The world, I am convinced, is full of scoundrels. My latest discovery in this area is the refund anticipation loan debit card being offered (and endlessly shilled) by H. & R. Block on television. The ad in question shows two guys sitting at a bar, one of them covered with money. This is his tax refund. It's a refund suit. His counterpart asks him if this form of refund isn't inconvenient, to which the dullard in the money suit says, "Do you know a better way?"
This question, of course, leads our hero--or at least Block's hero--into a plug of the debit card. Interestingly, however, it doesn't lead him to say, "Yeah, I know a better way. A check!" or "Direct deposit!"
How would a debit card be better than one of these traditional methods of getting your refund? First of all, Block isn't offering you your refund. They're offering a refund anticipation loan. A couple of years ago, the company got hammered for the obscene fees they were levying on these loans. Now, they've found a new way to perform income redistribution.
What a sensible consumer needs to ask is why would Block want to put money on a card. Is a card cheaper than a check? I can't imagine that it would be. It seems, from my research, that Block charges people $20 if they want their loan on a check rather than the card. I'm certain that a check doesn't cost any $20 to produce. If they do, then I'm going to get into a check issuing business.
Block wants the money on a card because then they can still get their greedy paws on it. Once that money is on a check, they've seen the last of it, but if it's on the card, they can still play nasty games, charging you for ATM usage and the like.
This company, headquartered in Kansas City I must confess, charges (too much) for doing taxes. Then they charge a fee for the refund anticipation loan. Then they charge (excessive) interest on the loan. Then they charge fees when you use the card that has your money on it.
I'm also curious as to what percentage of money on these debit cards gets used. If I get a check for $1,000, I'll put it in my bank account and I'll eventually spend all of it. If I have a debit card that's down to $2.39, however, I might never get that last $2.39 spent. That's $2.39 that Block can just keep. Imagine if a million taxpayers all left an average of $2.39 on their cards. Wouldn't that be a sweet little pile to clean up?
So why does H. & R. Block want you to take out a loan and put it on a card? Just like the guy in the money suit on TV, they want to fleece you of your dollars. They're scoundrels.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Shusaku Endo and My Guilty Conscience
In making my way through a recent short-story anthology, I encountered a troubling biographical entry. The anthology’s editor, Bret Lott, describes the Japanese author Shusaku Endo as “the internationally renowned Japanese novelist, playwright, essayist, screenwriter, and short story author.” This introduction leaves me feeling quite inadequate as a literature student for I had never so much as heard Endo’s name before opening Lott’s book.
In the broader view, of course, any reader must recognize that there is an almost infinite amount of worthwhile material, an almost endless phalanx of “internationally renowned” writers whom one ought to know. I’m reminded here of the elite fighters of the Persian army, the Immortals, so called because they attacked in deep ranks. When one fighter went down, another stepped up to take his place. So it is with worthwhile writings, except that once you knock down Shusaku Endo, you discover perhaps two or three or twelve others lurking behind him. This was the discovery I made several years ago when I ventured into Japanese fiction for the first time. I read Haruki Murakami, but then realized that to fully—or even marginally—understand him, I needed to read Mishima and Kawabata and Oe. To understand the fiction of Japan, I also needed to learn something of the poetry. And to understand Murakami, I found myself frequently thrown back to Europe and America in the influences of Kafka and American jazz. In moments, I could find myself overrun and trampled by the onslaught of the Immortals.
Some twenty years ago, I sat in a class for my master’s degree, listening to the professor, Linda Voits, talk about the novels of Anthony Trollope. To this day I can’t recall why she told us this, but the story sticks in my mind. “I read the Barchester novels of Trollope while on sabbatical last year as I was taking the train from Cambridge into London each day. I’d never read them all . . . in order,” she explained, quite offhand. I’m not sure that Professor Voits actually paused between “all” and “in order,” but that’s how I remember it. I recall sitting around a seminar table with a dozen other students, all of us thinking the same thing. We’d never read any of the Barchester novels, much less all of them, much less in order. We had other things to read in order to feel as if we had some claim to those letters, M.A., after our names.
To this day, I maintain what seem like appalling holes in my reading. Proust? No. Goethe? I’ve read nothing beyond The Sorrows of Young Werther. Dickens? Only a few bits here and there. Spenser? I couldn’t get past the first book of The Fairie Queene. And I’ve never even heard of Shusaku Endo!
In the end, we who would be literary, must confess to these gaps. Unless you surrender yourself to reading eighteen hours a day, you will not read everything of significance. A bit of math will confirm this truth. Let’s take Shakespeare as an example. If we accept that Shakespeare has perhaps twenty plays of significance, that gives us a starting point. After all, who reads The Two Gentlemen of Verona? If each of these plays takes an average reader some five hours, then simply getting through Shakespeare will take 100 hours. That doesn’t sound too bad, but that’s only Shakespeare. Add in Marlowe and Kyd and Jonson and Spenser and Sidney, just to get a good grounding in Renaissance England, and you’ve taken the pile up to perhaps 300 hours.
If you had a job paying you to read forty hours a week, you could dispatch the Renaissance English—or at least a healthy sample of them—in some eight weeks. However, this doesn’t give you any time to read criticism, biographies, history, philosophy, theology, or any of the other fields important to understanding Shakespeare’s world.
Furthermore, few people can land a job that allows for forty hours of reading per week. I’ve read and taught Hamlet a dozen times, but I’m unlikely in my present employment to be able to work Titus Andronicus, which I read for the first time last year, into the curriculum. I’ll almost certainly never teach Dryden or Samuel Richardson, and I’ll never get to put Shusaku Endo on the syllabus. Those of you who do not read for part of your living have even a greater constraint placed on your achievement.
In the end, the reader cannot cover the entire field of literature. Anyone who claims to have done so is either lying or named Harold Bloom. Since your name is almost certainly not Harold Bloom—because is desperately attempting to keep up with the deluge of titles necessary to keep him Harold Bloom—you must either surrender yourself to prevarication or accept a partial knowledge of human letters as an acceptable state. (I suppose you could collapse in despair, but I don’t recommend that.)
What a sick art would be literature if it were designed to be completely mastered while at the same time making that design less attainable with each new creation. Happily, literature is not intended as some sort of obsessive mental collection. Literature helps to reveal the human condition, it explores the meaning of human existence. In that way, it is somewhat akin to human friendship. Would we consider ourselves failed humans if we were not to meet all the people on earth? Obviously not. In fact, measuring our happiness by a checklist of acquaintances would be a very facile and foolish thing indeed.
The rich literary life embraces many friends in the world’s texts. Some of these friends are boon companions, while others are passing experiences. Some we meet and don’t get on with particularly well, while others come to us, late in the day, leading us to wonder how we ever existed without their companionship.
Shusaku Endo is a new friend for me. Should I feel guilty not to have crossed his path before? Certainly not. I doubt that we’ll ever be best of friends, but that’s hardly the point. Frankly, I’m not sure that this relationship will grow further, but I am pleased to have made his acquaintance. I can ask no more from a text.
In the broader view, of course, any reader must recognize that there is an almost infinite amount of worthwhile material, an almost endless phalanx of “internationally renowned” writers whom one ought to know. I’m reminded here of the elite fighters of the Persian army, the Immortals, so called because they attacked in deep ranks. When one fighter went down, another stepped up to take his place. So it is with worthwhile writings, except that once you knock down Shusaku Endo, you discover perhaps two or three or twelve others lurking behind him. This was the discovery I made several years ago when I ventured into Japanese fiction for the first time. I read Haruki Murakami, but then realized that to fully—or even marginally—understand him, I needed to read Mishima and Kawabata and Oe. To understand the fiction of Japan, I also needed to learn something of the poetry. And to understand Murakami, I found myself frequently thrown back to Europe and America in the influences of Kafka and American jazz. In moments, I could find myself overrun and trampled by the onslaught of the Immortals.
Some twenty years ago, I sat in a class for my master’s degree, listening to the professor, Linda Voits, talk about the novels of Anthony Trollope. To this day I can’t recall why she told us this, but the story sticks in my mind. “I read the Barchester novels of Trollope while on sabbatical last year as I was taking the train from Cambridge into London each day. I’d never read them all . . . in order,” she explained, quite offhand. I’m not sure that Professor Voits actually paused between “all” and “in order,” but that’s how I remember it. I recall sitting around a seminar table with a dozen other students, all of us thinking the same thing. We’d never read any of the Barchester novels, much less all of them, much less in order. We had other things to read in order to feel as if we had some claim to those letters, M.A., after our names.
To this day, I maintain what seem like appalling holes in my reading. Proust? No. Goethe? I’ve read nothing beyond The Sorrows of Young Werther. Dickens? Only a few bits here and there. Spenser? I couldn’t get past the first book of The Fairie Queene. And I’ve never even heard of Shusaku Endo!
In the end, we who would be literary, must confess to these gaps. Unless you surrender yourself to reading eighteen hours a day, you will not read everything of significance. A bit of math will confirm this truth. Let’s take Shakespeare as an example. If we accept that Shakespeare has perhaps twenty plays of significance, that gives us a starting point. After all, who reads The Two Gentlemen of Verona? If each of these plays takes an average reader some five hours, then simply getting through Shakespeare will take 100 hours. That doesn’t sound too bad, but that’s only Shakespeare. Add in Marlowe and Kyd and Jonson and Spenser and Sidney, just to get a good grounding in Renaissance England, and you’ve taken the pile up to perhaps 300 hours.
If you had a job paying you to read forty hours a week, you could dispatch the Renaissance English—or at least a healthy sample of them—in some eight weeks. However, this doesn’t give you any time to read criticism, biographies, history, philosophy, theology, or any of the other fields important to understanding Shakespeare’s world.
Furthermore, few people can land a job that allows for forty hours of reading per week. I’ve read and taught Hamlet a dozen times, but I’m unlikely in my present employment to be able to work Titus Andronicus, which I read for the first time last year, into the curriculum. I’ll almost certainly never teach Dryden or Samuel Richardson, and I’ll never get to put Shusaku Endo on the syllabus. Those of you who do not read for part of your living have even a greater constraint placed on your achievement.
In the end, the reader cannot cover the entire field of literature. Anyone who claims to have done so is either lying or named Harold Bloom. Since your name is almost certainly not Harold Bloom—because is desperately attempting to keep up with the deluge of titles necessary to keep him Harold Bloom—you must either surrender yourself to prevarication or accept a partial knowledge of human letters as an acceptable state. (I suppose you could collapse in despair, but I don’t recommend that.)
What a sick art would be literature if it were designed to be completely mastered while at the same time making that design less attainable with each new creation. Happily, literature is not intended as some sort of obsessive mental collection. Literature helps to reveal the human condition, it explores the meaning of human existence. In that way, it is somewhat akin to human friendship. Would we consider ourselves failed humans if we were not to meet all the people on earth? Obviously not. In fact, measuring our happiness by a checklist of acquaintances would be a very facile and foolish thing indeed.
The rich literary life embraces many friends in the world’s texts. Some of these friends are boon companions, while others are passing experiences. Some we meet and don’t get on with particularly well, while others come to us, late in the day, leading us to wonder how we ever existed without their companionship.
Shusaku Endo is a new friend for me. Should I feel guilty not to have crossed his path before? Certainly not. I doubt that we’ll ever be best of friends, but that’s hardly the point. Frankly, I’m not sure that this relationship will grow further, but I am pleased to have made his acquaintance. I can ask no more from a text.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Of Cows and the Economy
Why do we have recessions in the economy? For the past couple of months, there’s been all sort of chatter in the press. “Are we in recession?” “How bad will the recession be?” “When will the recession end?” We take boom times and busts as if they were as predictable as the changing seasons and just as fickle. Does this make sense? I don’t see why it would.
Imagine if you will that we live in a cloistered little community of perhaps fifty people. Of those fifty, perhaps forty are involved in agriculture of some sort, growing crops, animals, and the like. Some of them might be bivocational. Perhaps the community’s doctor splits time between patients and potatoes. Other people might work full-time in a field that does not involve fields. Regardless of the exact numbers, we can hope that our population of fifty will produce sufficient food, clothing, housing, and the like to meet everyone’s needs. Perhaps they’ll sell off excess cream or some other commodity in order to purchase the cloth that the people in a nearby town of fifty produces in excess, but mostly, this group is self-sufficient. Would such a community ever experience a recession? If so, how would it happen?
If an agriculturally-based community were to experience drought or potato blight or mad cow disease, then we would understand a recession. In fact, in the old days, that sort of “recession” went by a different name: a famine. Is the current recession the result of such a production shortfall? No, because we aren’t ultimately an agriculturally-based community (or economy). We’re a dollar-based economy.
In an agricultural economy, wealth is measured in terms of production. For example, if my cows produce not ten but twelve healthy calves this year, then I’m twenty percent wealthier in that category. It’s a good year. Good management and good fortune can lead to this sort of result, and it benefits the entire community. The law of supply and demand suggests that if the three beef farmers in the community all have extra calves this year, then the price of steak will go down in the future. If the supply of milk cows rises, we can expect milk, butter, and cheese to be plentiful and relatively less expensive in the future. Everybody wins! The farmers sell or barter more of their product, leading to more carrots and eggs and blue jeans on their counters, while the beef-buyers get a better price.
But here’s the rub. If Farmer Abe runs fifty head on his hundred acres this year, that’s dandy. If he experiences a ten-percent increase, then he will have fifty-five head next year. As the boom times continue, he’ll have sixty and then seventy and eventually a hundred head of cattle jostling around in his pastures. What are Abe’s options? He could attempt to buy more land on which to run his blossoming herd. That’s fine, but it’s not a long-term situation. Land, as the real estate agents are apt to remind us, is something they’re not making more of. Eventually Abe’s herd overwhelms the carrying capacity of the land at his disposal. He’ll either pen his herds up in feeding pens, creating sub-standard beef, or foul his land, rendering it less useful tomorrow in order to enjoy profits today.
Now let’s think about a money-based economy rather than a cow-based one. When we expect a corporation to increase revenue and profits year after year, don’t we eventually ask them to exceed the carrying capacity of the financial system? No, money doesn’t leave manure lying around, nor does it eat grass, but it does have limits. We can’t continue to expand forever without repercussions. Those repercussions, I would argue, are called recessions, when the chickens come home to roost (or the cows come home to graze).
Imagine if you will that we live in a cloistered little community of perhaps fifty people. Of those fifty, perhaps forty are involved in agriculture of some sort, growing crops, animals, and the like. Some of them might be bivocational. Perhaps the community’s doctor splits time between patients and potatoes. Other people might work full-time in a field that does not involve fields. Regardless of the exact numbers, we can hope that our population of fifty will produce sufficient food, clothing, housing, and the like to meet everyone’s needs. Perhaps they’ll sell off excess cream or some other commodity in order to purchase the cloth that the people in a nearby town of fifty produces in excess, but mostly, this group is self-sufficient. Would such a community ever experience a recession? If so, how would it happen?
If an agriculturally-based community were to experience drought or potato blight or mad cow disease, then we would understand a recession. In fact, in the old days, that sort of “recession” went by a different name: a famine. Is the current recession the result of such a production shortfall? No, because we aren’t ultimately an agriculturally-based community (or economy). We’re a dollar-based economy.
In an agricultural economy, wealth is measured in terms of production. For example, if my cows produce not ten but twelve healthy calves this year, then I’m twenty percent wealthier in that category. It’s a good year. Good management and good fortune can lead to this sort of result, and it benefits the entire community. The law of supply and demand suggests that if the three beef farmers in the community all have extra calves this year, then the price of steak will go down in the future. If the supply of milk cows rises, we can expect milk, butter, and cheese to be plentiful and relatively less expensive in the future. Everybody wins! The farmers sell or barter more of their product, leading to more carrots and eggs and blue jeans on their counters, while the beef-buyers get a better price.
But here’s the rub. If Farmer Abe runs fifty head on his hundred acres this year, that’s dandy. If he experiences a ten-percent increase, then he will have fifty-five head next year. As the boom times continue, he’ll have sixty and then seventy and eventually a hundred head of cattle jostling around in his pastures. What are Abe’s options? He could attempt to buy more land on which to run his blossoming herd. That’s fine, but it’s not a long-term situation. Land, as the real estate agents are apt to remind us, is something they’re not making more of. Eventually Abe’s herd overwhelms the carrying capacity of the land at his disposal. He’ll either pen his herds up in feeding pens, creating sub-standard beef, or foul his land, rendering it less useful tomorrow in order to enjoy profits today.
Now let’s think about a money-based economy rather than a cow-based one. When we expect a corporation to increase revenue and profits year after year, don’t we eventually ask them to exceed the carrying capacity of the financial system? No, money doesn’t leave manure lying around, nor does it eat grass, but it does have limits. We can’t continue to expand forever without repercussions. Those repercussions, I would argue, are called recessions, when the chickens come home to roost (or the cows come home to graze).
Monday, February 11, 2008
Envy is not a Lovely Thing
Last night I sprawled out in my living room and watched “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” where Ty and company built a new house for a single father/Marine who had lost a leg in Iraq. Since this family lives in the Kansas City area, our local news decided to make the most of the broadcast, running a one-hour special before-hand in which they, among other things, spoke with the two other families from the area who had been featured on the program.
One thing really struck me during that hour. The mother from one of those previous families told of overhearing somebody saying this: “Maybe we should adopt a bunch of kids and then we can get something for nothing.”
Why do so many people struggle with appreciating the good-fortune of others? If you want to be jealous of Eli Manning or Brittany Spears, I think I can understand that, but do these people really believe that somebody would adopt a bunch of kids just on the off chance of getting on that show? Do they think that last night’s dad lost a leg and a marriage for a new house?
Now I’m not totally naïve—a little bit, but not totally. I recognize that these people aren’t pure as the driven snow. Probably Mr. Gilyeat, the Marine from last night’s show, has his flaws. His ex-wife might well tell some unflattering tales on the man. Maybe he’s even bought a few lottery tickets or otherwise mismanaged his money, but who cares? Who among us doesn’t have a flaw or ten?
Envy is an ugly thing. When we can’t look at somebody who has experienced a blessing and simply think, “Wow, good for them!” we’re living with an impoverished spirit.
Don’t think that I’m suggesting that I’m perfect. I’ve looked at coworkers, neighbors, and friends who have something that I’d like to have myself with an envious eye. Since I’ll never slash their tires or steal their identities, the only harm in this transaction of envy comes to me. I’m diminished when I resent someone else’s good fortune, even if they don’t deserve it.
One thing really struck me during that hour. The mother from one of those previous families told of overhearing somebody saying this: “Maybe we should adopt a bunch of kids and then we can get something for nothing.”
Why do so many people struggle with appreciating the good-fortune of others? If you want to be jealous of Eli Manning or Brittany Spears, I think I can understand that, but do these people really believe that somebody would adopt a bunch of kids just on the off chance of getting on that show? Do they think that last night’s dad lost a leg and a marriage for a new house?
Now I’m not totally naïve—a little bit, but not totally. I recognize that these people aren’t pure as the driven snow. Probably Mr. Gilyeat, the Marine from last night’s show, has his flaws. His ex-wife might well tell some unflattering tales on the man. Maybe he’s even bought a few lottery tickets or otherwise mismanaged his money, but who cares? Who among us doesn’t have a flaw or ten?
Envy is an ugly thing. When we can’t look at somebody who has experienced a blessing and simply think, “Wow, good for them!” we’re living with an impoverished spirit.
Don’t think that I’m suggesting that I’m perfect. I’ve looked at coworkers, neighbors, and friends who have something that I’d like to have myself with an envious eye. Since I’ll never slash their tires or steal their identities, the only harm in this transaction of envy comes to me. I’m diminished when I resent someone else’s good fortune, even if they don’t deserve it.
Artificial Drama
Perhaps the single stupidest television show I’ve ever encountered is Don’t Forget the Lyrics, the Fox program in which people sing karaoke, supplying a few of the words along the way. Okay, that last sentence isn’t true. The single stupidest show in history is a sit-com from the 80s in which a little girl plays a robot.
What’s stupid about the lyrics show is not the premise, which is kind of fun. The creators of that show must have immediately thought of the spin-off possibilities. They could—and maybe already have—produced computer-based games, CDs, and all sorts of other merchandise. What’s stupid is the artificial drama that these people attempt to pump into their show.
Here’s the scene. Somebody sings part of a song. A few words are left out. They have to supply the missing words. After a moment’s hesitation, the singer is asked to “lock in” their supplied lyrics, this show’s equivalent of Millionaire’s “final answer.” So far so good, but the host then makes them wait a painfully long time before revealing whether or not the answer is correct. In one case, a player had used two different “cheats.” His song was “My Eyes Adored You.” When he couldn’t nail the words, he asked to be given a multiple-choice menu. One of those three lines was correct. When that didn’t settle the answer in his mind, he asked to be given two words. The words supplied eliminated two of the multiple-choice answers. In other words, any sentient creature should have seen that only choice C could possibly be correct. There was absolutely no suspense here. Did that lead the host to immediately reveal the correctness of the player’s answer? Of course not. He made us all wait.
Artificial drama is the common denominator for reality shows. With a tension-evoking music and absurd pauses, we get dragged from commercial break to commercial break. Artificial drama attempts to make Donald Trump seem interesting. It drives Howie Mandel’s suitcase-opening game. Artificial drama is the stock-in-trade for Survivor, Amazing Race, and Oprah’s new reality competition.
The killer is that this main ingredient of “reality TV” is incredibly unreal. Forget the contrived situations and laughable premises, the phony suspense is what makes me gag at most of these offerings.
What’s stupid about the lyrics show is not the premise, which is kind of fun. The creators of that show must have immediately thought of the spin-off possibilities. They could—and maybe already have—produced computer-based games, CDs, and all sorts of other merchandise. What’s stupid is the artificial drama that these people attempt to pump into their show.
Here’s the scene. Somebody sings part of a song. A few words are left out. They have to supply the missing words. After a moment’s hesitation, the singer is asked to “lock in” their supplied lyrics, this show’s equivalent of Millionaire’s “final answer.” So far so good, but the host then makes them wait a painfully long time before revealing whether or not the answer is correct. In one case, a player had used two different “cheats.” His song was “My Eyes Adored You.” When he couldn’t nail the words, he asked to be given a multiple-choice menu. One of those three lines was correct. When that didn’t settle the answer in his mind, he asked to be given two words. The words supplied eliminated two of the multiple-choice answers. In other words, any sentient creature should have seen that only choice C could possibly be correct. There was absolutely no suspense here. Did that lead the host to immediately reveal the correctness of the player’s answer? Of course not. He made us all wait.
Artificial drama is the common denominator for reality shows. With a tension-evoking music and absurd pauses, we get dragged from commercial break to commercial break. Artificial drama attempts to make Donald Trump seem interesting. It drives Howie Mandel’s suitcase-opening game. Artificial drama is the stock-in-trade for Survivor, Amazing Race, and Oprah’s new reality competition.
The killer is that this main ingredient of “reality TV” is incredibly unreal. Forget the contrived situations and laughable premises, the phony suspense is what makes me gag at most of these offerings.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
It’s a Conspiracy—The Weathermen
Turn on the television and tune in to some local channel at news time, especially during the winter—or the spring or summer or fall. Let’s just imagine what you might hear, between the live shot outside a courthouse where nothing has happened in hours and the vital health information regarding the importance of Upsilon-7 vitamins to the diet.
Here’s Stormy Raines with the weather.
Thanks Brice. Batten down the hatches tonight as we prepare for a real blast of winter. We’ll have all the details in just a moment.
This is when you endure the ad for a local car dealer who needs speech therapy and the announcement that local weather is brought to you by Kia. Finally Stormy reappears on the screen.
I hope you didn’t put away your winter coat and gloves yet. If you don’t need to go out tonight or tomorrow or the next day, then stay inside. Don’t even go near the windows. A vast, scary blast of winter coldness is moving this way. It’s big and it’s cold and there’s a good chance that we’re all going to die! Snowfall accumulations of nineteen to fifty-six inches are possible [in an alternate universe] with temperatures bottoming out in the low teens [in my freezer].
Fast forward twenty-four hours. Look out the window. Exactly seventeen flakes of snow are jockeying for position on your driveway, desperately seeking shade to avoid the mid-thirties temperatures and direct sunlight.
This is the story of television weather forecasts all around the country. They give us results like these:
· A forecast of extreme tornado activity yields winds too feeble to hold a kite aloft.
· A report of a killer heat wave leaves a skim of ice on the pond.
· A prediction of dimension-rupturing thunderstorms results in forty-five seconds of gentle rain.
Of course, in fairness, meteorology isn’t exactly a science—well, okay, I guess it is, but it’s not respectable like stock picking and phrenology. Still, we might expect a better track record than these people achieve.
Okay, okay, these people are predicting the future, so we should cut them some slack. They’re every bit as accurate as the experts who forecast professional football seasons—The New Orleans Saints will win the Super Bowl after the 2007 season—or political contests—Rudy Giuliani is the Republican’s most likely nominee for president in 2008. But if their misses were simply a symptom of the vagaries of winds aloft and Doppler misreadings, shouldn’t we expect Stormy and company to miss high just as often as they miss low, to overpredict the precipitation as often as they underpredict it? It makes sense doesn’t it? But this isn’t what we find.
After many seasons of painstaking research and record-keeping, I have uncovered a vast meteorological conspiracy. For every one case of underpredicting the weather, the “light dusting of snow” that turns into a blizzard, we get a dozen cases of overprediction.
But why, you might ask, would these meteorological mediocrities continuously exaggerate the future? What possible motivation could they have?
The answer here is simple. How far would they get with this forecast?
Stay tuned for weather when Stormy Raines will explain how nondescript tomorrow is likely to be.
Yeah, the “We’re All Gonna Die!” forecasts do not reflect meteorological uncertainties. They demonstrate the desire for ratings. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge the TV channels their ratings. Ratings are a fine thing. If a local weather personality fell in the forest and no one was tuned in to listen, would it make any sound? I don’t think so.
But can they justify the constant worst-case forecasts that we receive on the basis of a need for ratings? Not in my neighborhood.
“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,” Bob Dylan told us. As it turns out, if you listen the TV weathermen, you can count on hearing the wind blowing hard.
Here’s Stormy Raines with the weather.
Thanks Brice. Batten down the hatches tonight as we prepare for a real blast of winter. We’ll have all the details in just a moment.
This is when you endure the ad for a local car dealer who needs speech therapy and the announcement that local weather is brought to you by Kia. Finally Stormy reappears on the screen.
I hope you didn’t put away your winter coat and gloves yet. If you don’t need to go out tonight or tomorrow or the next day, then stay inside. Don’t even go near the windows. A vast, scary blast of winter coldness is moving this way. It’s big and it’s cold and there’s a good chance that we’re all going to die! Snowfall accumulations of nineteen to fifty-six inches are possible [in an alternate universe] with temperatures bottoming out in the low teens [in my freezer].
Fast forward twenty-four hours. Look out the window. Exactly seventeen flakes of snow are jockeying for position on your driveway, desperately seeking shade to avoid the mid-thirties temperatures and direct sunlight.
This is the story of television weather forecasts all around the country. They give us results like these:
· A forecast of extreme tornado activity yields winds too feeble to hold a kite aloft.
· A report of a killer heat wave leaves a skim of ice on the pond.
· A prediction of dimension-rupturing thunderstorms results in forty-five seconds of gentle rain.
Of course, in fairness, meteorology isn’t exactly a science—well, okay, I guess it is, but it’s not respectable like stock picking and phrenology. Still, we might expect a better track record than these people achieve.
Okay, okay, these people are predicting the future, so we should cut them some slack. They’re every bit as accurate as the experts who forecast professional football seasons—The New Orleans Saints will win the Super Bowl after the 2007 season—or political contests—Rudy Giuliani is the Republican’s most likely nominee for president in 2008. But if their misses were simply a symptom of the vagaries of winds aloft and Doppler misreadings, shouldn’t we expect Stormy and company to miss high just as often as they miss low, to overpredict the precipitation as often as they underpredict it? It makes sense doesn’t it? But this isn’t what we find.
After many seasons of painstaking research and record-keeping, I have uncovered a vast meteorological conspiracy. For every one case of underpredicting the weather, the “light dusting of snow” that turns into a blizzard, we get a dozen cases of overprediction.
But why, you might ask, would these meteorological mediocrities continuously exaggerate the future? What possible motivation could they have?
The answer here is simple. How far would they get with this forecast?
Stay tuned for weather when Stormy Raines will explain how nondescript tomorrow is likely to be.
Yeah, the “We’re All Gonna Die!” forecasts do not reflect meteorological uncertainties. They demonstrate the desire for ratings. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge the TV channels their ratings. Ratings are a fine thing. If a local weather personality fell in the forest and no one was tuned in to listen, would it make any sound? I don’t think so.
But can they justify the constant worst-case forecasts that we receive on the basis of a need for ratings? Not in my neighborhood.
“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,” Bob Dylan told us. As it turns out, if you listen the TV weathermen, you can count on hearing the wind blowing hard.
It’s a Conspiracy—Bombastic
This entry involves a specific corporation, a large corporation that provides cable television, Internet access, phone service, and cheesy commercials to a huge swath of America. In the interests of privacy, politeness, and the avoidance of lawsuits, I’ll refer to them by a pseudonym. We’ll call them Bombast.
I have a love/hate relationship with Bombast. On the love side, I love having virtually limitless non-static-filled channels to surf through when I’m bored. On the hate side, I hate . . . well, let me count the ways that I hate.
1. I hate the plethora of ad-filled flotsam that they pump into my house. Here, I’m not gagging on the twenty-plus minutes out of each hour that the typical network fare carves out for endless Geico and McDonalds spots. It’s the sell-out of infomercials and home-shopping channels. Let me see if I have this right: I pay money to Bombast so that I can watch people who have paid money to Bombast to pitch products in my direction.
2. I hate the fact that I can’t get a decent signal on the channel numbers that correspond with local broadcast channels. Mostly I hate that when I complain of this to Bombast, they make excuses and eventually throw up their hands. “We can’t fix that problem, but that doesn’t change your billing status. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
3. I hate the constant bundles, specials, and promotions that the people at Bombast advertise 24/7 while never saving me a single dime.
4. I hate—and this is the one that sent me over the edge—this little bit of switch and bait. A month or so back, the geniuses at Bombast decided to move the Hallmark Channel from channel 31 to somewhere up in the digital domain. Why would they do this? Would it have anything to do with technical needs or artistic integrity? No. They moved Hallmark into the digital realm so that I would need to get myself a digital box.
“We can offer you that for free!” a breathless Bombast rep told me.
“Forever?” I asked.
Breathless then breathed. “Well . . . not forever.”
In short, Bombast offered me less product for the same price. It’s not that I watch the Hallmark Channel. It’s the principle of the thing!
That’s when I decided to pull the plug on Bombast. Calling them, I announced the death sentence. They invited me to bring my cable modem to their service center, which I did the next day. This was nine days ago. Here’s the killer. They still haven’t pulled the plug. The TV portion of my cable bill runs around $60 a month. They’ve now given it to us for free from around a third of a month. That’s a $20 gift. Should I love Bombast for that? Not just yet.
Here’s my prediction. Bombast will not send me a final bill. They’ll pretend that I never called in to cancel my service. They’ll conveniently fail to record that I returned the cable modem. Not to worry—I kept the receipt. Maybe I’m wrong—and if I am, I’ll admit it here—but I’m sticking to my prediction.
I have a love/hate relationship with Bombast. On the love side, I love having virtually limitless non-static-filled channels to surf through when I’m bored. On the hate side, I hate . . . well, let me count the ways that I hate.
1. I hate the plethora of ad-filled flotsam that they pump into my house. Here, I’m not gagging on the twenty-plus minutes out of each hour that the typical network fare carves out for endless Geico and McDonalds spots. It’s the sell-out of infomercials and home-shopping channels. Let me see if I have this right: I pay money to Bombast so that I can watch people who have paid money to Bombast to pitch products in my direction.
2. I hate the fact that I can’t get a decent signal on the channel numbers that correspond with local broadcast channels. Mostly I hate that when I complain of this to Bombast, they make excuses and eventually throw up their hands. “We can’t fix that problem, but that doesn’t change your billing status. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
3. I hate the constant bundles, specials, and promotions that the people at Bombast advertise 24/7 while never saving me a single dime.
4. I hate—and this is the one that sent me over the edge—this little bit of switch and bait. A month or so back, the geniuses at Bombast decided to move the Hallmark Channel from channel 31 to somewhere up in the digital domain. Why would they do this? Would it have anything to do with technical needs or artistic integrity? No. They moved Hallmark into the digital realm so that I would need to get myself a digital box.
“We can offer you that for free!” a breathless Bombast rep told me.
“Forever?” I asked.
Breathless then breathed. “Well . . . not forever.”
In short, Bombast offered me less product for the same price. It’s not that I watch the Hallmark Channel. It’s the principle of the thing!
That’s when I decided to pull the plug on Bombast. Calling them, I announced the death sentence. They invited me to bring my cable modem to their service center, which I did the next day. This was nine days ago. Here’s the killer. They still haven’t pulled the plug. The TV portion of my cable bill runs around $60 a month. They’ve now given it to us for free from around a third of a month. That’s a $20 gift. Should I love Bombast for that? Not just yet.
Here’s my prediction. Bombast will not send me a final bill. They’ll pretend that I never called in to cancel my service. They’ll conveniently fail to record that I returned the cable modem. Not to worry—I kept the receipt. Maybe I’m wrong—and if I am, I’ll admit it here—but I’m sticking to my prediction.
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