignant:

And this one--where we can see an actual human face in a little super-bathyspheric bubble in that dead gunpowder landscape--absolutely gives me shivers:

Anyway, it all reminded me of my favorite portrait of Armstrong on the Moon--which, in fact, is embedded in that iconic picture of Aldrin that Apple was so annoyed to see palmed off as a pic of Armstrong. Check out the reflection in Aldrin's golden face-shield:

At first I thought what so touched me about this picture was the work ethic it highlighted: Armstrong was the first human to touch the moon, and was perfectly happy to let the other guy be in all the pics, because that was Armstrong's job. A guy like Armstrong is called "hero" all the time, usually because of his willingness to face down death, but I've gotta level with you: that's never impressed me much. I've known plenty of totally pieces of human garbage that would face down death. Frankly, it's sorta what the male animal excels at. What *I've* always admired about astronauts--about scientists like Aldrin and Armstrong in general--is how many names appear at the top of those academic papers; I'm impressed by their willingness to work in teams and share credit and share findings and help the whole of humanity pull itself up by its bootstraps, even if it means forgoing some small sliver--or some giant chunk--of personal fame or riches or glory. To me, Armstrong is a hero not because he got all Quixote on the Moon, but because he understood how important that Sancho Panzas and Dulcineas are to executing the Impossible Dream.

I like Armstrong because he was willing to accept the possibility that he'd end up as history's footnote, he'd hold the camera instead of standing in front of it.

But that's not all of it. I also love this self-portrait because of the pose. The viewfinder on the Hasselblad Armstrong used (and evidently left) on the Moon was on the camera's top, often called a "waist-level viewfinder." Here's a pic of the rig mounted to his EVA suit:

When I was little my grandma always favored a goofy old Brownie box camera--something quite similar to this Brownie Reflex Synchro--which also had a waist-level viewfinder. Since her vision was a touch presbyopic, "waist-level" actually was more like "sternum level." My point being, Grandma's photo-shooting posture--head sagging, shoulders slumped and folded in around her camera, hands cradling a magic box topped with a glowing, misty vision of the world we were in--and Armstrong's were the same.

All of which is to say, in my heart of hearts, I love this portrait of Armstrong because I love my grandmother, who is also dead, and who we will likewise never see again.

Welcome to the only game in town. Amen

Come see GHOSTS WITH SHIT JOBS in Ann Arbor!

Hey Mojonauts and Mojoketeers,

Dave-o is helping host the *only* scheduled midwestern screening of Jim Munroe's new sci-fi mockumentary GHOSTS WITH SHIT JOBS. It's a darkly comic look at post-economic-apocalypse North America that Cory Doctorow called "ingenious—a gripping movie that uses cleverness, not CGI, to paint a vivid and satirical future."

Our screening is at the Workantile on September 9 at 7pm! Seating is limited, so if you want to attend email me (dave[AT]davideriknelson[DOT]com) and I'll add you to the list.

More info here: http://poormojo.org/Ghosts/

Moral Relativism and Rigid Thinking

This is worth your 10 minutes, even if you aren't particularly interested in Rep Todd Akin's fatal "legitimate rape" SNAFU or what some snark-monster blogger for the Economist thinks about it. Kohen's larger point--his really, really important point--is that moral relativism (and I'd expand that to say most relativism) tends to be a very rigid stance masquerading as a very fluid and all-embracing pan-acceptance. Kohen implicitly--enticingly--draws into question whether one can actually *build* any argument on a foundation of complete Relativism, which after all would have to accept the validity of any counter argument (on the basis of, hey, m'man, if that's how things look from where you're standing, then that's all good, bro).

(That I'm more often than not guilty of being just such a bro should go without saying, and that I'm worried that I do so out of a sort of moral laziness rather than conviction--well, that's all baked in the cake, too.)

Running Chicken: Rigid Thinking

Except Todd Akin’s ideas, which are — in Steinglass’ words — “monstrosities.” What makes them monstrosities? Well, Steinglass doesn’t agree with them. And he doesn’t agree, apparently, because he thinks they are the products of absolutist thinking. I also happen to disagree with Akin’s ideas. But I could come up with a perfectly good absolutist reason for my disagreement [see below] rather than a wishy-washy non-argument that says, “Everyone’s beliefs are as good as everyone else’s because there’s no single truth out there … except for the people with whom I disagree; those people are just flat-out wrong.”

Recommended Reading: After the Apocalypse by Maureen McHugh

What a terrific read, both as individual stories and as a set of stories outlining the perimeters of the sort of soft apocalypse that we so often seem to be slumping toward. Several of the middle stories concluded too flatly for my taste, but all were enjoyable, evocative reads in the moment, and the first and final stories in this collection are damn near perfect. Heartily recommended, without reservation (esp. for those who kinda-sorta dug China Mountain Zhang, but couldn't get into it enough to finish).