Saturday, January 21, 2023

Payday, Maybe (Afghan report 52)

 This is the latest in a series of special reports from a friend inside Afghanistan about life under the Taliban. I’m protecting his identity so he can file accurate depictions of the deteriorating conditions in his country. My goal is to raise awareness in the West. Please forward to any friends who might help in this effort — especially journalists.

Dear David:

It is a rainy, cold day here in Helmand, and we, a group of more than 50 people, are waiting in front of the Kabul Bank to receive our salaries. The clock shows 7:15 am and my mobile shows the temperature as -6°c (21°F). Few people have umbrellas; some are hidden under the trees so they don't get wet. The bank won’t open until 9 o'clock. Visitors are increasing every minute. 

By 9 am there are three lines of people waiting to receive their salaries, more than 300 people. "It is like we are coming here for charity," one man gripes, "but getting charity is not even as difficult as this." 

The guards finally open the door and let people enter into the bank. There are four officers who hand out the cash and each officer has about 60 customers waiting to be served. They use a card system – one card per person. You have to wait until your name is called.

The banker takes one card from his pile, calls the name, and gives that person his salary. The one whose name is called feels as happy as if he had won a lottery ticket because each of us has been waiting for more than three or four hours by now. 

This process is very stressful because everyone is afraid that the bank will run out of money before his turn comes. Also, the bank sometimes just suddenly closes down without explanation. This has happened many times since the Taliban came to power. For example, a few months ago I could not receive my salary for two whole months. Every day when I went to the bank; every day they said that there was no money, the system was down, or my turn had not come yet. 

Banks have faced a liquidity crisis under the Taliban because no one trusts the banks to keep their money safe. The central bank has imposed restrictions on the use of money and announced that every citizen is allowed to withdraw only 200 dollars from his account during a working week, and no more than that is allowed. 

According to the available statistics, before the political changes in the country, people's deposits in private banks were close to 3.8 billion dollars, but after the changes, people rushed to the banks to withdraw their money, and this figure decreased to 1.8 billion dollars.

Today, after a long wait, my name is called. I breathe a sigh of relief. Now we can buy food.

LINKS:

Friday, January 20, 2023

A Hitch in the Wagon

Very early on in my writing career, I published an article in a business journal called Pacific Basin Reports. If memory serves, it was an analysis of mining interests in Southeast Asia.

A few weeks after the article appeared, I was startled to read the very same article, word for word, under someone else’s byline in the prestigious Far Eastern Economic Review. I’d been plagiarized and it wasn’t at all subtle.

I wrote a letter of complaint to the Review and in response got a brief apology and a small check — the fee for the original article had I been hired to write it for them in the first place.

Plagiarism is no doubt as old as publishing, but it is seldom that blatant. In other cases I became aware of over the years, writers lifted sentences or paragraphs from published articles to enhance their own work. This happened far more often with college students or very young journalists than veterans, and we often caught the offender and punished them.

The Internet brought the potential for plagiarism to a whole new level, but also the tools for detecting it. Fast forward to today and we have the spectacle of AI, in the form of ChatGPT, being used by CNET to generate entire articles.

While this isn’t plagiarism — it could perhaps be called bot-ism — it is a danger nonetheless for honest journalism. One more in a long litany of dangers. Technologies have already helped destroy the economic security of millions of jobs in publishing over the past quarter-century.

Now writers face the prospect of being replaced, as do many other workers, by robots. The fact that they can’t do our jobs anywhere near as well as we can may not be relevant. The evidence is mixed as to how much Americans value great writing in the first place. It is a tough way to make a living.

Meanwhile, we’ve already gotten used to bots messing up our sentences by “correcting” us by inserting errors.

Which reminds me of the yarn: A priest, a minister and a rabbit go into a bar. When the bartender comes over, he takes the orders from the first two but hesitates at the third member of the group. "Aren't you a rabbit -- what are you doing here?"

"I'm only here because of auto-correct."

Read:

A news site used AI to write articles, and it was a journalistic disaster (WP)

ChatGPT listed as author on research papers: many scientists disapprove (Nature)

LINKS:

 

Thursday, January 19, 2023

New York Dreams

Throughout my decades working for various companies, I was one of those guys who occasionally took his kids to work. Usually it was just one kid at a time — the one who didn’t have school that day or was at loose ends for another reason.

During these visits, the kids would sometimes help with tasks around the office — sorting the mail for instance or making copies. The visits also were opportunities for me (and a few obliging colleagues) to explain what we did in our jobs. It was a way to introduce the children to my work life and the people I shared it with.

There also were times one or two of them would accompany me on business trips, mainly to New York, but also Chicago, Washington, Tucson, LA and other destinations.

Most often New York. Manhattan was like a second home professionally for much of my journalism career. It was and is, of course, the center of the media industry, especially for the legacy print publishing companies of books, magazines and newspapers.

On many of these trips, my kids would accompany me to The Nation’s office near Gramercy Park and sit in a corner reading or playing games while I participated in editorial board meetings. No other magazine has been in business longer in the U.S. — the first issue of The Nation came out in 1865.

Framed copies of some of those early issues hung on the walls in the board room, and they invariably drew my kids’ attention. My youngest son, in particular, always has been fascinated by history and on one of our visits 15 years ago, a fellow board member, the wonderful sociologist Norman Birnbaum, took notice of his interest. 

Norman encouraged my son, then 11, to study history and later sent him a reading list of recommended books. 

Sadly, Norman passed away a couple years back. Last month my son received his Master’s Degree in History. I believe Norman would be proud.

LINKS:

 

Wednesday, January 18, 2023

Turning a Phrase

Since humans ran out of new new kinds of animals and foods to domesticate thousands of years ago, we can study almost any edible plant or farm animal as a microcosm of human history.

This occurred to me when a couple of readers responded to a phrase I used the other day — “industrial clock.” I was talking about how ingrained our work schedules become so we cannot escape the rhythms of the 40-hour week even after we stop going into the office.

What I was referring to with that term was the origin of the coffee break, which was developed by industrialist tycoons as a way to squeeze more productivity out of workers. I first encountered that historical curiosity when I was reviewing a book on the history of sugar many decades ago.

Like many other crops, sugar started out as a luxury for the rich and powerful but has gradually filtered down to be one of the many excessive burdens of the poor and powerless.

Over 100,000 people have died of diabetes in the U.S. each of the past two years — disproportionately from minority and poor communities.

Taking sugar with coffee or tea became habitual for the poorer classes during the industry revolution. But by now, virtually everyone goes through at least some phase of sugar addiction. It’s endemic.

And of course there are other risk factors for diabetes — smoking and obesity among them — so my analysis should only be taken with a grain of (pick your substance).

But wars have been fought and empires built on control of sugar or tea or coffee or bananas and every other foodstuff; that much is indisputable.

So that is the story of my use of the term “industrial clock.” 

I first published a version of this essay in early 2022. Since then it has occurred to me that working remotely has changed the industrial clock for many of us, hasn’t it?

LINKS:

 

Tuesday, January 17, 2023

News

 “Life is passing by…The measure of a man is one who lends a hand.” — Vince Gill

NEWS LINK:

  • White House says no visitors logs for Biden's Delaware home (NBC)

  • Biden’s classified documents headache won’t go away quietly (The Hill)

  • Donald Trump's Telltale Sign He Knows He'll Be Indicted: Kirschner (Newsweek)

  • The Merrick Garland You Don’t Know (Politico Mag)

  • New details link George Santos to cousin of sanctioned Russian oligarch (WP)

  • If Affirmative Action Ends, College Admissions May Be Changed Forever (NYT)

  • Italy's most-wanted Mafia boss Matteo Messina Denaro arrested in Sicily (BBC)

  • Kabul's mannequins, hooded and masked under Taliban rules (AP)

  • Afghan women are flocking to virtual learning amid Taliban’s university ban (The Hill)

  • Taliban unveils what it claims is Afghanistan’s first ‘supercar’ (Independent)

  • UN: Afghan bank’s cash remarks ‘misleading, unhelpful’. (AP)

  • China’s bid to leave covid behind could determine global economy’s fate (WP)

  • Putin was so worried about a conflict with the West that he basically ended up starting one, former US Army general says (Business Insider)

  • Climate activists protested against the role of big oil firms, saying they were hijacking the climate debate. Major energy firms including BP, Chevron and Saudi Aramco are among the 1,500 business leaders gathering in the Swiss mountain resort. (Reuters)

  • After a Burst of New Businesses, a Cooling Economy Intrudes (NYT)

  • EVs Made Up 10% of All New Cars Sold Last Year (WSJ)

  • Barely two in five people believe their families will be better off in the future, according to a regular global survey that also identified growing levels of distrust in institutions among low-income households. (Reuters)

  • Over 7.5 feet of snow from California storm falls at UC lab in the Sierra (SF Gate)

  • Novel Neurofeedback Technique Enhances Awareness of Mind-Wandering (Neuroscience News)

  • Bizarre Creature From China Had a Dinosaur Head on Bird’s Body – a Missing Link From 120 Million Years Ago (Good News Network)

  • Favorites to win the super bowl (538)

  • Field Sobriety Test Asks Driver Whether Calling Ex Sounds Like Good Idea (The Onion)

    LYRICS

    "If It Makes You Happy"

    Sheryl Crow

    I've been long, a long way from here
    Put on a poncho, played for mosquitoes
    And drank 'til I was thirsty again
    We went searchin' through thrift store jungles
    Found Geronimo's rifle, Marilyn's shampoo
    And Benny Goodman's corset and pen

    Well, okay, I made this up
    I promised you I'd never give up

    If it makes you happy
    It can't be that bad
    If it makes you happy
    Then why the hell are you so sad?

    You get down, real low down
    You listen to Coltrane, derail your own train
    Well, who hasn't been there before?
    I come 'round, around the hard way
    Bring you comics in bed, scrape the mold off the bread
    And serve you French toast again

    Well, okay, I still get stoned
    I'm not the kind of girl you'd take home

    If it makes you happy
    It can't be that bad
    If it makes you happy
    Then why the hell are you so sad?
    If it makes you happy
    It can't be that bad
    If it makes you happy
    Then why the hell are you so sad?

    We've been far, far away from here
    Put on a poncho, played for mosquitoes
    And everywhere in between

    Well, okay, we get along
    So what if right now everything's wrong?

    If it makes you happy
    It can't be that bad
    If it makes you happy
    Then why the hell are you so sad?
    If it makes you happy
    It can't be that bad
    If it makes you happy
    Then why the hell are you so sad?

Monday, January 16, 2023

Remembering a Friend

(Last night I rediscovered this tribute I wrote on my private blog after getting the news that a friend had died 15 years ago. Hardly anyone read it at the time. I’d forgotten how hard the news of his death hit me. We’d been out of touch for a few years. I never got to say goodbye. I’m republishing it in the hope we all remember to say things to each other while we are still here. Otherwise, someday it will be too late.)

***

“Goodbye to my friend, Ken Kelley”


Early this morning, the sad news came that Ken Kelley died last Saturday. When I got off the phone, and got dressed, I went outside to take a long walk. While walking, I composed this tribute:

Ken arrived at the University of Michigan as one of those under-aged child prodigies. He must have been 16 or so. He was the living epitome of the Sixties spirit -- a radical hippie before we even used words like that.

To me, he was a kid with such infectious enthusiasm for everything around him that it almost wore me out to be near him for too long at a time. Ken never did anything in half-measures.

He would eat ravenously and balloon to a huge shape; then diet in macrobiotic mode, and become thin as a rail. His wild curly yellow hair was a white man's Afro. He started an underground newspaper and got in all sorts of trouble by portraying a local political figure in what was deemed, by the standards of the time, obscene.

Ken seemed to know everybody. He was Minister of Information for John Sinclair's White Panther Party. Sinclair also was manager of the band, MC5, and when he was imprisoned for possessing a tiny amount of marijuana, Ken helped draw international attention to his case. Sinclair was released from prison days after John Lennon went to Michigan and held a concert in his behalf. Ken arranged that.

Ken was always this close to getting into serious trouble. He'd shoplift food, try to get away with not paying for gas at gas stations (this was before credit cards), and commit other types of petty crimes that were common among hippies of that time.

When unknown radicals bombed the CIA office in Ann Arbor, Ken said he knew who had done it. Whenever any demonstration or concert or wild event developed, Ken seemed to be at the center of it.

He was relentlessly enthusiastic, a natural promoter of other people's careers, but never really of his own. A typical experience was when he excitedly told us that a wandering theatre troupe called the Living Theater was on campus, and dragged me along for a look.

Sure enough, led by a free-spirited middle-aged couple, this "theater" amounted to a roomful of students (including Ken, of course), getting naked and jumping into the crowd below, who obligingly caught them. 

I watched for a while, and couldn't help thinking that the outright glee on Ken's face as he jumped somehow exhibited his identity in a way that I could never achieve for myself. It all seemed rather, you know, unsanitary, to me, but I knew that really I was way too inhibited and simply not cool enough to join in.

The same with drugs, alcohol, sex, and every other outrage of the era. Ken did everything to excess, with an unbounded appetite to live as if there was never going to be any sort of tomorrow.

At that point, I could not really imagine him ever growing old.

***

After our hiatus in the Peace Corps, my wife and I returned to Ann Arbor to figure out what to do with the rest of our lives. Ken was still in town, larger than life, a constant blur of excitement, danger, and the art of the outrageous. He always had the Next Great Idea, and this time, it was to be a magazine called SunDance, to be published in San Francisco.

He urged us to come and be the journalists who could anchor the publication in place. Of course, we said yes, and that's how I arrived in this town, San Francisco, in the fall of 1971, driving our old van across the country, crammed with magazine production gear Ken had somehow procured at the last moment for us to deliver to what was to be our new headquarters office, at 1913 Fillmore Street.

As we drove into town, it was apparent that Ken had relocated to the ground zero of the 60s' revolution. Here was a much bigger stage, with many more famous players, but Ken just treated it as if it was the same place as Ann Arbor.

One day, a well-dressed man appeared at the front door inquiring about obtaining a copy of our new magazine. Ken raced to the front, and held up a copy of our first issue about three inches from the guy's face, and while jumping up and down like a maniac, yelled at the top of his lungs: "Isn't it the greatest magazine ever, huh? huh? the greatest ever? yeah!" The man fell back, mouth agape, but he handed over the few coins necessary to get his copy and rapidly disappeared.

(Later, when I obtained the SunDance FBI file under the Freedom of Information Act, it turned out that this man was an undercover informant, since his report of the incident, with his name blacked out, was in the file.)


We never had any money in those days, so eventually SunDance died its inevitable death, punctuated by the unfortunate spectacle of all of us fighting among ourselves over pennies in small claim's court. 

Ken and I were on opposite sides in this fight, which ruptured our relationship for a while.

But somehow we got back together and resumed our friendship. Ken was the major driver in the effort that exposed Timothy Leary as a government witness in grand jury witch hunts by the Nixon administration. As always, Ken introduced me to excitement and opportunity and danger I never would have generated on my own.

So another memory. When Ken was driving me in a Porsche to the mountains at high speed, so we could convince Leary's friend Allen Ginsberg to join in the anti-Leary cause. Allen whispered his terms to Ken and the two of them went off in the bushes for a while; Ginsberg returned smiling with satisfaction; Ken winking to me as if to say, "Whatever, mission accomplished!"

During these chaotic years, Ken started and abandoned more creative projects than most of us will see our entire lifetime -- books, movies, concerts, publications, conspiracies...In no particular order, he somehow emerged as a brilliant interviewer of the famous, who were starting to be known as "celebrities" in the magazine business, i.e., a tool for selling issues.

One of Ken's most memorable interviews was with the homophobe movie star Anita Bryant, a sweet married Southern Christian girl who didn't even know the meaning of "69" until Ken drew a picture for her. Not yet "out" himself publicly, Ken traveled with Bryant all over the country as she crusaded against the evils of homosexuality.

One might have expected him to write a cruel expose of Anita, but, typical of Ken, his heart got the best of him. "I love her, " he explained to me. "I don't want to hurt her." The climax to this story came in the Midwest when a gay protester threw a pie in Bryant's face.

There, in the news photos, was Ken, shielding her with his jacket, in order to ensure that the embarrassing photos of her would not reach the front pages, but they did anyway.

In the end, Ken always did the wrong thing and the right thing at the same time. That was his charm.

Case in point. I was an organizer of a group called the Bergman-Ramirez Defense Fund in the '80s, which sought to draw support for two reporters who were being sued for libel by the San Francisco Police Department.

Ken had somehow wrangled a job as a columnist at the Hearst-owned San Francisco Examiner at the time, and was "covering" the trial.

But then, during a short break, as a prank, Ken darted up to the judge's seat and placed one of those sanitary toilet seat covers on it. Just as he started running back, the judge and the cops re-emerged from their break, their faces red with blistering fury at this unacceptable insult. "I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" Ken was screaming as he raced from the scene, but it was obvious to all that he was indeed the guilty party.

He was arrested, thrown in jail, and fired by the Examiner.

There were many other such episodes, too many for me to recount here and now, for I am weary. But the one last anecdote I must recount occurred after Howard Kohn and I had published our Patty Hearst stories in Rolling Stone, which caused a national media uproar in 1975.

We, the reporters in this case, were the subject of much media scrutiny because the aforementioned Hearst newspaper empire, fearing our article would damage heiress Patty Hearst's legal case, chose to print unsubstantiated allegations that we had unethically gotten our story by posing as "legal investigators." One of our sources, Jack Scott, joined in with a similar line of attack, conveniently omitting the fact that we'd been working on a book with him about the case.

Two famous left-wing lawyers called us at Rolling Stone and vowed we would "never publish again." The local head of the FBI told Howard he would "cut us off at the knees" if we dared to publish any more stories embarrassing the Bureau.

Left-wing "friends" all over the Bay Area denounced us in harsh terms. One of the girls I knew from SunDance days, had since gotten romantically involved with the domestic terror group that had kidnapped and converted Patty Hearst; she got through to me on the phone and told me that I would be shot and killed.

It seemed like virtually everyone I knew was abandoning me but not Ken Kelley. "We've got work to do," he explained. "Let's get going." 

And he proceeded to devise a brilliant counter attack against our enemies in the battle for public opinion. Damaging information about Jack Scott, the Hearst empire, and the FBI started appearing in Herb Caen's daily column. Pieces sounding at least faint praise for our reporting methods started finding outlets. A few supporters on the left (very few) spoke out somewhat on our behalf.

Gradually we won the war of public opinion. Over the subsequent months, I started developing thicker skin, and more importantly, a more critical eye at the concept that I needed anyone else's approval to do what I thought was right. 

It was my dear and most loyal of friends, Ken Kelley, who helped me get myself back from that terrible feeling of being only another of society's outcasts. The irony in this, of course, is that Ken was himself always the consummate outcast; yet, as my loyal friend, he knew that this was not the right place for me to end up.

When somebody passes away, I know that you are supposed to say, "May his soul rest in peace." But somehow that doesn't feel right in Ken's case. So I'll just close with this: "I loved you, my friend. May your soul be dancing happily out there, wherever you've gone to, laughing your loudest laugh, flying skyward at the speed of light."

Because there never was a place that could contain my friend Ken

Good-bye, Ken.

LINKS:

 

Sunday, January 15, 2023

Leaky Town

"When one side only of a story is heard and often repeated, the human mind becomes impressed with it insensibly." —George Washington, January 22, 1795

***

One of the biggest open secrets inside the Beltway revolves around what is deemed “classified” information and who has access to it. The official line spouted by bureaucrats is that the many layers of “secret,” “top-secret” and so forth have grave meaning and import, but the truth on the ground is that information is as much the currency of the nation’s capital as dark money. 

Everybody trades in it.

In fact, there are no secrets there. That is the inescapable conclusion I drew from my short stint as a bureau chief in Washington, D.C. Even I, as a newcomer with few sources inside the administration or Congress, could find out all kinds of things that were supposedly “classified” simply by meeting people for coffee or lunch or (even better) for drinks after work.

Government officials, consultants, lobbyists, activists and reporters were constantly rubbing up against each other (sometimes literally) to acquire secrets that they would duly pass along down the line.

Much like a virus. Or the ultimate “trickle down” theory. Or the kids’ game of “Telephone.”

Of course, to a certain extent this is true of all cities and towns and truck stops. It’s usually called gossip or scuttlebutt. But nowhere in my experience is the chatter more toxic and constant than in the town named after our august first president.

That’s because one’s prestige and social standing in Washington is completely dependent on how close to the sources of perceived power one is, and you can only demonstrate that by sharing tidbits of what they’ve supposedly told you.

A con-man might imagine he could thrive in such an environment. (Just ask George Santos.)

So it is essentially one big candy store for journalists. The only tricky thing is finding corroboration — single-source stories abound.

All of which is a way of saying that the whole current hullabaloo over Biden’s possession of a few classified documents, Trump’s possession of a few more, or even Hillary Clinton’s computer stash back in the day, all are pretty much overblown when referred to as finger-wagging “scandals.”

Of course those guys have tried to get their hands on material that could benefit them personally and politically — before, during and after leaving office. They are politicians — that’s what they do.

Just remember, during all of this hand-wringing, the line from Casablanca, slightly edited for these purposes: “I’m shocked — shocked — to find that leaking is going on in here!”

LINKS: