John Holbo

My last post was about E.S. Turner‘s Roads to Ruin, the Shocking History of Social Reform. One of the chapters is about daylight savings, a timely topic, so I’ll make it a two-part series. Here are a few choice samples of arguments against the pernicious practice.

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It hardly seems sporting to take another poke at Maggie Gallagher, the best-refuted woman in the blogosphere. So I won’t. Still, her Volokh posts reminded of something I read recently …

Roads To Ruin, The Shocking History of Social Reform, by E.S. Turner. (Published in 1950. You could google up a used copy for yourself somewhere. Amazon hasn’t so much as heard of it, although other curious titles tempt. Past the age of 90, the man’s most recent publication was … four days ago.)

The book’s theme:

It is a salutary thing to look back at some of the reforms which have long been an accepted part of our life, and to examine the opposition, usually bitter and often bizarre, sometimes dishonest but all too often honest, which had to be countered by the restless advocates of ‘grandmotherly’ legislation.

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Fast on the heels of Henry’s post about Tom DeLay’s ‘I am become county sheriff’s office’ incarnation – another report of another powerful legislator managing a yet more abstract transmogrification [transmogrifaction?]: “According to the Associated Press, Alaska’s senior senator was the forefront today of a clash of generations and political philosophy.” Sounds Hegelian.

How weird that you could write these two sentences: “But anti-elitism and conservatism are not and never have been the same thing. And I do think this will be more obvious in the months and years to come.”

Being an anti-anti-elitist anti-elitist intellectual is fancy footwork. J-pod shows us how its done:

We shall see what we shall see. From here on in there’s really nothing to be said until the confirmation hearings actually begin (save for the unexpected bit of information). And so, as Wittgenstein said, "Whereof we cannot speak, therefore we must be silent" (I just put that in there to drive the anti-elitists bonkers; I actually hate Wittgenstein).

To put it another way, riding herd on the base is tough these days. Used to be you could toss it culture war red meat at semi-regular intervals. Flag-burning gay marriage. Now you have to drive it mad with quotes from the Tractatus. Presumably when it’s goaded beyond all endurance you aim it at some liberals, release and hope for the best? What’s he got against Wittgenstein, I wonder?

There’s an interesting piece, "Molecular Self-Loathing", in the Oct 1-7 issue of The Economist. On a personal note, the degree of self-loathing programmed into my molecules is, apparently, this: I turn first to Lexington, notice there’s a cartoon of an aging hippie hitchhiking, thumb out; a car with a USA license-plate is passing him by. I read the whole thing. (To save yourself that trouble, do the following: say "He didn’t think that was so groovy", in a Monty Burns voice. Favorite line: "For their part, the Republicans have been trying to get beyond Richard Nixon’s ‘southern strategy.’")

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We have a troll at the Valve, the Troll of Sorrow (among other aliases). I know, I know; just one. But that’s like having just one case of herpes. (Not that I would know, please believe.) We caught him from Adam Kotsko. I don’t blame Adam. We’ve tried the patent remedies. Deleting, IP blocking. A touch of disemvowelment. Nothing seems to reduce the unsightly swelling permanently. It’s an unusual strain, a platypus you wouldn’t believe in if it weren’t plainly real: antisemitic, homophobic, Quine, Russell and logical positivism-fixated. It’s strange that someone should be obsessed with providing slightly mistaken, severely tourettes-afflicted readings of the intricacies of the early 5’s of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. [click to continue…]

A few days ago I finished The Right Nation, by Micklethwait and Wooldridge, a pair of "Economist" writers. Perhaps you recall their June 21, 2005 WSJ op-ed, “Cheer Up Conservatives, You’re Still Winning,” in which they declare “the right has walloped the left in the war of ideas.” Ahem:

One of the reasons the GOP manages to contain Southern theocrats as well as Western libertarians is that it encourages arguments rather than suppressing them. Go to a meeting of young conservatives in Washington and the atmosphere crackles with ideas, much as it did in London in the heyday of the Thatcher revolution. The Democrats barely know what a debate is.

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Odd googlenews hit of the day.

In the history of the atlantology and classic archaeology and philology it is for the first time made a paleographical and lexicographical study and medieval revision of texts of Plato through the trascripciones of manuscripts and codices written in Greek and Latin. For the first time, the oldest translations of the Timaeus like the one of Chalcidio (Century IV) and the translations to Latin of books of the Timeo and the Critias to the Latin of famous medieval philosophers Marsilio Ficino (s. XV) and Iano Cornarius study and consult in a study on Atlantis (s. XVI).

If you still have doubts, check out the ‘more info’ link at the bottom. First, this reassuring message.

ATTENTION! THIS SITE ADMITS ANY LANGUAGE! YOU CAN WRITE YOUR MESSAGES IN THE LANGUAGE THAT SHE PREFERS.

Then … the music.

[As to why I was checking googlenews for info on Plato and Atlantis: mind your own business.]

I’m sorry to get you worried about explosions two posts running, but you really should be reading Countdown to Annihilation! at Hitherby Dragons. (Especially PZ, who likes to keep abreast of scientific advances along these lines.) I feel bad excerpting just the premise because, though hilarious, it’s almost the least hiliarious bit. Make sure to start with the linked segment, then consult ‘latest entries’ for parts II, III & IV and the Lizard Cops bonus wossname.

"There!" says Mr. Lancaster. He rolls back the platform. He dusts
himself off. He rises. "It’s a perfect Origins Bomb, if I do say so
myself."

"Perfection is for God alone," corrects Mrs. Lancaster.

"Oh, Mrs. Lancaster," says Mr. Lancaster, beeping her nose. "You do keep me honest."

"What’s it do?" Iphigenia asks.

"It’s a way to prove Creationism right for once and for all," says Mr. Lancaster. "When I push this button—"

Here he indicates a large red button labeled "Emergency Proof of Creationism."

"—everything in the universe that is older than ten thousand years
old, and every human who evolved from lower life forms, blows up!"

Iphigenia frowns. "But that’s nobody. You said that people were made by God."

Mr. Lancaster’s eyes dance.

Iphigenia will always remember this moment. When Mr. Lancaster is
very happy his eyes get a marvelous crinkle at the edges. It makes
Iphigenia want to laugh and hug him. And sometimes he will sweep her up
and spin her around, or tell her a wonderful secret, like where the
Apostle Paul is really buried, or race her through the house around and
around and around.

His eyes are crinkly like that now.

"That’s the marvel of it," he says, "The absolute marvel of it! It’s
the world’s deadliest bomb—and it won’t hurt hardly anything!"

"We expect there are a few things that will qualify," explains Mrs.
Lancaster. "Sinister bloodlines descended from lizards, ancient
gyroscopes from alternate timelines, the angels of nations, and so
forth. Exceptions. Nothing the world can’t do without."

Those guys at Powerline would totally push the button.

I was delighted when a commenter found my comment spam fiction worthy of connecting with Rebecca Borgstrom’s (previously unknown to me) spam fiction "The Noise Dreams of Signal." She’s got this Roald Dahl, Donald Barthelme sort of sensibility, with a taroty aftertaste worthy of either or both Crowleys. Reminds me of this story I’m never going to write about a congregation of fundamentalist Christian tarot card users who insist on literal readings of the text. ‘You’re going to die, and you’re going to see four cups, and six wands, and a fool, and a guy hanging upside down …’ Course it turns out that’s just how it goes.) I, for one, welcome our new Snavering Lavelwod overlords. (Say it three times fast.)

Everyone else read Rick Perlstein’s Before the Storm months ago. But better late than never. OK, I just read about Ike’s famous military-industrial complex speech and Kennedy’s inauguration. And here’s a thing.

On January 19 [1961], the American nuclear program suffered its thirteenth “broken arrow” when a B-52 exploded in midair in Utah, luckily without any of the missiles armed; the fourteenth was ten days later when a B-52 flying a routine Strategic Air Command training mission out of Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base crashed near a North Carolina farm. The aircraft’s two nuclear bombs jettisoned and five of their six safety mechanisms were unlatched by the fall. (p. 101)

Is that as bad as it sounds? That is, did North Carolina almost blow up? Or would it just have been a (comparatively) minor matter of a serious radiation leak making some farmland uninhabitable for a period of centuries?

UPDATE: I had the date as 1960 but comments corrected me. It was my mistake, not Perlstein’s.

I’ve been on sabbatical from CT, working on the Valve and, by extension, pushing pet notions about academic publishing reform. These notions have now born fruit in the form of a book event, conducted more or less on the model of similar events pioneered at CT – massive, multi-thinker online reviews. The book is Theory’s Empire, an anthology of essays critical of Theory – the ofless stuff, mostly indigenous to English departments. Several posts up so far, and several bloggers – inside and outside the Valve – lined up to participate over the next several days. Please feel free to drop by and join the conversation if this sounds interesting. Next month we’ve got a different book lined up: The Literary Wittgenstein. I wrote a long review of it for NDPR about a month back. Under the fold, some general thoughts about academic e-publishing.

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An unusual slice of spam showed up in my inbox, offering to induce severe erectile dysfunction at a very reasonable price. Subject line: “make love to any woman instantaneously.”

Now I know what you are going to say: Holbo, that’s two CT posts in the last month, both about spam. I know, I know. But it’s this hurly-burly modern life I lead. I find after I’ve read all the spam in my inbox, patiently weighing the merits and demerits of so many anonymous pleas to enage in so many complex financial transfers; after I’ve dutifully clicked all the links in all the comment spam that sprouted in the night … well, half the day is gone.

Do you know what’s interesting about comment spam? Nothing, of course. But consider this. No piece of comment spam has ever been able to mimic a human convincingly. It tries, but comment spam is like the aliens among us. They look like us, dress like us … but they also eat the houseplants. In obedience to the iron genre trope that there must be some obvious failure of mimicry that gives away this sinister presence. To read comment spam is to come to awareness that these creatures have travelled a long way to get to our little blue marble floating in space (whether they come in peace, or to breed with the ladies, or because their home planet is tragically polluted.) Consider this offering, left in response to a post about a passage from Thomas Mann:

I also have read some of the best articles I’ve ever read after coming into the blogoshpere. I check the indices such as Daypop for what are the most linked news stories and blogs. I used to go to the library and look through publications but I would never find the articles and stories I’m finding on the internet.

There is a pathos to it. (I’ve left it up to reward it for winning my heart.) I’m seeing an alien who has assumed a somewhat Walter Mittyish form. He is short with thick glasses. His suit is ill-fitting. Every day he goes to the library seeking information about this strange new world. The nice librarian – a mousy girl with glasses and pearls – very demurely executes a gesture that takes in a whole room of books full of articles and stories. Our protagonist clumsily examines a few volumes, sniffs them, turns them upside down. Where is the information? When he becomes frustrated he makes little honking noises that annoy a bosomy old blue-haired bluenose society-type. A rugged teenage boy in his proud letterman’s jacket is checking out a book on football. He openly laughs at the stranger. “Yer an oddball, fella,” causing the little man to back nervously against the shelves, eyes darting. A book falls on his head. The librarian, feeling sorry for him, whispers ‘shhhh’. Every day it is the same until one day the delivery man, polite cap in hand, presents the librarian with the heavy box containing the library’s new computer. She is nervous but excited, eager to make this new thing part of her little domain. She isn’t sure how it works … but the mysterious stranger is there by her side. Somehow his fingers find all the right keys. We see the light of scrolling pages reflected in the lenses of glasses. Daypop! He is happy. The light is in her glasses, too. She is happy, seeing that he is happy. Every day he is there, always Daypop sending him to new blogs where he leaves messages. Always the same. About how in the library he could never find anything, but now Daypop sends him to new blogs everyday. He can hardly type the messages quickly enough. (He has another amusing tick. He always drinks milk. Only milk. Which gives him a silly moustache. But the milk makes him slightly drunk – his alien metabolism. Hence he slurs his speech and types things like ‘blogoshpere’.) One day the librarian, out of curiosity, clicks on the little hyperlink that is his name – odd name, sounds foreign – at the bottom of one of those many comments he leaves all day, every day. It transports her to … the little stranger’s homeworld, where she is surrounded by golden (oh, hell with it.)