Failure Is Grim But It Is All I Know

I was going post about how GGM embodies everything wrong with the world. I decided that would be stupid.

(GGM refused to read The Fountainhead, because it was too long. Does he refuse to see what is not seen, because it is too difficult?)

Everyone who comments on this blog is a thinking human. No matter what Jeff says, you cannot ask for more.

Tonight I realized I probably will never get a PhD in economics. This is probably a good thing.

But when they lay me in my grave, no one will be able to accuse me of not thinking.

Where Did Your Apple Juice Come From?

My father told me last week, "part of your education is learning how to deal with stress." I must have been complaining. I almost laughed in his face. This man wants to get a warrant when people are an hour late with his DVDs. He throws a tantrum when the produce truck is 30 minutes late. He broke a plastic hanger in half because I moved rubber bands to a different cabinet.

He is cool when it is important, but "learning how to deal with stress" is not his strong suit.

I increased his blood pressure this evening. I asked him a question about fresh versus juice apples. He gave me the relevant information. Then he went into a tirade about Chinese dumping of juice concentrate. I warned him he did not want to hear my opinion. But I told him anyway.

The research I was aiding has to do with the impact of lifting the import ban on Chinese fresh apples. When I told him a Chinese student was conducting this research, he proceeded to tell me I needed to be in graduate school to protect American agricultural interests.

I told him I would never protect a farmer. I do not discriminate between video store owners and farmers.

He went into some land ethic (Jeffersonian) argument. He could not hear me, but I laughed in his face. Thank God he had to wait on a customer. It could have been ugly.

It is funny what education does to a person.

Manifesto On Grading Or Fuck You Doc

(I wrote this two years ago.)

Student:
There are a number of reasons I consider the illusion of objective grading to be an anathema against both economics as a discipline and humanity in general. The problems that underlay the grading illusion are the same problems that have ruined the world for the past hundred years or so. Quite simply, we have bred laziness and conformity into every student who has made the unfortunate mistake to think higher education could set them free.

First of all, the illusion of objectivity has strangled the philosophy and art out of the economics and education in general. In its wake, it has left a stale quagmire. A student who gets a half of a point deducted because he forgot a ‘key word’ but excelled in other aspects that transcended the problem will find it hard to excel in the next homework. There is nothing more disheartening than missing points on a homework assignment for a minute detail that had no bearing on the big picture. It forces the student to concentrate on ‘key words’ and not deeper meanings. It forces the student to become a drone, because his good work is never fully appreciated.

This situation leads directly to the second failure of objective grading. Students are led to conform. Those students who concentrate on the ‘key words’ are rewarded not only by higher grades, but they are heralded as economics’ most important adjective, efficient. These efficient students become the model of academia. If no one appreciates the long road, everyone travels the interstate. But without the long road, life is a wonderfully dull. Scenic shortcuts are never found. The beauty of the forest is missed for diseased trees.

The third failure might be the most significant. It creates a God complex in the sad professor. It is an unwritten rule all professors must give homework. But there is also another rule that no professor must spend any time grading homework. Again the result is ‘key word’ homework that can be graded without too much examination, but economics does not offer opportunity for ‘key word’ homework. In every economic question there is a degree of philosophy, a degree of debate. But the grader is God. He is the Almighty. He is omnipotent. He has all of the answers. Any dissent must be quashed like an invasion of cock roaches. This God complex might not completely radiate from the professor, but the student must sense it. We all want to please our God; the student builds himself in his professor’s image.

I could continue. But at this point it is clear these three failures repeat and replicate. Students quickly learn effort is only rewarded when it creates ‘key words,’ so they mold into ‘key word’ economists, leave the economics program with a yearning for something more and a disdain for economics, or they kill themselves in the sight of a profession encompassed by futility. They turn in homework that took them hours and see it graded within minutes without feedback. They see points taken off without any qualitative explanation. They find out rapidly that arguing is frowned upon. They might even be told that ‘homework is not important,’ even though it is the vast majority of the communication between professor and student. Sometimes this statement is implicit by making it such a small portion of the grade that statistically it cannot matter or by the delegation of grading to God’s right-hand man, the TA.

Now in this sad state of affairs, we sit and wait. Sometimes we hope somebody does something to correct the problems, something to alleviate the pain we feel in our stomachs. But we also know we must keep that rebel on the outskirts, because our training and expertise would be washed away like bleach quenches the stench of a raunchy trash can. The public would recognize our fraudulent behavior and prosecute us to the fullest extent of the law. They might even force us to become productive to society. We might have to work to earn our keep.

Professor:
So my ignorant student, what do you propose? I bet you are like that glut Michael Moore who can complain and montage but has no answers. At least we try to formulate answers, and we even add objective numbers to support our claims. You cry about an ‘illusion of objectivity’ my ill-bred student but what is your counter-offer?

Student:
My answer is quite simple. It is to forget the fake and emphasize the real.

Professor:
Oh my poor boy, this statement makes no sense.

Student:
But it does make sense Professor. See, we do agree on one point. There is Truth in the world, and we both were sent here to find it. You have just taken the wrong path. The Truth is people are smart. They think, feel, and even have the ability to watch TV. There is no use to pull this veil of objectivity over their eyes. They can see through it, but like to let you think you are powerful. Let’s make grades like the purest thing in a world, a market. You assign a grade not based on some point system you deemed adequate, but on the grade they deserve in your humble, and I emphasize humble, opinion. Grade them on their effort. Write comments and questions that make them think. You can even make them cryptic or harsh, because you will not be dealing with the idiot drones you are used to. Grading will begin to match the discovery process previously only found in our beloved markets. These new students will think not about meaningless details but about the life they want. And when they complain, let them argue, let them negotiate for grades, give them second chances, let them live life free. Forget the illusion of objectivity and embrace the fact that you are a man and capable of mistakes just like the student, emphasize reality. Tell your students the Truth, and then maybe they will respond with greater Truth.

Professor:
Oh my ignorant son, you see I don’t care. In fact, I wasn’t even talking to you. I was talking to my brother professor over there. You don’t scare me. You are just a rebel on the outskirts. I’ll shoot you down and make you convert. Or, you will run away to your beloved forest. And, I do love those forest people, because they are the dupes that pay my salary.

"I Can't Stop To Dance. Maybe, This Is My Last Chance."*

Stat Boy got mad the semester before he graduated. The program is mediocre. The facilities are outdated. The shit had hit the fan and blew back on him. He wanted to write a letter to the dean. He had legitimate points, but I talked him out of the letter.

Sam challenged me in a comment. He told me it was time to put up or shut up. My vision of the world is different than reality. I have to stop bitching and do something about it. He has a legitimate point.

It is easy to get angry. It is easy to complain. Doing something is difficult. But doing something without fully thinking is deadly.

Like Sam and Stat Boy, I am a dumb kid. I see parts of problems, but I do not know see the whole problem. Part of this program and college's problem is it contradicts the philosophical foundations of America. It was created in a different time when liberty bowed to collectivism. There are other problems that I have missed. I have no solutions, but they will come with time. I would be doing a disservice if I presented solutions now. Sometimes you have to wait and see. You have to let things digest. If you do not, you will create more problems. (Indifference is real and requires time.)

I am at a point in my life where I should be setting my vision for my future. But there is no use getting ahead of myself. I have not learned it all yet.

*U2's "Two Hearts Beat As One" (This song sums how I feel right now.)

What Good Is A Dead Man?

Minutes slipped into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into years. Time changed. His office did not. He came in every morning looking for something. He never found it. He was looking for purpose. He was looking for life.

Women entered his life. Women left his life. When he was alone, women angered him. When he was in love, women consumed him. When he was in between, he hated himself. He seemed to always be in between.

Work meant very little. He worked. There was nothing else to it. There was no difference between good and bad work. There was only work. It kept him alive.

He sat at his desk. He stared out the window. He thought about leaping. He thought about dying. He thought about crying. He thought about love, loneliness, and mediocrity.

He convinced himself what he was looking for would be there tomorrow.

Why I Try

I was skimming through Paul Hawken and Amory and L. Hunter Lovins' Natural Capitalism. It is a book that affected my thinking. I want Sam to read it.

Here was my reaction to the preface:

"You cannot stand in awe, because the devil will take you away. You must search for God (Truth) no matter how futile. And to search wholeheartedly you must believe there is a God."

Some Things

I found a 1990 USDA-ERS Briefing Booklet on "The Basic Mechanisms of U.S. Farm Policy: How They Work, with Examples and Illustrations." I dare anyone to find the public good in the booklet.

This is funny and sad at the same time.

Here is some good press for my alma mater.

Addiction

ESPN's Page 2 had a tribute to Len Bias today. All three articles were well done and challenging. You should read them. (I am not going to link to them, because they will change tomorrow. Go to Page 2 and find them yourself. No one will read them anyway.)


I do not remember Len Bias. I was five years old.

I do remember my grandfather.

My grandfather never said "thank you." He never said "sorry." He never had to. He did right. When you do right "thank you" and "sorry" make no sense. When you do right everyone appreciates your honesty.

I do not know if it was the Depression or World War II, but my grandfather was tough. He decided after WWII he could never work for anyone else. He started a trucking company. He had three sons, one before the war, two after the war. His wife was stricken with cancer when the youngest was six. He spent his limited fortunate trying to save her; he failed. He worked. He created new businesses. He made enough money. No adversary could stop him. He went through anything preventing his family's happiness. At seventy-two he still drove a truck. A six-foot four biker parked behind his truck while he was backing up. He jumped out ready to fight calling the biker every name in the book. He will be eighty-five in July. He is still mean and willing to fight. He is by far the toughest man I know.

He had a heart attack at seventy-five. The doctors told him to quit smoking. Sixty years of smoking had ruined his circulation. We thought he licked smoking like he had licked everything else. My family never saw him smoke for six months. He told everyone he quit smoking.

One afternoon I was standing at the screen door. My grandfather pulled into the driveway. He could not see me. But I saw him smoking a cigarette. I knew then, anything that powerful, anything powerful enough to make my Granddady lie and hide like a boy, could not be worth a damn. It was sad. I never told anyone, but in a month, his habit was in the open.

I do not care if smoking caused my grandfather's current health problems. I do not care what difference quitting smoking at seventy-five would have really made. Like my grandfather, I do not blame other people for my problems. I "do not back up when I could go forward." But I do not smoke.

I know cocaine and cigarettes are different. I know those same addictive qualities that kept my grandfather hooked on nicotine were part of his success. But every addict has to eventually face his addiction.

Robert Tracinski Questions The Morality Of Sacrifice

TIA Daily • June 19, 2006

The Suicide Bomb Morality

The Palestinian Example Should Cause Us to Question the Morality of Sacrifice

by Robert Tracinski

The West's conflict with Islamic terrorism is more than a "clash of civilizations." It is, at root, a moral clash between two world views and two moral models, a clash much wider and more important than any political conflict.

I was reminded of this by a brilliant observation in a recent column by Charles Krauthammer—an observation far more significant than Krauthammer himself seems prepared to recognize. Writing about the way in which Palestinians have consistently rejected every opportunity for statehood, peace, and prosperity, instead choosing constant warfare and destruction, he concludes: "This embrace of victimhood, of martyrdom, of blood and suffering, is the Palestinian disease."

This is indeed a dreadful disease—but doesn't Krauthammer realize that it is not limited to the Palestinians, that it is spread as an epidemic across the globe? Indeed, the only reason the Palestinian terror war enjoys such sympathy and tolerance throughout the world is because the worship of suffering is the world's disease, a very old affliction that has evaded our cultural immune system by disguising itself as a morality. That morality is accepted as uncontroversial in today's world, and you hear it, and probably nod in agreement, whenever someone tells you that self-sacrifice is the essence of moral virtue.

But isn't self-sacrifice—or, as Krauthammer puts it, "victimhood, martyrdom, blood and suffering"—the essence of the horrific plight the Palestinians have chosen for themselves? And shouldn't this make us question, at its very roots, the morality of self-sacrifice?

The Palestinians show us what a society based on sacrifice actually looks like, in its purest, most fanatical form. It is a society built around a single moral model: the suicide bomber, who is lionized on billboards, on television, in popular songs. And this is not just the propaganda of the corrupt Palestinian rulers. One of the delegates elected to the Palestinian parliament in the populist upsurge for Hamas was Umm Nidal, the "mother of martyrs," who has sent three of her sons to kill themselves in terrorist attacks on Israel, proclaiming that their "sacrifice…makes me happy." (She is not alone. For those who can stomach it, the Middle East Media Research Institute provides a transcript of a series of interviews with mothers of suicide bombers, in which they consistently say things like "I hope more of my sons will become martyrs.")

It is only by understanding this worship of the suicide bomber that one can understand the political choices made by the Palestinians. Taking the suicide bomber as their moral model, they seek to emulate his fate: in their lust to destroy Israel, they are willing to accept the utter destruction and collapse of their own society.

It is important to recognize that, aside from the cynicism of a few corrupt officials, for the great mass of Palestinians this worship of sacrifice is sincere and thoroughly un-self-interested. By rejecting every chance at peace and coexistence with Israel—breaking every truce and turning down every peace offer—they have lost everything and gained nothing. Their decisions are driven, not by any narrow, practical goal, but by a moral imperative: the morality of self-sacrifice.

Look to the other side of the security barrier and you see a very different society. While the Palestinians raise their children on visions of blood and murder, the Israelis—like us Americans—are largely preoccupied by the business of producing, creating, making a living. Consider, for example, the vast Gaza greenhouses handed over from the departing Israelis to the Palestinians. In the hands of the society that "made the desert bloom," these greenhouses produced millions of dollars worth of produce. Under Palestinian control, they were looted and their products have literally been left to rot.

As with the Cold War examples of East and West Berlin, Palestine and Israel offer side-by-side laboratories for opposing moralities. The contrast to America is even more vivid.

America is a nation founded, not on the ideal of self-sacrifice, but on the right to "the pursuit of happiness." When Alexis de Tocqueville visited America in 1832, he reported that the moral doctrine of "self-interest properly understood"—not hedonism, but a version of rational, benevolent self-interest—was "universally accepted": "You hear it as much from the poor as from the rich."

As a result, the distinctive model for American culture is not the suicide bomber but the "self-made man": the entrepreneur, the inventor, the person who achieves prosperity by hard work and ingenuity. Implicitly, we recognize that the proper business of life is not sacrifice but achievement. This is the actual code by which most Americans live.

The tragedy is that we don't recognize it.

In America, and around the world, we are still too morally intimidated by the traditional appeals to the virtue of sacrifice, or by the confused invocation of the "sacrifice" of our courageous soldiers—which fails to recognize that it is an act of the most profound self-interest to resist the rule of tyranny and terror.

And so we pay lip service to the nobility of sacrifice. This is what explains the decades-long tolerance of Palestinian bloodlust. If sacrifice, suffering, and victimhood are greater virtues than prosperity and achievement—well then, who can outdo the Palestinians?

This lip service to sacrifice also undercuts our certainty and moral clarity at home. British columnist Janet Daley, writing about Tony Blair's youthful fascination with Marxism, laments that the Conservatives haven't come up with a "morally attractive case for capitalism" despite the fact that "it is free markets that have delivered mass prosperity and personal self-fulfillment on a scale unprecedented in human history." But is this really such a mystery, when everyone denounces "selfishness," so that personal prosperity and "self-fulfillment" are viewed as morally unimportant at best and morally suspect at worst?

Only one prominent intellectual in the last century—Ayn Rand, the great intellectual defender of individualism and of rational self-interest—has been brave enough to name the moral lesson. Rejecting the morality of sacrifice, she declared that "The purpose of morality is to teach you, not to suffer and die, but to enjoy yourself and live," while in her classic novel The Fountainhead, her hero laments that "The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing." Ayn Rand remains a controversial figure, scoffed at by both left and right. But this phrase, "perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing"—could there be a better description of the Palestinians' suicide bomb society?

Look at the horrific plight the Palestinians have chosen, and you will observe the real meaning of a culture of self-sacrifice. Look at America, by comparison, and you will see the real, life-affirming benevolence of a culture of rational self-interest.

The evidence is out there, and its moral lessons are clear—if only we are brave enough to learn from them.

Fathers' Day Or Leadbelly’s “The Bourgeois Blues” Or Why Planning Cannot Work

He remembered his father's smell. It was not pleasant, but it was not repulsive. It was sweat perspired because of work. It was honest. It was innocent. Many times it would be blended with celery he had cut to impress old ladies, to keep old bitches from complaining about dry stalk ends. “The old ladies keep this store afloat, son.”

He had not smelled that aroma for a long time. He could not remember the last time he perspired to the point where he radiated that sweet smell. He remembered when that smell came from him, it made him feel alive. It excited him like nothing else.

He would never sweat like his father. His father made sure his son would become someone who did not sweat. His father’s calculated toil was an investment in him. He would never have to work, and he would never have that honest innocent smell. Without it, his sons would miss something he could never teach with words.

Many of his colleagues did not understand that beautiful smell. Some lied and said they cared about people like his father, but without that smell, they could never understand the old man. Just like his father could never understand the liars.

He never understood the smell either, until he became used to not sweating. He hated the liars during his adolescence. He still hated them, but now, he was one of them. He got up every morning and lied, lied to himself, lied to his peers, and the most hurtful lies went to his father.

At least his father was satisfied.

Soccer Is Not Football

I enjoy World Cup soccer. But no matter what my Albanian colleague says, offsides is an unnecessary rule. The foul system is bullshit. No one person should have that much power. The players are too fast, and there are too many of them for one referee.

As for today's US result, all we (can I say we) did was tie. We outplayed the Italians and tied. I do not expect the US to beat Ghana. Soccer is a bigger crapshoot than baseball. Tournament systems put a premium on luck. After today, the US cannot get any luckier. But what do I know?

I want to post about how reactionary most people are and how being reactionary is a bad thing, but I just posted about US soccer. I think discrediting reactionaries would be hypocritical.

Nothing Ever Changes

I wrote this post in December.

For the past week, I have been saying "everything is going to be okay."

It will be, no matter what happens.

Graduate school has taught me most intelligent people are confused. They do not know what they want.

Some buy into academia. They buy into what everyone else is doing. The curiosity that got them to graduate school is crushed under the weight of convention. Their ambition to change the world trickles into publishing meaningless papers and getting tenure.

Some waste time. They know academia leads nowhere. But it strokes their curiosity. It allows them to postpone finding what they want for a few years. But eventually they have to get jobs. Their ambition to change the world trickles into working 50 hours a week doing something. It does not matter what as long as it is something.

The whole thing is sad, very sad.

International Colleagues

An Indian (not a Native American, an Indian) orders a steak. The waitress asks, "How would you like it?"

There is two minutes of silence. The Indian is confused. I am covering my mouth trying not to laugh out loud. The waitress is clueless. The Indian asks, "How do most people get it?"

Since we are eating a working class buffet where the steaks are questionable she answers "Well."

"Medium," the Indian responds.


I take three colleagues to Subway for their first time. "How long is footlong?" "Provolone, cheddar or American?" "Swiss." "Do you want your sub toasted?" "No." "I do not like cold subs."

It was a complete disaster. You had to be there.


The Indian colleague says all country songs refer to Kentucky. "What is Kentucky? Some mythical place or something?"

I respond all Indian music involves chanting. This response sets off a mini-argument I do not care to repeat.

Most smart people observe stereotyping in others. They do not observe it in themselves.

A Sad Thing

I am walking into my building. A stray kitten purrs and rubs against my leg. It is skinny but soft. It tries to get in the building, but I do not let it.

I do not like cats. I am a dog person. But I hate knowing some dumb kid bought a living thing and could not find it in their heart to keep it fed. I hate living in a world where future bureaucrats and 'civic leaders' waste a kitten's life. I am jumping to conclusions about where the kitten came from, but it reminded me how imperfect this world is.

Against my better judgment, I pour a bowl of soy milk. I walk back out, but I cannot find the kitten. Someone was walking their dog, so it probably hid.

What can I do?

My Day

"Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do or think...There is luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. .."

From Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray

"'Cause time goes by like pouring rain, and much faster things" from The Allman Brothers Band's "Ain't Wastin' Time No More"

What I Have Lost

I have no desire to learn.

I dislike people who refuse to open their mind, people who refuse to see "what is not seen," people who take life on faith.

I have become one of those people.

I Was Born At 11:36PM

I am less depressed.

I created a new Wiffle Ball game. I hit the ball across a lighted empty parking lot. I run (I cannot sprint) after the ball then I hit it back. It sounds depressing, but it was fun while I was playing. The sad part is I missed the ball more than once. I have to get my eye back.

I bought a decent bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. A couple of glasses relaxed me.

A Third Of The Way Through

Today I turned twenty five. Yesterday I was mildly depressed. Realizing it was my birthday upgraded me to moderately depressed.

I figure I have at most fifty good years left. I cannot imagine accomplishing anything I think is important today in those fifty years. At seventy five I might be mildly happy with what I accomplished. But by then I will be justifying my existence. Probably very few people meet the expectations they have at twenty five, but this realization does not make me feel any better.

ML told me we eventually have to draw a line in the sand. We make a decision and stand by it. We decide to live a life, and we live that life. We leave the fiction of youth and enter reality. Jeff has been telling GGM, Sam, and I this for months.

But I cannot buy it yet. I am still young enough to enjoy fiction.

I intentionally try not to tell people my birthday. It is just another day. I try to abstain from self-worship. I cannot remember anyone else's birthday. If they remember mine, it makes me feel guilty.

Jeff, my mother, other colleagues I suffered with this year, and my aunt remembered. I am going to have to start keeping a calendar. All neuroticism aside, I appreciate people remembering, and I need to do a better job of it myself.

Three Good Reads

Here is an uplifting post from Jeff.

Don Boudreaux gives his history.

Bryan Caplan gives his intellectual history.

American Agriculture

American agriculture is productive. We have big farms producing foodstuffs like factories. We have realized economies of scale. We have the best tractors, storage facilities, managers, and middle men. American agriculture is a success.

Why does the collective feel the need to subsidize American agriculture? Why are farmers so important?

A picture hangs in my office of Amtrak workers carrying picket signs saying "Fund Amtrak: America needs Trains." As stupid as those signs are, I sympathize with those workers more than I do farmers. Amtrak is so shitty it could not survive without government subsidy. Farmers can survive.

Depression

In the evening's fading light,
The heat of early summer surrounds
I try to escape

Like my past,
The heat stays for the moment's eternity

I wonder why I strive
I wonder why I care
I wonder why

Is it anger?
Is it intellect?
Is it company?

Sometimes I feel like dying
"Let that old freight train pacify my mind"

But I choose life
I choose to fight
I choose to struggle
I choose

But the heat infiltrates me
It kills my will
And I choose to sleep

Dedication

To all the fuckers who would not get out of my way

To all the opportunities missed

To my strengths which there are few

To my weaknesses which there are many

Greatness has never been achieved in a classroom. Reading is masturbation. It is something you do to maintain sanity.

"Omit Needless Words! Omit Needless Words! Omit Needless Word!"*

Posters cover the walls in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences. Professionals in the College's media and public relations wing create some. Others are designed by students. Very few follow Strunk and White's "omit needless words" rule. They have little to say but fill up the poster. Many have pretty pictures but say nothing.

The biggest problem I have with the posters is they assume entitlement. One poster advertises a company which helps business get government subsidies. Other posters champion government agriculture programs. Whether these explicit or implicit subsides should exist is never questioned. Neither the College nor the College's students question the College's existence. The college and agricultural rural subsidies exist, therefore they must be right. Stopthink rules the College.

There is a scene in Sophie Scholl where the judge calls the three student protesters ingrates. NAZI Germany paid for their education but they still tried to destroy NAZI Germany. People can say the same about me.

The three student protesters were right, and so am I.

*adapted from Strunk and White's The Elements of Style

The Challenge

It is 12:08AM Friday morning. I have finished reading The Fountainhead. It talks about what men should be. Not what they are, but what they should be.

How am I going to react?

The beauty of life is we will have to wait and see.