Perhaps a better Lincolnesque match to President Bush's 9/11 rhetoric comes from Lincoln's February 1860 Cooper Union speech. In this address, Lincoln marshalled the words and deeds of the Founding Fathers to demolish the "do nothing" attitude toward slavery of his rival, Stephen Douglas. A terrific speech that captivated thousands in audiences in New York and across New England, this address galvanized Lincoln's nomination for president three months later. Here is how he ended the speech, leaving his listeners whooping in delight:
"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it."
And again, the conclusion to President Bush's speech from the five-year 9/11 anniversary:
"And we go forward with trust in that spirit, confidence in our purpose, and faith in a loving God who made us to be free."
It seems that everyone wants to be in Abraham's bosom these days...
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9/16/2006
9/12/2006
Echoing Lincoln in times of grief
Last night, as President Bush concluded his 9/11 address to the nation, I caught of few mystic chords of memory flowing through his speech. His writers, I believe, borrowed a cadence of words from the best politician-poet of our history - Abraham Lincoln.
Among presidents in wartime, none rose to command respect and achieve success like Abraham Lincoln. The rail-splitter from Illinois is already big, but he's just going to get bigger in the next three years. The 200th anniversary of his birth is February 12th, 2009, and legions of his admirers are working hard to make sure that a Lincoln-loving festival is in full swing by the time that date rolls around. Steven Spielberg is even making a movie, with Irish-born actor Liam Neeson cast as the president, based on Doris Kearns Goodwin's excellent 2005 chronicle, Team of Rivals, which illuminates Lincoln's masterful political touch.
But back to the speech. Last night Bush concluded with this sentence:
"And we go forward with trust in that spirit, confidence in our purpose, and faith in a loving God who made us to be free."
Good Bible study and Old Testament stuff, with the rhythym of a civil rights preacher. Bush has echoed this theme in several prior speeches, including his 2003 State of the Union address. It's also a cadence that is a complete departure from his normally disjointed and unpunctuated speaking style.
And to conclude his Gettysburg Address in November 1863, Lincoln said this:
"we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--and that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
Lincoln's oration is immortal, and so are certain phrases and sounds from this speech. I don't fault President Bush from standing on the shoulders of history, he needs as much additional perspective as he can get. I just think his speech last night is yet another example of how Abraham Lincoln, although not one of the original Founding Fathers of our country, is the son who made, and continues to make it, a great nation.
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Among presidents in wartime, none rose to command respect and achieve success like Abraham Lincoln. The rail-splitter from Illinois is already big, but he's just going to get bigger in the next three years. The 200th anniversary of his birth is February 12th, 2009, and legions of his admirers are working hard to make sure that a Lincoln-loving festival is in full swing by the time that date rolls around. Steven Spielberg is even making a movie, with Irish-born actor Liam Neeson cast as the president, based on Doris Kearns Goodwin's excellent 2005 chronicle, Team of Rivals, which illuminates Lincoln's masterful political touch.
But back to the speech. Last night Bush concluded with this sentence:
"And we go forward with trust in that spirit, confidence in our purpose, and faith in a loving God who made us to be free."
Good Bible study and Old Testament stuff, with the rhythym of a civil rights preacher. Bush has echoed this theme in several prior speeches, including his 2003 State of the Union address. It's also a cadence that is a complete departure from his normally disjointed and unpunctuated speaking style.
And to conclude his Gettysburg Address in November 1863, Lincoln said this:
"we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--and that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
Lincoln's oration is immortal, and so are certain phrases and sounds from this speech. I don't fault President Bush from standing on the shoulders of history, he needs as much additional perspective as he can get. I just think his speech last night is yet another example of how Abraham Lincoln, although not one of the original Founding Fathers of our country, is the son who made, and continues to make it, a great nation.
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8/30/2006
Nothing better than fresh compost
Last weekend I put the finishing touches on my new compost bin by attaching the swing-down front gate. I started this project three weeks ago when I found two cargo pallets along the side of the road. I squeezed them into my car and brought them home. It took one weekend to tear apart the pallets (lots of nails in those things), and another weekend to build the bin. It's solid wood all the way around: about 3 feet deep, 2 1/2 feet tall, and 2 1/2 feet wide. And it weighs about 95 lbs. - requiring me to roll it into place by the side of my house. But now it's full of fresh dirt and yard waste and happily composting away. Check out photos of the bin here.
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8/25/2006
A battleship on the NYT frontpage
It was nice to see a battleship as the main image on the New York Times website this morning, even if it's only a "pocket" battleship, and a Nazi one at that. But the story of the Admiral Graf Spee is one of the best heroic/tragic tales from World War II.
First, there's the duplicity of the Germans to build a series of battleships in the early 1930s half again as massive as the Treaty of Versailles restricted them. The Nazis claimed the Graf Spee's displacement was 10,000 tons, when it was actually closer to 16,000. And since battleships fight like boxers--slugging it out until one is too battered to go on--a ship's size matters.
And then there's the role of commerce raiders--the German warships who operated singly against Allied merchant shipping all over the globe. The captains of these raiders knew the entire British navy was out to sink them, forcing them to hunt, strike, and disappear. The Graf Spee sunk or captured nine Allied ships during her two month run in the South Atlantic and Indian oceans before the Royal Navy finally caught her.
But the greatest aspect of the Graf Spee story is the Battle of the River Plate, fought December 13, 1939 off the coast of Uruguay. Three Allied warships led by the heavy cruiser HMS Exeter, and including the light cruisers HMS Ajax and HMNZS Achilles surprised the Spee in the merchant-rich waters near the estuary of the River Plate. The early morning battle left the Exeter in shambles after numerous 11-inch shells from the Graf Spee knocked out her turrets and power, but the Allied warships scored enough hits on the German battleship to convince her captain, Hans Langsdorff, to make for the safety of Montevideo's port.
And here's where the story enters a diplomatic wrangling game between British officials in Montevideo, the Uruguayan authorites, and the German navy. After delaying the Spee's departure for several days, the British managed to convince the Germans that a phantom naval force waited out at sea in ambush. No such force existed, just the worn out Ajax and Achilles. Believing he faced certain destruction if he sortied, Langsdorff cabled to Berlin to ask if he should seek internment of his warship, or attempt to scuttle it. In a rare occurrence, the Nazi's didn't ask him to fight against impossible odds. Berlin replied: "No internment in Uruguay. Attempt effective destruction if ship is scuttled." On December 17th, a skeleton crew sailed the Graf Spee into the estuary, and after explosive charges were set along the keel, and the crew evacuated, it blew up and burned for several days. A few days later Captain Langsdorff committed suicide in his Montevideo hotel room, wrapping himself not in the Nazi swastika flag (unlike most naval officers, he was not a committed Nazi), but a World War I imperial naval ensign similar to the one he had fought under at the Battle of Jutland in 1916. And there ends the story the battle, though the recovery of the wrecked Graf Spee, and especially its Nazi-era emblems, is what inspired today's New York Times story.
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First, there's the duplicity of the Germans to build a series of battleships in the early 1930s half again as massive as the Treaty of Versailles restricted them. The Nazis claimed the Graf Spee's displacement was 10,000 tons, when it was actually closer to 16,000. And since battleships fight like boxers--slugging it out until one is too battered to go on--a ship's size matters.
And then there's the role of commerce raiders--the German warships who operated singly against Allied merchant shipping all over the globe. The captains of these raiders knew the entire British navy was out to sink them, forcing them to hunt, strike, and disappear. The Graf Spee sunk or captured nine Allied ships during her two month run in the South Atlantic and Indian oceans before the Royal Navy finally caught her.
But the greatest aspect of the Graf Spee story is the Battle of the River Plate, fought December 13, 1939 off the coast of Uruguay. Three Allied warships led by the heavy cruiser HMS Exeter, and including the light cruisers HMS Ajax and HMNZS Achilles surprised the Spee in the merchant-rich waters near the estuary of the River Plate. The early morning battle left the Exeter in shambles after numerous 11-inch shells from the Graf Spee knocked out her turrets and power, but the Allied warships scored enough hits on the German battleship to convince her captain, Hans Langsdorff, to make for the safety of Montevideo's port.
And here's where the story enters a diplomatic wrangling game between British officials in Montevideo, the Uruguayan authorites, and the German navy. After delaying the Spee's departure for several days, the British managed to convince the Germans that a phantom naval force waited out at sea in ambush. No such force existed, just the worn out Ajax and Achilles. Believing he faced certain destruction if he sortied, Langsdorff cabled to Berlin to ask if he should seek internment of his warship, or attempt to scuttle it. In a rare occurrence, the Nazi's didn't ask him to fight against impossible odds. Berlin replied: "No internment in Uruguay. Attempt effective destruction if ship is scuttled." On December 17th, a skeleton crew sailed the Graf Spee into the estuary, and after explosive charges were set along the keel, and the crew evacuated, it blew up and burned for several days. A few days later Captain Langsdorff committed suicide in his Montevideo hotel room, wrapping himself not in the Nazi swastika flag (unlike most naval officers, he was not a committed Nazi), but a World War I imperial naval ensign similar to the one he had fought under at the Battle of Jutland in 1916. And there ends the story the battle, though the recovery of the wrecked Graf Spee, and especially its Nazi-era emblems, is what inspired today's New York Times story.
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8/23/2006
A new home on the Web
The domain - www.jasonstevenson.net - will eventually be my new home on the Web. Over the weekend I signed up for this new domain name. Right now it just mirrors the webatomics.com/jason site, but it will eventually take over as my chief web host. And I'll switch my email to --I've just need to take care of a few technical issues first. I wonder if we will ever develop a system so that every person gets a permanent email address at birth, like a social security number? Or will websites eventually become 3-dimensional entities, like a living room that you can walk into? Sounds like something I remember from Fahrenheit 451.
8/16/2006
College rankings don't matter that much
On Friday U.S. News & World Report will release its annual college rankings--a lucrative ploy that not only sells tons of magazines, but also inflates the reputations of certain colleges and universities. These rankings (and U.S. News is not alone in them any more) convince many students that a college's reputation will have a marked affect on their education, their future job prospects, and maybe even how much they learn.
Poppycock.
All of those results will depend much more on how hard a student is willing to work (and how many 9:00am classes they will bother to attend), than the ZIP code or the ranking of their college. I'll admit that there's a difference in the education a student will receive from a struggling community college and a wealthy liberal arts school like Amherst or Bates. But the community college student can transfer after 2 years to a state school and achieve more intellectually than an unmotivated prep school kid who doesn't know why he's at college except that its a waystation to the better life he's promised.
Though I've not done this, I bet that if you plotted the results of the U.S. News ranking compared to how old and how big an endowment a college has, you would fine remarkably parallel lines. I wish I did well enough in my sophomore-year statistics course to remember how to run a regression analysis. Ranking top colleges is like ranking the popular kids in high school--satisfying but otherwise meaningless.
When I made my college decision on a May afternoon over 10 years ago, I weighed vignettes from campus visits, memories of sitting in on random classes, conversations with students and recent graduates, raw numbers of financial aid offers, and most importantly--the swirl of three names running through my head: Harvard, Yale, and Brandeis. But the question that I repeated to myself most often, and which I remember well, was "Can I turn down Harvard?" As it turns out, I couldn't and I didn't. I don't wish I would have gone elsewhere because of the great friends I made there (and it's hard to wish them away), but I wish I had understood what's really important about choosing and using a college education when I was still in high school.
Poppycock.
All of those results will depend much more on how hard a student is willing to work (and how many 9:00am classes they will bother to attend), than the ZIP code or the ranking of their college. I'll admit that there's a difference in the education a student will receive from a struggling community college and a wealthy liberal arts school like Amherst or Bates. But the community college student can transfer after 2 years to a state school and achieve more intellectually than an unmotivated prep school kid who doesn't know why he's at college except that its a waystation to the better life he's promised.
Though I've not done this, I bet that if you plotted the results of the U.S. News ranking compared to how old and how big an endowment a college has, you would fine remarkably parallel lines. I wish I did well enough in my sophomore-year statistics course to remember how to run a regression analysis. Ranking top colleges is like ranking the popular kids in high school--satisfying but otherwise meaningless.
When I made my college decision on a May afternoon over 10 years ago, I weighed vignettes from campus visits, memories of sitting in on random classes, conversations with students and recent graduates, raw numbers of financial aid offers, and most importantly--the swirl of three names running through my head: Harvard, Yale, and Brandeis. But the question that I repeated to myself most often, and which I remember well, was "Can I turn down Harvard?" As it turns out, I couldn't and I didn't. I don't wish I would have gone elsewhere because of the great friends I made there (and it's hard to wish them away), but I wish I had understood what's really important about choosing and using a college education when I was still in high school.
8/01/2006
All aboard to Montreal
On Friday night I attempted to fly from Newark to Montreal--a silly notion in the face of the fierce thunderstorms that typically roll through here on summer afternoons. But on that day, the cumulonimbus towers contained much fury, but little staying power. I arrived to Newark airport to find clear skies, but unfortunately, no planes. The brief storm had scared them away.
"Sunday afternoon," the harried AirCanada gate agent flatly told me. The first flight I could take to Montreal to see my fiance Jackie would depart when I was supposed to be returning. So there was nothing to do except bond with a couple of stranded Montreal businessmen and decide to drive to Canada. My '93 Subaru Legacy wagon took over from a Boeing 727. and my new Quebecois friends Claude, Alfonso, and Richard played equal parts captain and passengers for our journey. We arrived to Montreal 7 hours and 2 tanks of gas later and at the 3am hour when the strip clubs and bars on Sainte Catherine were just closing. It took us 10 minutes to convince the puzzled Canadian customs agent why a car with New Mexico plates owned by a Pennsylvania man was filled with 3 Canadians, one with a Swiss passport, and another Venezuelan-born with a secretive import-export business.
"I wouldn't have done what you did," admitted the border agent in heavily accented English. But why not? Mishap and mis-direction are the best opportunities to meet people you never would.
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"Sunday afternoon," the harried AirCanada gate agent flatly told me. The first flight I could take to Montreal to see my fiance Jackie would depart when I was supposed to be returning. So there was nothing to do except bond with a couple of stranded Montreal businessmen and decide to drive to Canada. My '93 Subaru Legacy wagon took over from a Boeing 727. and my new Quebecois friends Claude, Alfonso, and Richard played equal parts captain and passengers for our journey. We arrived to Montreal 7 hours and 2 tanks of gas later and at the 3am hour when the strip clubs and bars on Sainte Catherine were just closing. It took us 10 minutes to convince the puzzled Canadian customs agent why a car with New Mexico plates owned by a Pennsylvania man was filled with 3 Canadians, one with a Swiss passport, and another Venezuelan-born with a secretive import-export business.
"I wouldn't have done what you did," admitted the border agent in heavily accented English. But why not? Mishap and mis-direction are the best opportunities to meet people you never would.
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7/25/2006
Driving on the left
The smallest roads on Scotland's Isle of Skye are less than a lane wide as they squeeze between ancient jumbled stone bridge abutments. The largest roads are are two-lane blacktop ribbons which roll along the island's sinuous coastline. I drove on both last week during a refreshingly uncomplicated trip to Scotland with my fiance Jackie. And we kept telling each other every time we got behind the wheel, "Remember to drive on the left."
A tour guide told us that the Brits drive on the left because it allowed right-handed horseman to swing their swords at the oncoming traffic. The left-handed Napoleon, the legend continues, ordered his armies to march on the right side of the road so that his own sword could be at ready. Colonization and war spread those two customs around the world. Australia and Malta drive on the left, while Canada and Madagascar prefer the right.
Perhaps that's just another anti-French story from the British isles, but it's fun to think that the centuries-old decisions of army commanders and fortunes of war determine the frustration levels of modern-day tourists like us. I am sure there is a great deal else that we take as standard today that can be traced back to a simple memo by some unnamed bureaucrat. April 15th as tax day, for instance, or Tuesday being election day. Routines fit the world as well as they fit individuals.
..
A tour guide told us that the Brits drive on the left because it allowed right-handed horseman to swing their swords at the oncoming traffic. The left-handed Napoleon, the legend continues, ordered his armies to march on the right side of the road so that his own sword could be at ready. Colonization and war spread those two customs around the world. Australia and Malta drive on the left, while Canada and Madagascar prefer the right.
Perhaps that's just another anti-French story from the British isles, but it's fun to think that the centuries-old decisions of army commanders and fortunes of war determine the frustration levels of modern-day tourists like us. I am sure there is a great deal else that we take as standard today that can be traced back to a simple memo by some unnamed bureaucrat. April 15th as tax day, for instance, or Tuesday being election day. Routines fit the world as well as they fit individuals.
..
7/11/2006
IKEA Nation
On Sunday I ventured into an IKEA store for the first time. My purpose was to buy a new kitchen table, but I also wanted to experience this Scandinavian furniture phenomenon that many of my friends revere. And after a two-hour foray inside this giant big-box slice of Sweden, I think their appreciation is well-founded.
At first the names of their products--a bed named "HORESUND" and a lamp called "PULT"--can be off-putting. But after you realize how well-designed and durable these space-saving and solid wood furnishings are, you think of those odd names as just Old World charm. It's Beowulf, but for your kitchen and bath.
And I like IKEA's DIY system of shopping. First, you write down the aisle and bin numbers of your chosen artifact from the maze of showrooms. Then you retrieve it from a warehouse that rivals the storage room in the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. It makes a lot of sense when you consider the alternative of waiting on a sales staff to find and move your order.
Building my new furniture took about an hour in the evening, and required no more expertise or special tools than what one would use to hang a picture. One unique thing is that IKEA furniture never comes with extra screws or washers. You use everything they give you. I wonder how much money they save by doing that? A colleague of mine suggested that if IKEA ever decided to make a car--it would come in cardboard box the size of a large pizza and require only a screw driver and an allen wrench to assemble. I don't doubt it, but would it be big enough carry home a nice-looking BJORKUDDEN table?
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At first the names of their products--a bed named "HORESUND" and a lamp called "PULT"--can be off-putting. But after you realize how well-designed and durable these space-saving and solid wood furnishings are, you think of those odd names as just Old World charm. It's Beowulf, but for your kitchen and bath.
And I like IKEA's DIY system of shopping. First, you write down the aisle and bin numbers of your chosen artifact from the maze of showrooms. Then you retrieve it from a warehouse that rivals the storage room in the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. It makes a lot of sense when you consider the alternative of waiting on a sales staff to find and move your order.
Building my new furniture took about an hour in the evening, and required no more expertise or special tools than what one would use to hang a picture. One unique thing is that IKEA furniture never comes with extra screws or washers. You use everything they give you. I wonder how much money they save by doing that? A colleague of mine suggested that if IKEA ever decided to make a car--it would come in cardboard box the size of a large pizza and require only a screw driver and an allen wrench to assemble. I don't doubt it, but would it be big enough carry home a nice-looking BJORKUDDEN table?
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6/24/2006
Snakes and Gators
There's something about snakes that makes me jump. But I don't think I'm alone in that reaction. This spring I've seen more snakes than normal--including a New Jersey timber rattlesnake that I almost stepped on, and king snake as thick as my calf. And then there's the dolphins I saw while paddling off Tybee Island near Savannah, Georgia, and the alligators I watched in some South Carolina swamps. Ohio's wildlife proved to be the least dramatic and life-threatening: a small-mouth bass quite peeved to be hooked on a fishing line. Photos of these encounters (except the dolphins - they were too quick) can be viewed on the latest album I've uploaded to this site. Check out my Three States Wildlife Tour.
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6/20/2006
Longest days
I saw a lightning bug as I biked home last night--my first such sighting since returning to the East a few months ago. A furious thunderstorm had just ceased pouring down rain, giving me a few minutes to pedal home and stay dry. These are the longest days of the year now. And that subtle shift of 1 or 2 minutes more light each day is still imperceptible even if the wonder of a wide-open summer hasn't changed since our ancestors invented myths to explain it.
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6/06/2006
J-Jour
When I traveled through Europe six years ago, I naturally went to Normandy to see the beaches made famous by the D-Day invasion. I rented a stiff and uncomfortable bicycle in Bayeux, the town where I was staying at a wonderful hostel, and set off for the English Channel several miles away. My riding companion was an Australian guy I met at breakfast. And though he was 20 years older than me, he quickly left me in the dust. We covered 30 miles on a blustery late-September day, pedaling past the landing zones where the Americans, Canadians, British, and French soldiers came ashore. Flags of the Allies fluttered outside almost every building, while the beaches seemed eerily serene for monuments to such violent events.
But then I remembered that these beaches were only made battlefields by humans--and that by nature they are rhythmically calm places where water meets land. There had to be flags, and graves, and rusted tanks there to tell me that this platonic scene was once the site of a great battle. Without those reminders, I would have considered the beaches of Normandy to be a stirring place for a picnic.
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But then I remembered that these beaches were only made battlefields by humans--and that by nature they are rhythmically calm places where water meets land. There had to be flags, and graves, and rusted tanks there to tell me that this platonic scene was once the site of a great battle. Without those reminders, I would have considered the beaches of Normandy to be a stirring place for a picnic.
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5/26/2006
Going coastal
This year for Memorial Day weekend I'm heading south to Savannah, Georgia and the wedding of two good friends from my time in Edinburgh, Scotland. I have not seen Joslyn or Brian for several years, and I am delighted to be there this weekend when they get married. We will do a lot of catching up, and also guessing about the future. Which makes sense - because there's nothing like a wedding that is so much about the past and the future at the same time. Not only do I hope see old friends, kick back to some good southern hospitality, and tuck into tasty BBQ--but I also plan to venture to the coastline and do some low country kayaking and hiking. After all, that kind of stuff is job-related now.
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5/10/2006
Backpacker wins an Ellie
For the 98% of the population that has no idea what a national magazine award is, or even that the magazine industry hosts an annual back-slap confab to reassure themselves that color/glossy print journalism still matters... well, it all happened on Tuesday night in New York City. And Backpacker, the small service-poetry magazine that I recently joined as an associate editor, won an award for best section - the front-of-the-book Basecamp section. Michelle Hamilton, now a senior associate editor at Runner's World, held this job before me, and she and the other editors who helmed Backpacker throughout 2005 did so much to earn this honor. And I hope that we can repeat the feat for next year.
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5/07/2006
Red ripe tomatoes
This morning I walked over to the first of the summer's weekly farmer markets in downtown Emmaus. The parking lot of a local bank served as the site--sprouting dozens of tables and awnings to attract hundreds of produce shoppers, and the necessary kids and spastic dogs for the occasion. A farmer's market is rather natural in this part of Pennsylvania. One only has to drive (or bike) a mile in any direction from the town's squat stone city hall to encounter long wavy lines of split-rail fences and acres of pasture guarded by solid-looking silos. For the first time I'm living in a place that goes from city to rural and bypasses suburban. What a joy that is. I bought some tomatoes (violating a rule of mine to never eat tomatoes I don't grow - but they looked so delicious), kale, and soft Italian bread. Next week I'll buy my tomato seedlings there as I move into my new apartment and put in a small side garden.
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4/30/2006
Far cry from adobe
I've settled on a new place to live in Emmaus, PA--a second floor apartment in a 'Queen Anne'-style house on the edge of the downtown business district. The house's towers, gables, and dormer windows are a world away from the angular adobe walls and jutting vigas that dominate architecture in Santa Fe. Plus, there's a lawn (with real grass) in the back just right for a tomato garden. My office is a 1/2 mile walk or ride away, and along the way I pass stores where I can buy Indian spices, fresh-made crab cakes, .22 ammo, and even get a tattoo.
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4/26/2006
Hitting the culture nail on the head
Sometimes, and perhaps with greater frequency now, reporters at the New York Times catch a cultural phenomena at its birth. These are the articles you read not because you already know about the topic--but because they are utterly fresh and enticing. And I am not referring to those articles that attempt to cast a survey of your close friends as a massive cultural shift, like the September 20, 2005 article "Many Women at Elite Colleges Set Career Path to Motherhood," which, quite appropriately, got shredded.
But in an article dated April 27th, Styles reporter Warren St. John wrote about how MySpace.com profiles are becoming virtual shrines to people who have died tragically young. Okay, so most New York Times readers are probably vaguely aware of the Internet social community fad, and sites like MySpace.com-- even if it's from what their children tell them. And reporters have been trying too--the Times has run 86 articles in the last six months that mention Myspace.
But St. John's article, "Web Sites Set Up to Celebrate Life Recall Lives Lost," takes that extra step. He zooms in to examine 150 profiles of deceased people among the 70+ million that MySpace claims to have online. He highlights one website in particular that tracks these dynamic obituaries--http://www.mydeathspace.com/. A quick purview of that site enables you not only to anonymously visit the Internet "bedroom" of the deceased, but also see their friends and understand how they are reacting to their loss. It is microscopic, macabre, and universally fascinating. And I think it's good journalism.
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But in an article dated April 27th, Styles reporter Warren St. John wrote about how MySpace.com profiles are becoming virtual shrines to people who have died tragically young. Okay, so most New York Times readers are probably vaguely aware of the Internet social community fad, and sites like MySpace.com-- even if it's from what their children tell them. And reporters have been trying too--the Times has run 86 articles in the last six months that mention Myspace.
But St. John's article, "Web Sites Set Up to Celebrate Life Recall Lives Lost," takes that extra step. He zooms in to examine 150 profiles of deceased people among the 70+ million that MySpace claims to have online. He highlights one website in particular that tracks these dynamic obituaries--http://www.mydeathspace.com/. A quick purview of that site enables you not only to anonymously visit the Internet "bedroom" of the deceased, but also see their friends and understand how they are reacting to their loss. It is microscopic, macabre, and universally fascinating. And I think it's good journalism.
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4/24/2006
Harvard - it's in the name
A few weeks ago Gene Plotkin, a 27-year-old Wall Street trader and 2000 graduate of Harvard College was arrested by the FBI for allegedly running a global insider trader scheme based on tips from the printer proofs from Business Week magazine. And over the weekend, the Harvard Crimson reported that Kaavya Viswanathan, a Harvard sophomore whose new novel How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life netted her a $500,000 advance while she was still in high school, plagiarized several passages from previous teen angst books by Megan McCafferty, a former editor at Cosmopolitan and YM.
Duke University has received worse press coverage in recent weeks, but Harvard students and graduates aren't belting out the school's fight song in public, especially if these allegations turn out to be accurate. I don't believe there is anything particularly noxious about going to school in Cambridge, Mass. that encourages breaking the rules. Harvard is a college like any other. Students work hard or slack off, or alternate between a combination of the two. Students cheat, and they also get caught. Cheaters might be exposed at higher rates than other schools because Harvard professors use high-tech computer programs to catch plagiarized words and computer code. Most students cut corners to keep from falling behind. Those that cheat and succeed don't talk about it.
But more than having your roommate write your essay, or getting an early look at an exam, Harvard's main problem is the slow seep of entitlement that all students there absorb. Dining hall conversations are conducted through a warped prism that focuses all attention on this school and its importance in the world. Students learn that they are to be the best, first, and smartest in everything they do. At first most of this self-importance is imagined. But as the Harvard name and diploma works its magic, the bestowed authority becomes more real. It can also influence behavior. 'You are already the best,' the internal rationalizing goes. 'What you do to stay the best is not cheating, but your own cleverness.' Some people take this entitlement too far and blur the distinction between right and wrong or legal and illegal. It's easy to cheat when you consider yourself on a different level from everyone else.
But not all of this ego is cultivated inside Harvard Yard. Many people are quite willing to give Harvard extra attention, for both its triumphs and follies, which nourishes an already strong self-absorption. And as long as the rest of the world continues looking, Harvard students will continue to be seen--for both good and bad reasons.
4/20/2006
Backpacker Isle
I'm learning that the archipelago of magazines resembles the Galapagos islands and its unique finches. Like those famous finches, magazines and their editors evolve in isolation to accomplish similar goals and overcome similar challenges. Darwin's birds have specially adapted beaks depending on the island they inhabit, while magazine editors develop tools to plan, edit, proof, and design that are specific to the attitude and needs of their home-publication. The balance of emphasis can be slightly different as editors weigh the importance of fact-checking, brainstorming, and even the internal sections within a magazine. In some places the difference is lingo. Printer proofs are all the same, but can be called "Blue Lines," "Proofs" or "Last Looks."
On the Galapagos, a finch who migrated to a new island would find an entirely different species with no connection to him. But in journalism, an editor who leaps to another magazine finds a world that's like a new map laid upon a something familiar. The destination is the same, but the routes and street names are different, and the new grid takes a little while to figure out. This is all becoming apparent to me as I start my new job at Backpacker and learn the environs of this new magazine island.
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On the Galapagos, a finch who migrated to a new island would find an entirely different species with no connection to him. But in journalism, an editor who leaps to another magazine finds a world that's like a new map laid upon a something familiar. The destination is the same, but the routes and street names are different, and the new grid takes a little while to figure out. This is all becoming apparent to me as I start my new job at Backpacker and learn the environs of this new magazine island.
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4/15/2006
Day Four: Home stretch
Today Jackie and I will drive from Akron, Ohio to Morristown, New Jersey--the final 450 miles of this road trip, and a journey between two homes for me. I grew up in the town of Hudson, a satellite suburb of Akron, and my parents now live in the Garden State greenburg of Morristown. My Subaru, which sports a "Learned Owl Book Shop" bumper sticker (the independent Hudson bookstore where I worked during high school), will bring its exotic New Mexico license plates to Soprano country. And this 2,000 mile trip out of the desert will end with a Passover seder of matzo ball soup and gefilte fish.
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