Archive for the ‘Finance’ Category

Unhinged

January 9, 2021

When problems pile up, the best approach is to divide and conquer.

Since 2021 started off in juicy fashion, with record virus numbers in many countries and a set of retarded activists (for whom the word retrumplicans was coined) occupying the US capitol, let us count our blessings.

First, the seat of US democracy is unharmed—given the high firepower and low intellect, a real tragedy was in the making.

Second, the election results were approved—Biden is unequivocally the new president of the US.

Third, by January 20th the orang-u-tan will be history—written with a very small H.

Fourth, the Covid-19 vaccine is a success with respect to efficacy and lack of side effects.

All this is heartening stuff.

The attack on the capitol was the predictable outcome of the rantings of a tinpot would-be Adolf. Unlike the strong men of yesteryear, leaders who fronted the crowd and either rose to glory or were mercilessly cut down, Trump goes down as a leader of jesteryear.

Everything trumpian is jesticulation, buffoonery, and carpetbag quackery—a travesty of power to which I would have remained happily indifferent, were it not for the fact that the world has endured four years of this smarmy, unctuous cunt, and all the harm he’s done.

One final viewing of a timeless characterization. This British lady expresses her view during a visit by Trump to one of his golf courses in Scotland.

At his doorstep, and of those who rode his coattails, we can lay the pandering to dictators worldwide, from Putin to Kim Jong Un, the unprecedented attack on European allies and European unity, the universalization of fake news and alternative truths, and the deaths of so many Americans in 2020—triple those in the First World War.

His final fart took place as Europe moved into the ‘Day of Kings’, when Orthodox Christians gather for Christmas Eve.

The ‘House of the People’ was filled with folks who came bearing arms, answering the call from a craven, self-obsessed man whose actions they worship. They made no secret of their identities, which will make their prosecution a fairly rapid affair.

As usual in such groups, just as in any school classroom, there were a few leaders, a number who were easily led, and a coterie of hangers-on.

This interview speaks volumes about the mental state of the invaders, and if taken seriously, the potential for a congressional bloodbath.

I’m not sure if this guy is demented, taking the piss, or was busy laying the groundwork for his legal defense in the coming days. But I do know that feeding fantasies with lies, as the lame-duck president has systematically done, is at the core of this societal fracture.

Many voices this week said ‘this is not America’, and it isn’t. But the capitol invasion added the US to an unfortunate club of nations whose democracy has been violated. Like a rape, the stain of shame doesn’t disappear.

I hope America learns from this—some by forgiving and others by changing. Only simple minds, and those who perfidiously exploit them, see things in black and white.

Society is very complex, just as family is. There are no deep conspiracies, no cabals of child molesters that govern nations, at least democratic ones. And you cannot split America into bad and good—there’s some of both in all of us.

And yes, there’s racism in America, as there is in Europe, in Russia, in China. But no European nation ever elected a black president—America, where blacks represent under fourteen percent of the demography, has elected both a black president and vice-president.

So there is hope. Maybe what happened on that fateful night will lead to a fresh start. When terrible things happen, people come to their senses—the paradigm shifts, things are never the same.

My wish for 2021 is that all this pandemic will morph into more dem and less panic.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

We Know This

January 2, 2021

Christmas was hardly merry and New Year’s Eve was no humdinger.

Much was said about bidding adieu to a crap year, and location cameras regularly interviewed people fed up with 2020—as if what happened for most of it was the year’s fault—folks explained how 2021 will make everything better, they just forgot to say how.

Everybody knows nothing so we all know everything: the vaccines are here, but the delivery systems are so far pathetic, and no one can say how long you’ll be immune—just as no one knows how long a veteran of COVID-19 remains immune.

Societies are still divided on whether masks are useful or not, how to manage households and businesses to reduce or prevent transmission, and what limits to impose on travel.

And because there’s so much we don’t know, together with a moving reference frame—the virus is mutating all the time—2021 doesn’t look so hot from where I’m sitting.

Temporary immunity, whether vaccine-induced or from contracting the disease, is not much comfort either to those who get the shot or those who mingle with them. And governments seem unable to deal with the logistics—as things stand, the UK, whose cabinet waxed lyrical about being the first in the world to deliver the shot, is now well behind in its delivery plan, to the extent that ministers tried to cheat the system by delaying the second shot of the Pfizer vaccine, administering instead a first shot to more people—the pharma company states that there are no data to support the plan, but since when did that stop a populist government?

The six million dollar question is simple:

When can I get back to a normal life?

Put another way, When will the virus go away?

Only populist pols like the (do-close-the-door-on-your-way-out) orang-u-tan, Britain’s Brexit Bojo, or Brazil’s Bolsonaro (what a lot of Bs) can give you a simple answer to such a complex question—and it will be wrong.

I’ll try to help by steering clear of BS.

When will the virus go away? Never. Even if it did, another form would pop up—that’s what viruses do, they mutate fast, fine-tuning what works best.

But it will not be a significant danger after a certain point, and that’s when normality returns. We are the host, the virus is the guest—mostly uninvited, but if you’re doing the Brittany rave, you’re saying “be my guest.”

Some viruses spread through water, through plumbing or rivers, but ‘rona does not. You can swim, just as you can touch or kiss someone who has cancer or AIDS.

The guest needs a host—and it then needs proximity to other susceptible hosts. The ‘certain point’ above will be when there are insufficient hosts to take in the guest. There are three ways that will happen.

The first is separation. You’re in an empty room. You have COVID. No one else will get it. If you die, bye-bye virus. If you get better, bye-bye virus. The second is immunity. There are ten people in the room, but seven are immune. You pass the ‘rona on to two people, one dies, two recover, bye-bye virus. The last is death. Ten die. If there are no hosts, there’s no oxygen to fan the flames. Bye-bye virus.

We’re not sure how long immunity lasts. But if it lasts long enough for the virus load to decrease in the general population, your probability of catching it will be lower that seeing a smiling truck driver at Dover—game over.

Folks help that happen by not attending raves and throwing bottles at the police, by mass vaccination, and unfortunately, by dying.

The more anti-vax fools out there—and they walk among us—the more time it will take before we return to normal (they never will).

One guideline we have is history—it tries to teach us, but we’re fucking awful students.

Haskell County, Kansas. How bleak can you get?

The ‘Spanish’ flu was first detected in Haskell County, SW Kansas, in January 1918, exactly one hundred and three years ago.

By March, cases were observed in barracks in Kansas, and over the next few months the flu spread in the US and was taken overseas by American soldiers fighting in the First World War.

In September-November, the second wave went crazy—now, that’s got to sound familiar!

The Spanish flu killed a younger demographic than COVID-19, but remember that statistics are like a bikini—what they show is suggestive, what they hide is vital—in 1915-1920, Americans had a life expectancy of 50-55 years (men versus women).

In winter and spring 1919, the third wave arrived with a vengeance, and lasted until the summer. President Woodrow Wilson, who like Trump insisted the pandemic was of no concern, collapsed in Paris on April 3rd, 1919—in October he suffered a massive stroke, possibly related to side effects of the virus.

The Spanish flu lasted well into the summer of 1919.

What lessons have we learned? Precious few. We’re all masters of the world now, immortal instagram deities.

When will this end?

My two cents? We’ll be lucky if by next fall we can safely go about our business—by that time, no one will remember what normal means anymore.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Keep Your Comrades Warm

December 26, 2020

To most Westerners, Russia means vodka, snow, communism, and a vast wilderness, not necessarily in that order. The political system has changed, but although the country calls itself a democracy, its actions are clearly totalitarian—from the assassination of political enemies and uncooperative journalists, the message is clear: be with us or beware.

The vast nation has vast wealth, but the frozen wastelands under which natural resources lie make exploration a challenge—in particular, the huge potential for crop production is blocked by a layer of permafrost. Putin recognizes that the climate is warming, and views this as a good thing—a few years ago, he quipped that it meant more bread and less fur coats.

Russia and Canada are two of the nations that will reap major benefits from climate change—both have access to the Arctic Ocean, and a whole new polar navigation route has already opened up due to ice melt.

For Russia, this means a strategic position in the maritime routes between China and Europe—transit times will be reduced by up to forty percent, significantly lowering freight costs. In addition, very few major cities are on the coast, so large population centers are far less vulnerable to sea level rise that those in Western Europe or the United States. Think London, Amsterdam, Rome, Lisbon, Stockholm, Oslo, Copenhagen, Dublin, Bordeaux, Barcelona, Marseille…  and New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans, Boston, San Francisco, Seattle…

Other global competitors appear singularly unprepared—while Russia has twenty-four icebreakers, China has four and the US has… two.

Russia is warming up two and a half times faster than the global average, and huge areas in the east are opening up to farming. To exploit this opportunity, a climate migration is taking place, not just Russians going east to try their luck, but Chinese, heading north to grow wheat and other cereals.

Climate migrants will be the new refugees in the mid to late XXth century, as countries with a Goldilocks temperature range warm up. Most of these nations, the US among them, are singularly unprepared. The orang-u-tan nonsense on climate change asphyxiated any effective preparations for four years—to prepare would be to acknowledge, and that would be as shocking as admitting an electoral defeat.

But perhaps the most critical factor is the unwillingness of Western nations in the north to accept migrants, even in situations where the current population is both ageing and dwindling—to seize new opportunities in farming you need people, but the sons and daughters of those countries don’t want to till, they want to tweet.

Not that Putin accepts the human influence on climate change, or is a fan of renewables—he has expressed concerns that vibration from wind turbines causes worms to flee from the soil—in a country where the annual budget is indexed to oil prices, one can understand the deep anxiety about annelids.

But he does understand that food security is critical, and is on record that Russia now exports more agricultural products than arms—I suspect this is not due to a reduction in weapons sales.

One of the areas where the permafrost has given way to a thriving agricultural area is the Jewish Autonomous Oblast, or region, in the Russian far east. This particular Oblast is to the north of the River Amur, and was created by Stalin in 1928—I was unaware of such a place—I thought Israel was the only autonomous Jewish region.

On the other side of the Amur is the Chinese province of Heilongjiang, and the enterprising celestials have been crossing over to the JAO to make hay while the frost melts.

The US presently trades one third of the world’s soy and forty percent of the corn, but climate models suggest that by mid-century yields from Texas to Nebraska may fall by ninety percent—meanwhile the winter wheat crop in southern Siberia doubled when compared to the previous year.

Sooner or later ‘rona will go away.

Climate change won’t.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Fishism

December 5, 2020

As I write, the eleventh hour neareth.

This is the last article I’ll write about Brexit before the year is done—shortly we’ll know whether there’s a deal or not.

A CNN anchor said yesterday that there’s plenty of fish in the sea, prior to a segment suggesting the exact opposite given the French position on access to British waters.

It’s popular at the moment to do live feeds from trawlers, if you excuse the pun, and hear grouchy skippers—brexiteers to a man—explain how the UK will take back its waters in January.

The cherry—or possibly the scampi—on the crab cake was listening to Michael Gove, the only gerbil in the cabinet, explain that Britain wanted the same as ‘our friends in Norway and Iceland.’

During the 1970s, Britain and its Icelandic ‘friends’ engaged in the tenth cod war since medieval times, the third war over the decade—it was prompted by the imposition by Iceland of a two hundred nautical mile EEZ, or Exclusive Economic Zone, effectively closing its waters to the UK.

The context was the approval in the United Nations of UNCLOS, the United Nations Conference on the Law of the Sea. The two-hundred-mile limit ended the Portuguese cod fishery in the Grand Banks and Greenland and upended many other traditional fisheries—in some cases, owners and operators relied on lack of oversight to continue fishing—it was more profitable to risk vessel impoundment and pay the fine.

Britain’s Norwegian ‘friends’ also had a tiff with the UK after World War II, aprehending vessels fishing in their waters—when the Brits took the matter to the International Court of Justice, the court ruled for Norway.

But there’s a major difference between the position taken by Iceland back in the day and the UK situation now.

In Iceland, the sector is responsible for 25-30% of GDP. In the UK, it’s 0.1%, smaller than pet food, the turnover of Harrods, and the lawnmower business.

We live in a world of euphemism where vaccine hesitancy is a thing, old people are seniors, and enemies are friends—right now the EU and UK are busy with their friendship, trying to resolve a couple of sticking points on a possible Brexit deal.

European citizens don’t care—or even know—about a deal, although governments and some businesses do. The fishing lobbies are fairly vociferous, not just in France but also in Holland and Denmark, so the issue is tricky, particularly with French elections coming up. EU TV channels largely ignore Brexit, but British media are consumed with the issue.

The UK EEZ—a good part of it is below one hundred nautical miles.

The UK is surrounded by continental neighbors, and the EEZ is split in a convoluted manner—the shortest distance between Britain and Norway is two hundred fifty nautical miles, so at this point each nation gets one hundred twenty-five miles.

Countries with few neighbors have much larger zones—in Europe, Portugal has the largest of all, two and half times more than the UK, due in part to the islands of Madeira and the Azores. Of course, France and Britain have larger areas overall, due to overseas possessions—these remnants of empire mean that France has the largest EEZ in the world, besting the United States.

The sea is the tragedy of the commons, a plaice (sorry) where in the end, no one is responsible for the collapse of stocks. The more there is, the more you fish. British industry, which is worth one thousandth of the financial sector, underperforms significantly—sixty percent of the quota has been sold by British skippers to other countries, meaning that more than sixty percent of the landings are due to foreign vessels—contractually.

With the exception of salmon, eighty percent of the British catch, of which sixty percent is not caught by Brits, goes to the EU.

To make matters worse, the EU is the UK’s biggest export market. Out of the big five, only salmon is an outlier. And to make that more interesting, salmon is cultivated, not fished, so it shouldn’t be in the chart at all. Shellfish include crabs and other crustaceans, but also mussels, oysters, and scallops.

To add a touch of regional angst to the mix, salmon is grown in Scotland, and mussels and oysters are grown (not fished) in Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales. And for a bit more fun, Scottish salmon farms are largely owned by Norwegians.

So our chart collapses to four bars, of which the shellfish are partly cultivated,  but not in England. And out of the eighty percent exported, forty-eight are already caught by non-UK fishermen—no wonder the UK wants to separate the issues of fishing rights and fish export.

The English call it cakeism, a new word derived from the notion the UK can have its cake and eat it—the neologism appeared during the long march of Brexit, and the concept was touted by Boris.

Times are tough, despite the British PM trumpeting in the pre-election frenzy that the EU Brexit deal was oven-ready.

Part of the problem is that cakeism is not fishism. Britain doesn’t much like fish—about twenty percent of folks never eat any. This quote on Quora from a retired Church of England vicar says it all.

I believe that seafood is highly popular in the UK – isn’t fish and chips our national dish? Personally I can’t stand any seafood so I don’t really understand your correlation – it is not as if we all live near the shore and rely on the sea as a larder. I think it more plausible that shore dwelling people eat a lot of fish because it is fresh and convenient; I was brought up in an agricultural area and enjoy meat and veg which is equally fresh and abundant.

I presume the good vicar feels the same way about bananas and mass wine—the concept of international—not to mention national—trade clearly eludes him.

The UK doesn’t want to have its fish and eat it too—which would make a lot of sense from a public health perspective.

The deal is anything but oven-ready, and I don’t augur well for the outcome—but then there’s a lot of money to be made with a hard Brexit.

I’m not sure what the Brits have ready to put in the oven on New Year’s Day, but I’m pretty sure it’s not fish.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Diaper Don

November 28, 2020

Next Thursday, it will be a month since the US election. I’ve avoided anything but a passing mention of it until now, waiting patiently for the process to meander and weave its way to conclusion.

The sequence of events has been bizarrely predictable—I correctly forecast the ousting of the orange man, and won myself a bottle of tinto in doing so, but I didn’t predict the enthusiastic support for the incumbent displayed by almost seventy four million Americans.

In my forecast, I paid no attention to polls, but to clear evidence of incompetence, inhumanity, and influence trafficking. And since America really is a democracy, as it has convincingly demonstrated this past month, I can only confess to an emptiness inside—the vote was not the repressive adulation of Saddam Hussein or Mao Zedong, predicated on fear of arrest or worse at the hands of the military or the secret service.

In a nation with thirteen million plus coronavirus infections and two hundred sixty-five thousand deaths—so many of them avoidable—the support for the man who set the tone of defiance, taking a leaf from the actions of the King of Wuyue, was astonishing.

Yes, I know about the evangelicals, the tea party and libertarian lobbies, and those who think America’s cities will turn into battlefields of race.

But even so…

The America I know, or thought I knew, includes dozens, if not hundreds, of Trump voters who I’ve spoken with since 2015, and in those conversations I didn’t flag an undercurrent of sectarianism or xenophobia. I’m talking about North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Maine, Nevada, and yes, California and DC, those heartlands of Marxism-Leninism.

No citizen on this planet can remain indifferent to the election results—regardless of the reasons why Trump lost—now that everyone except the man himself accepts the outcome of the 2020 election, the general feeling in Europe and elsewhere is a sigh of relief.

Four more years of hallucinatory behavior would have been intolerable, and the positions of Trump, Bannon, and others about the European Union were instrumental in promoting Brexit and causing convulsions in several EU countries. From the far right in Germany to the Italian nationalists, not forgetting the mini-strong-men in Hungary and Poland, the US promotion of unilateralism was grist to their (un)collective mill.

European history over millennia is a tale of fragmentation and chaos. Territorial dispute followed by war followed by peace followed by war. To the European great powers (Germany, France, and the U.K.), this divided Europe made sense—pit countries against each other and their weakness makes you strong—until the Second World War.

In 1941, Carl Bosch, the co-inventor of the Haber-Bosch process for fixing atmospheric nitrogen, was on his deathbed. Although he wasn’t Jewish (Fritz Haber was), he had a strong dislike, contempt even, for the Nazis in general and for Hitler in particular.

Before he died, he called in his son and told him:

To begin with, it will go well. France and perhaps even England will be occupied. But then he will bring the greatest calamity by attacking Russia. Even that will go well for a while. But then I see something horrific. Everything will be totally black. The sky is full of airplanes. They will destroy the whole of Germany, its cities, its factories, and also the IG.

IG was of course IG Farben, the chemical giant Bosch helped to build—it is infamously responsible for the manufacture of Zyklon B, the gas used in the Jewish holocaust.

Zyklon B manufactured at the IG Farben Auschwitz plant.

As the warring parties moved rapidly toward nuclear war in 1944 and 1945, there was every reason to fear the worst—after the war, it was clear to both generals and politicians that the scale and lethality of weapons far exceeded the restraint of humans in employing them.

And Bosch‘s predictions were right on the money—England only escaped invasion because America joined the war after Pearl Harbor.

For many reasons, not least peace and stability in Europe, we rejoice in bidding adieu to Trump. I am writing the last pages of The Hourglass, a novel in which a US president is forcibly evicted from the White House—although by all accounts this will not happen, since Trump himself revealed on Thanksgiving that he will leave if the electoral college returns Biden as the winner.

The actions of the White House, i.e. the orang-u-tan, because houses don’t have actions, have been pretty dreadful. And the consequences, such as the threats to the Georgia secretary of state and his family, are unacceptable.

This is the result of dialed-up ranting from Diaper Don.

The Thanksgiving press conference was the culmination of a set of initiatives that descended from perplexing to downright weird—it’s a really serious matter, but the props and actors have been hilarious.

From the accusations hurled from a garden center next to a porn shop to the hair dye streaming down Giuliani’s face, from court cases claiming fraud and then denying fraud in court to the Dominion machine fracas, it’s been comedy central.

The final act (so far, as Homer Simpson would say), was the insane presidential press conference on Thanksgiving.

Tiny desk, Tiny mind, Tiny caption.

I woke up to it on Friday morning—stream of consciousness stuff, including the trademark shouting at journalists and the usual folio of fallacies.

Everyone knows… anyone who believes that is… if you… you’re either…

A constellation of non sequitur arguments, repetition and emphasis as a rhetorical device—all the fun of the fair.

This circus has taken on an aura of slapstick, particularly since everyone knows how the movie ends. The memes flowed thick and fast. My favorites? Here are the Wibaux Awards.

Bronze medal

I like to think that during Trump’s presidency, some hero in the White House has slowly swapped Trump’s desk for a slightly smaller one, day by day, so he wouldn’t notice, till four years later we get to this majestic picture

 Silver medal

I want to salute the dark, subtle genius, quietly at work in the White House staff, who managed to move Rudy Giuliani’s press conference to a run down garden centre, and to seat Donald Trump himself at that tiny, tiny desk. Be safe. The world needs your art.

Gold medal

Mini desk. Tiny hands. Small soul.

I don’t tweet (so far), but here’s my two cents, as I stand on the shoulders of giants.

John Gotti was the Dapper Don, this dude’s the Diaper Don.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

November 14, 2020

Last Saturday, when I was literally smitten with election fever, my blog was viewed one hundred and fifty-six times. A hundred and six of those views targeted one thing only—the Trump ‘You’re Fired!’ cartoon.

Since then, everything has returned to normal and everyone knows there is no more titty (Two-Term Trump).

Last night, in the one-minute window I gave him as he meandered through the usual bollocks, even his orangeness had left him.

For me, Mr. Covid has come and gone, but when I see the stats and predictions for North America and Europe, my heart is heavy.

I was very lucky—a news report yesterday of a young woman in Utah that lost her mother and grandfather to covid is one of the most poignant stories I’ve read in a while.

We called my grandpa and I put him on speaker phone so he could talk to my mom. He said, ‘kiddo, I’m not doing good,’ and she said, ‘dad, I’m not either.’ And he said ‘(Tracy), I’m dying. And she said, ‘dad, I am too.’
Her grandfather’s last words to her mom were, “I’ll look for you in heaven.”

It is on behalf and in memory of such people that we must rejoice in the trouncing of this twat. As Obama quipped in a pre-election speech, the president is responsible for protecting America from all enemies, foreign, domestic, and microscopic.

My father learned to swim on a beach in Nazaré, or Nazareth—very biblical. We’re going back to the mid-1930s for this tale, and the vast majority of families in Portugal didn’t ever go to the beach, let alone know how to swim.

Before Baywatch made lifeguards trendy, beach safety in southern Europe was an extra earner for fishermen, often older and paunchy, who also made a few bucks teaching children to swim.

Until recently—more specifically until Garett McNamara put it on the map—no one had ever heard of Nazaré. It isn’t the safest place to teach a kid to swim.

The fisherman told my father, ‘O mar quer lá os medrosos, porque os valentes tem-os lá de certeza.’ The sea wants the cowards—the brave ones it already owns.

This is a good metaphor for covid, my friends. I speak with folks who tell me this is just another flu, and that the societal reaction is completely overblown—they’re the brave (or foolhardy) ones in my metaphor; let me tell you, although technically a coronavirus is a form of flu, this one is a bastard.

It comes at you like a blizzard, and uses all the sneaky tricks in the book to make you cough and splutter, and to help generate lesions it can use to fuck you over. Your body is so consumed fighting it that any trivial activity exhausts you in a minute or two.

It was very easy for me to understand how things can get out of control, which is why respect is the operative word.

Above all, when I see the models for the forthcoming months, even considering the progress with vaccination, it’s obvious we have a very dark winter ahead. When you add to that the financial hardship so many are already going through, the immediate future of humanity is bleak indeed.

The conclusion is clear and urgent—it is science that changed the face of the earth in the last hundred years—all the cellphones in the world would be worthless against a single antibiotic, the mapping of a viral genome, an arsenal of cancer therapies, or key advances in food production and safety.

It’s time to wise up, if we want society to flourish for a further hundred years—we’ve had our fun, now it’s time to put the orange man back into whatever box he came from, understand that conspiracies are the product of mean-spirited folks with very little between their ears, and that those who seek the truth represent the future of mankind.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

November 7, 2020

I woke up this morning and checked the vote count. No change.

In an election, it is a basic premise that the following steps will occur: lies aplenty will be told during the campaign. Voters will be wooed—I did a quick check on that word on Urban Dictionary, and was stunned to find this example of usage:

Johnny wooed Jane with his erotic dancing and giant cock.

Come on people, wooed is a romantic term—whoever concocted this sentence has, if you excuse the pun, grabbed the wrong end of the stick.

Further down the page, the Nov. 3rd word of the day is you’re fired. When I did my review count just now for the last week, I saw a massive spike in views starting on Tuesday. Same pattern Wednesday and Thursday, double that on Friday.

What were folks after? A cartoon from an article I wrote on April 29th, 2017, called ‘You’re Fired‘—if I just posted pictures, my column would be far more successful!

Back to my steps.

When voting starts, you ensure it is both free and fair—to a European, even the notion of folks with guns hanging around polling stations is anathema—images of the Congo start to form in my mind.

After it’s all over, you wait for the count, and when that count is unquestionable, we’re done.

As in chess, it’s usual for the loser to tip the king when there’s nowhere left to run. The alternative is to keep on fighting until there’s only a black hole in the ground.

Elections are sacrosanct for a man like me who grew up in a country deprived of democratic rights. If I though for a moment the US elections were fraudulent, I would be the first to cry foul—nothing so far indicates that this is the case.

What I will not do is make any claims of victory or defeat until the officials responsible for collecting, counting, certifying, and publishing the results have done their duty—from all I’ve heard, from both Republican and Democrat officials, this duty has been scrupulously discharged so far.

By all accounts, this will be done soon. For those who have hoped for four years to see their candidate win, and I specifically address both sides, a few days is not a big ask. The really big ask is to reunite Americans—I know the US well, and I wish it well, and I believe that the fracture that exists has been manufactured—not by ordinary people but by leaders and pseudo-leaders, preachers and pseudo-preachers, media and pseudo-media, and malicious agents who certainly do not wish the US well.

Americans, love each other. You know how, you’ve just forgotten.

In the middle of the election fever, I developed a fever of my own—since Monday I’ve been laid up with covid. Like the vote counting, it’s slow and painful, but we’re getting through it—happy endings cost more.

If the orange man loses, I stand to win a rather yummy bottle of tinto—but right now I can’t taste it.

The good news? I caught the bug playing rock n’ roll, not in the supermarket queue. How cool is that!

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Excel

October 18, 2020

A couple of weeks ago, the UK government discovered it had missed reporting 16,000 cases of coronavirus to the British public—the culprit? Our trusty friend Excel.

Let me take you for a spin down memory lane.

The Microsoft suite of productivity applications has been around for a long time, but it wasn’t always king of the castle.

The names were brilliantly chosen—the text (or word) processing application was called Word, but the big boys in the 1980s were two other packages: WordStar and WordPerfect—both of them are more or less consigned to the dung heap of silicon, although the Canadian company Corel, which trawls the software trash landfill like an eight-year-old Filipino child, still sells the latter.

The law of unintended consequences: while hunting for an IT trash pile, I spent a hideous quarter of an hour shivering at images like this.

Along with the writing software came a sister app for propeller heads—once again, the pioneers were VisiCalc for the Apple IIE, soon followed by the blockbuster Lotus 1-2-3. These were killer apps predicated on the simplest of concepts—enter one number into a cell on a table, do something to it in another cell—for instance multiply it by five—and when you change the contents of the original cell its sibling automatically updates.

Lotus 1-2-3 was the brainchild of Mitch Kapor, who later went on to the Electronic Frontier Foundation and Mozilla, the parents of Firefox—the browser that killed Internet Explorer.

Excel was a timid competitor, but it had the better name. It was also unusual for a Mickeysoft product in that it was relatively bug-free—where Word and Powerpoint had more bugs than a termite mound, Excel rarely crashed.

As Microsoft increased its world dominance, the Office suite won the day and Lotus vanished, along with tentative offerings such as Borland’s Quattro. Borland went bust, but Corel still offers the package in its cobweb-laden dungeon of Office clones, and you can even download an MS-DOS version—I bet it still works!

These were top-class apps written by excellent programmers—folks who had to fight against the main limitations of the day: computer memory, disk capacity, and screen resolution—none of these are a headache today.

Quattro Pro had two features that took a while to come to Excel—tabbed worksheets (forming the concept of a workbook), and the ability to handle a million rows.

The reason for the worksheets is obvious—due to computer memory limitations, spreadsheets only had 256 columns—and back in 1995, when I was beginning to get onto the internet, Excel only had 16,384 rows. By 2002 it had 65,536 rows but still only 256 columns.

Why all these geeky, weird numbers? You obviously don’t know any computer programmers! All these are the result of 2 multiplied by itself repeatedly. You get 256 by multiplying 2 eight times, the other values by multiplying it fourteen and sixteen times.

Finally, in 2007, Excel took advantage of the appearance of 32-bit microprocessors, which can deal with much larger numbers, and it bumped up the number of rows to 1,048,576 (or 2 multiplied 20 times)—for ordinary folks like you and me, that’s a million rows. It also bumped the columns to 16,384.

When you save an Excel file, it gets given an extension. The problem is your PC likes to hide extensions—if, like me, you want to see them, you have to ask. The Mac always hid extensions and the PC always suffered from Mac envy—the Mac was the handsome kid at school who got all the girls and the PC was the nice guy with acne and greasy hair who worked hard at sports to try to be popular.

If you use an older Excel file (the extension is xls)—and I still get these all the time—then you’re stuck with 65,536 rows. If, on the other hand, you use the updated version, which has an extension called xlsx, you can handle a million rows.

The UK government outsourced their COVID work to a company called Serco Test and Trace. On the Companies House site, this corporation is called Serco Limited—it changed its name from R.C.A. Limited in 1987.

It isn’t immediately clear to me what skills Serco has that make it invaluable to the job at hand, but there we are—the Johnson government obviously knew better.

What we do know is that they were using Excel with the older file extension, and almost 16,000 case files fell off the pier, with a nasty knock-on effect for contact tracing.

An article in Foreign Policy reviews this cock-up and sums up the dangers of Excel beautifully.

Excel is almost universally misused for complex data processing, as in this case—because it’s already present on your work computer and you don’t have to spend months procuring new software. So almost every business has at least one critical process that relies on a years-old spreadsheet set up by past staff members that nobody left at the company understands.

I have personally seen this time and time again—Excel is a magnet for human error, the digital corollary of the law of unintended consequences.

The main conclusion of all this is that governments, and any other institutions dealing with large numbers, must never entrust data to a spreadsheet package. And never, ever for public health, let alone a pandemic.

Just as in accounting you need a double-entry ledger that performs its own calculations, so for archiving patient test data—particularly on a nationwide scale—the only solution is a database into which test results can be entered directly, much like an Amazon purchase—when was the last time you bought the wrong product?

Pretty sad stuff, all in all, and terrible for the credibility of the government ‘strategy.’

In parallel, British chancellor of the exchequer Rishi Sunak, struggling to resuscitate the economy, promoted an Artificial Intelligence site designed to facilitate job search. The website, https://beta.nationalcareers.service.gov.uk/assessment/short/ is available for all to try, so I did.

This was partly triggered by a UK government ad.

Is stupidity more contagious than coronavirus? Curious minds want to know.

The ad predictably upset many artists, who are struggling to survive in these terrible times, and led to this brilliant spoof of Dame Judi Dench.

For my part, the AS (Artificial Stupidity) site ran me through a range of questions before telling me my future prospects. In construction, it recommended a new life as a dry liner or shop fitter. In beauty and health care I was selected as a nail technician or hairdresser. However, if the uniform holds more of an attraction, I am well suited to becoming a soldier or security guard.

Since the test does not take into account age or sex, M was just the choice to become a scaffolder at the ripe age of eighty-five.

We can all be excused for going a little bit nuts at the moment, but the only solution we have is to borrow money and support the economy while we wait this one out.

If we can borrow gazillions to fight wars, win elections, and bail out banks—all shitty reasons to borrow—we can do the same for the pandemic, and pay those who are distressed.

There is no ambiguity here. The mission of the moment is to save lives, not livelihoods.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

The Lost Summer

October 10, 2020

Before I start these articles, I always do two things: read the previous blog—and often make small corrections—and look at the site stats, which are broken down into daily views, but can be scaled to a period of two and a half years.

I haven’t figured out how to view a larger period, but one glaring difference between this year and the previous two is the summer viewing—normally it decreases quite significantly, and for good reasons—vacations, travel, beaches, picnics, family, rock festivals, bars and restaurants…

Ah yes, he says wistfully, the usual suspects.

This summer, the readership was up like never before, but I don’t see that as progress in my writing quality—my texts have become monotonic—much like our lives. Fact is, we have more time to dispense on these pursuits, for the lack of all the good reasons above.

We’re currently going through one of the greatest tests human society has ever encountered, in part because of its global nature—and we’re wholly unprepared for the fractures a mere six months have caused.

If you read newspaper articles from a century ago, much of what happened in different parts of the world was slow to propagate—there was no TV, no efficient communications, and no rapid form of transport in everyday use, so newspapers were it—the BBC World Service was only founded in 1932.

Whenever politicians discuss the current crisis, the word war is bandied about. We are ‘at war against the virus’, there’s an ‘invisible enemy’, this is a ‘battle we can win’.

War is something we’re very familiar with—many people through personal experience: Yemenis, Georgians, Rwandans, Vietnamese, Afghans—from the stats, these are not the folks who read these pieces—in digital, there’s a chasm between haves and have-nots.

My familiarity with war comes from my youth and the Portuguese wars in Africa in the 1960s and early 1970s—I narrowly missed first-hand experience, but I know many who fought in Angola, Mozambique, and elsewhere—any trip to those countries shows the evidence to this day, from unexploded mines to unattached limbs.

In the US and UK, France and Germany, everyone had a family member who was involved in World War II in some capacity. For Jews, there’s the indelible trauma of the holocaust.

But above all, there is a historical memory since time immemorial (sorry), that human existence and war are indissociable—only the League of Nations and the League for Spiritual Discovery believe otherwise.

War has a couple of common features—the first is unity, the whole us-against-them thing. No matter what happens, god is on our side.

The second feature is the comprehension—if we don’t know what the fight is about, the body count quickly takes precedence over the moral high ground, as Country Joe McDonald (no relation to Ronald) explained to the good folks at Woodstock, a good number of whom were enthusiastic supporters of the League for Spiritual Discovery.

The third aspect is that we know war will end, our side will win, and we will rest our moral superiority on the bones of our dead enemies—this is a Cartesian fairy tale that has won the day time and time again in the web weaved by rulers to ensnare the ruled.

The consequences of this minute little fucker, responsible for COVID-19 going on for 21, are unpredictable. We can confidently state it has really screwed up our lives, but we can’t make any confident statements about the degree to which we are collectively fucked, and how long this will last.

We can also lay blame—and China is clearly to blame for the initial spread of the virus. But invading China will not solve the problem, and in any case lack of transparency is one of the defining traits of a dictatorship, along with political prisoners and self-perpetuation of power. So why the surprise?

When Western countries first reacted to the news of the new pandemic—some well before its classification as such by the WHO on March 19th, 2020—there were way too many economic interests at stake to take drastic action, and, as is always the case with humans, we underestimated the danger—think climate change.

The ultimate victory—coronavirus takes the White House.

The usual human remedy in crisis, i.e. killing each other until the problem goes away, isn’t a direct choice in this case—but indirectly, this is where we are moving towards. There are vocal advocates of taking a similar approach to what happened during the medieval plagues.

To the extent that economic returns are not compromised, protect the vulnerable. Those who don’t die will thrive, the plague will fade away, and hey presto, we’re back to business as usual.

This is a narrative many people subscribe to, even if means saying goodbye to granny a few years early.

In the West, politicians—or at least some of them—are attempting to do the right thing. Control the spread, save lives, and sustain the economy.

The UK prime minister explained the policy in a nutshell to the British people during the Brexit campaign.

We want to have our cake and eat it too.

It’s not going to happen with Brexit, and it won’t happen with the virus either.

In the United Kingdom, that synergy is a perfect storm—it may well result in a country with no cake and an empty stomach.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

The Day The Music Died

October 3, 2020

I was playing in the band last night.

It’s always fun, loud, and late. We tried some acoustic stuff, a little more mellow.

There was a guy there, sitting in—not jamming, just listening—a bass player with a metal band. He stayed the course—about four hours’ worth—so I guess he was having fun, and even though it was an audience of one, it put an edge on the music.

In the breaks, we talked about this and that. Foremost, about music and musicians. Killer versions of particular songs, old guys still smoking dope who had trouble remembering lyrics, a Brazilian dude who could do more with a snare and a couple of other drums that most guys with a full kit, and of course, gear. Snare drums at two grand? Are you kidding me?

Time to put up my favorite Goodfellas meme (again).

We had a go at singing a very beautiful love song—Baby I Love Your Way, by Peter Frampton. It’s sung in a very high register, so our audience’s suggestion was to detune the guitars—that way, you keep the chord structure, which is also beautiful.

Of course, that means detuning a couple of electric guitars and the bass—hardship duty, really, for just one tune. Not a problem for our friend, “you just need three other instruments tuned to the right key.”

But it was audiences and musicians that we turned to most often. The former have disappeared, and the latter are on their way out.

This disaster is true across the performing arts, but to different degrees—movies now have a sitting room audience, with much viewing going on in sub-zero temperatures, as in Netflix ‘n chill. Soaps are ten-a-penny, with new series—mostly crap—popping out of the woodwork daily.

So I guess actors are still doing okay—all the way from adverts to Oscars.

But where it all breaks down is with live music, and that’s across the board. From rock in bars to elevator music in hotel dining rooms, performers are going through a terrible year.

But let’s face it, rock is particularly bad. Badly paid anyhow, it’s all about crowds, drink, drugs, and excitement—talk about COVID-friendly.

The famous 1970s hit American Pie sings about ‘the day the music died’, widely considered to be a reference to the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper.

Van Morrison, seventy-five years old—and now Sir Van, which sounds like a resurrection of British Leyland—is releasing three anti-lockdown songs in protest of scientists “making up crooked facts” to justify measures that “enslave” the population.

He goes on to sing “The new normal, is not normal, We were born to be free.”

I’ve always been a big fan of his, and I think artists need strong support this year that the music died, but this isn’t the way to go, as another chap in his age group recently discovered.

Oops, wrong turn…

The US opposition leaders who’ve come out to wish the orange man a speedy recovery—although I expect they’d suggest that as a precaution he remain in hospital for thirty-one days—have shown America a high road which has been sadly lacking, as seen in the presidential debate.

I too wish him and his family well, and a quick return in full health to whatever the future may bring after leaving the office he currently holds.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.


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