I Should Have Been an Economist

Now if that isn't the least-sexiest title ever, I will eat my hat. In fact, I don't even own a hat, but I will procure one, specifically so that I may then eat it.*

In all seriousness, econ is full of useful concepts that you just don't find anywhere else. More and more often, I find myself talking about everyday events in terms of opportuninty costs and marginal benefits. Anyway, go read Marginal Revolution and the Becker-Posner Blog. They are both nutritious and delicious.

*Hat may be fashioned out of existing food products.

The Emperor Is Not as Forgiving as I Am

There is a certain kind of joke my father likes to tell, where he will say something outrageous that we all recognize as wildly out of character. "Ha ha, Pop," we will laugh, "you are so silly." I hadn't thought about it before, but of course I like to tell exactly the same kind of joke, I'd just never realized my dad and I were so similar in that respect. Now if you think about it, this is a pretty risky brand of humor. Very poor cost/benefit ratio. At best you get a half-hearted chuckle or a sarcastic eye roll. Worst case scenario, your "out of character" banter is interpreted as the real thing. I remember once when I was a kid my dad joked that he'd lost our house in a bet with our neighbors, and we'd have to leave. I was, understandably I feel, more than a little distraught.


It has recently been made clear that talking that way is a Bad Idea. Henceforth, a resolution: I will not make jokes like my dad. I reserve the right, of course, to quote Darth Vader when appropriate.

This post has been edited to protect the guilty.

Bad News

So we lose to Oregon State by 1. That smarts. Hopefully we can still beat the Ducks.

Also, did anyone else think that cheap shot at Laguna Beach on the OC tonight was uncalled for? I did.

In Which I Desire to Fashion My Own Clothing

So a friend of mine, and a friend of practically everybody's, it turns out, manages his own social crusade/apparel and merchandising line called Legalize Carbs. I've been thinking about a number of t-shirt designs I would really like to wear, if only I could have them made. Or make them myself. Or draw them in the first place. I know there are places that will do printing for you, even in limited runs, but I think I could get an even better vintage/period/indie/retro/poseur feel by doing the silk screening myself, in print runs of one. If I ever get around to going to the art store, I think my first design will be something like this:

I would apologize for the poor picture quality, but I'm not feeling all that sorry. That's for the Good Intentions Road Paving Company, LTD™. I was thinking white on green. Random squiggles around the logo to be filled in with Victorian-looking random squiggles, as inspired by this design from Penny Arcade. Actually, my first design would have to be something less complicated, because I will suck at printing. Maybe I can bribe/coerce my brother into helping me. I wonder if he'll work for beer.

Also, "Che" of carbs fame above sent me this link, because I am magical.

Giving Blood is a Test of Strength

Not in the sense that it is painful or difficult, but in the way you are expected to behave. If you are donating, you must not show any sign of weakness. It's like some tribal initiation ritual. So I'm sitting there, with a tube literally draining my precious bodily fluids through a hole in my arm, and it occurs to me that this is just uncomfortable enough to prevent me from doing my philosophy reading. I find that I just cannot concentrate on Michael Bratman's functional theory of intention when my veins are leaking. So I put down my book. Before I know it, the blood center staff are all over me like savannah hyenas on a sick gazelle. Am I okay? Do I feel faint? Would I like more water? No, I'm fine, it's just that feeling in my arm makes it hard to concentrate. They are not persuaded. As penance for my frailty, I must ritually cleanse myself by drinking liters of water and eating a half-pound of pretzels, the symbolic blood and body of some ancient sanguine deity. The gods appeased, I am finally allowed to leave.

Honestly, the only reason I keep going back there is because they always tell me I have beautiful veins. I'm such a sucker for flattery.

This month's Atlantic

There's an essay by Ross Douthat called The Truth About Harvard that talks about how students, especially humanities students, at elite universities don't work all that hard, and how there is no meaningful academic core. One thing he says is that there are only isolated pockets of greatness where a professor can engage the class and make them actually learn something. I followed up on some links and this Douthat seems like a very perceptive fellow. Got to keep an eye out for his stuff in the future.

There's another piece by David Kennedy about how George W. Bush's foreign policy is pretty much Wilsonian, and that this policy is sort of a natural expression of America. I was always sympathetic towards Wilsonian ideas, and to the stated aims of the Bush presidency (leaving aside for a moment quesions about their execution of those aims). Anyway, David M Kennedy (together with Thomas Sheehan) taught two-thirds of my freshman humanities requirement in just the kind of sweeping, engaging, oversubscribed course Douthat writes about. It was called Democratic Societies and the two-quarter class was just the kind of classic three-millenium survey of the intellectual, historical, and material history of American democracy you'd think went out of style decades ago. So a big thank you to David Kennedy for being part of that.

I was happy to see that I don't fit Douthat's mold for the typical liberal-turned-lebertarian. I'll have you all know I read Friedman and Mill first, and only got around to Atlas Shrugged last summer, so I could see what all the fuss was about. I am different and special. So there.

UPDATE: I wrote about reading Rand in one of those dispatches from Berlin that got this whole bloggging thing going. I know people liked reading those, and I'll get them back up online soon.

Reincarnation

Before today, I've created this blog and killed it off three times. Now it's back again, and I'm not sure what that means. It could be something precious but lost, born anew. It could be just another iteration of the creative process. It could be a shambling zombie re-animation of ideas better left buried. I do know what I'm going to treat it as: the latest reincarnation of something with too much karma to be allowed to become one with the universe just yet. If this weblog is the body that spirit will occupy, and I'll do my best to make it comfortable and entertaining while I'm at it.

If I was going to be reincarnated on this earth, I'd hope someobdy would take the time to build me a nice dog to inhabit. Preferably a medium-sized one, large enough for a good throaty bark and too big to be carried around in somebody's purse. Give me somebody to scrath me behind the ears. If possible, get me a duck hunter, so I can splash off through swamps to fetch things, and ride in the back of a truck on the freeway, with my ears flapping in the wind. Let me lay around chewing on stuff most of the day, and I'll be happy.

As far as this weblog is concerned, reincarnation involves finding a new role. I currently see this place as a safety-release valve to the artistic/creative pipeline in my brain. Other bits of higher-pressure plumbing already have other, more appropriate outlets. If you're looking for insightful political commentary or soul-baring romantic testimonials, heavens knows there are places online to find them. This place is for the kinds of things I would say if you caught me staring out of a car window and asked me what I was thinking about.