Microkhan by Brendan I. Koerner

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An Especially Tricky Lot

January 4th, 2010


Back during our days writing Slate‘s “Explainer” column, we were once asked to tackle a statistically tricky question: Could self-styled moral watchdog William Bennett really have, as he claimed, broken even playing high-stakes slot machines for over a decade? (Quickie answer: Almost certainly not, unless the man is blessed with Ashley Albright levels of luck.) Doing the research on that piece led to an ongoing fascination with the psychology of slot machine players, a topic of much discussion amongst gambling researchers. What is it about those blinking lights, spinning wheels, and teaser payouts that keeps folks rooted on their stools for hours on end? And why does this activity lead to an addiction for some, while others (present company included) can’t stand the thought of spending more than five minutes pulling a one-armed bandits lever?

As it turns out, researchers have been hard-pressed to answer these questions. The reasons for that frustration are compiled in this paper, which also suggests some ways for researchers to obtain better results. Among the suggestions? Get an undercover job:

One way to collect invaluable data is to work in a gaming venue, an approach that has been taken by prominent researchers in this field. For example, Sue Fisher collected all of her observational data while employed behind the change counter of her local amusement arcade. Employment within the environment can be used to establish the researcher’s identity and allow blending into the environment. Slot machine gamblers are usually unaffected by onlooking staff because there is no real risk of staff playing their machine when they have finished their gaming (see “skimming” referred to above). Hence, staff are fully permitted to observe playing behaviour and are often required to do so to be vigilant for fraudulent practices. Furthermore, while submerged in this social world, researchers can gather large amounts of relevant and fruitful information indirectly through participation in the gambling environment. We recently utilised this approach to obtain data and it proved effective.

Clever, but ethical? And might a casino have cause to sue a researcher who used their job to gather scientific data? We wonder if the Food Lion precedent might apply here, though that obviously dealt with journalists rather than academic researchers.

(Image via Casino Snob)

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The Soviet Road Not Taken

January 4th, 2010

For anyone with even a passing interest in cult psychology, San Diego State University’s Jonestown Archive is well worth a thorough gander. Our favorite section, of course, is a compendium of primary sources that date back to Jim Jones’s earliest days in Indiana. Among the choice morsels contained therein is a petition that all members of Jonestown were compelled to sign in 1978. Its title is fairly self-explanatory: “The Undersigned Desire to Emigrate to the Soviet Union.” As the SDSU curatorial materials explain:

Even though Jones discussed other unnamed options for emigration as late as a few weeks before the end of Jonestown, the focus of a projected move quickly fell on the Soviet Union. Jonestown residents were encouraged to take Russian language classes and to greet each other as “Comrade” or by its Russian word “tovarisch.” Jones went so far in one tape from late August 1978 as to insist that everyone was required to say “One phrase in Russian” to be fed that night, and “[i]f you can’t say it, back to the end of the line you’ll go.”

In addition, most of the news which Jones read over the Jonestown loudspeakers came from Eastern Bloc sources, if not Radio Moscow itself. His lengthier analyses – the articles beyond the daily headlines – mostly dealt with the history of the Soviet Union, including its stand against the Nazis in World War II.

Most of the efforts to teach the people of Jonestown some elementary Russian phrases and a general history of Soviet Russia were geared towards the October 2, 1978 arrival of Soviet consular Feodor Timofeyev in Jonestown. The community wanted to showcase its strength and vitality, its allegiance to socialism, and its familiarity with the Russian people whom they said they aspired to join.

The transcript of one of Jones’s Russian lessons can be found here. Such tragic irony in the fact that the very first phrase he wanted his followers to learn was “I want peace.”

(Image via Undercover Black Man)

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Hogmanay

December 31st, 2009


We were all set to do a last “Best of Oh Nine” installment on music, but events have intervened—namely a surprise blizzard here in Atlah, coupled with pressing Microkhan Jr. oversight duties. You can, of course, rifle through the sounds that echoed through our cranium in 2009 by checking out our “Music” tag; Lord knows we ain’t shy about posting whatever’s spinning through our ears, from “Shine Blockas” to “Sally Got a One-Track Mind” to the very finest in Polish funk.

So we’re gonna outro from 2009 with a classic cut from the great King Curtis, a man whose Live at Fillmore West spent countless hours atop our turntable this year, and who was taken from this Earth far, far too soon. Enjoy, thanks a million for your patronage, and see y’all in MMX.

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Best of Oh Nine: Booze

December 30th, 2009


Being anchored to headquarters and relatively penniless meant that the Microkhan clan engaged in much low-brow imbibing throughout 2009. (Think Ballantine in the 22-ounce bottle, and some occasional Jim Beam.) But we’re of the mind that life isn’t worth living with somewhat alcoholic splurging, a mindset that led us to encounter a number of fine beers, wines, and liquors over the past twelve months. Here’s what we wish we could have again and again, bank account and liver wiling:

Southern Tier Unearthly The hoppiest ale we’ve ever quaffed, and a buzz-inducing beast at 11 percent ABV. Like liquid pine mixed with rose petals and Beefeater gin. How we wish it cost less than $9 a bottle, though perhaps that’s for the best.

Laphroaig 18 Big thanks to the compadre who let us sample a dram from his bottle of this magical Scottish elixir. Believe us when we say this tastes like having your face shoved into a clump of wet grass—we mean that as a compliment.

Ommegang Abbey Ale The red label never fails. This is the beer that makes us dream of visiting the Ommegang brewery one of these days. We picture it as the adult version of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. [Read more →]

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What Young Men Still Do

December 30th, 2009


Headhunting of the literal sort figures quite prominently in Now the Hell Will Start, our 386-page labor o’ love. We dedicated an entire chapter to the practice, and thus field frequent questions from readers regarding whether or not the tribal inhabitants of North-East India and northwest Burma still take skulls. Our stock answer is that headhunting petered out after World War II, especially in areas that became heavily Christianized due to Western missionary activity. We did find one credible report of a raid that occurred in Burma in the mid-1990s, but nothing since.

But while organized headhunting may have died out in that part of the world, there seems to remain a cultural tradition that equates heads with dark magic. That, at least, strikes us as the most credible explanation for a beastly crime that just occurred in Assam. The perpetrators made off with the heads of six, including two young children. As noted in our book, the heads of kids were once highly prized as talismans, the logic being that such baubles are especially tough to obtain given the natural protectiveness of parents.

The Assamese case reminded us of one of the best works of reportage we’ve ever encountered: Richard Lloyd Parry’s “What Young Men Do”, which originally appear in Granta 62. It is an account of a headhunting epidemic that swept across Borneo in the late 1990s, when Dayaks committed terrible atrocities against Madurese immigrants. Parry essentially makes the argument that headunting is too woven into the fabric of Dayak life to ever vanish completely, especially since it was considered essential to manhood for untold centuries. This passage, in which Parry speaks with a Dutch missionary, has haunted us for years:

“Father, as a priest, how do you see all this?”

“It’s to difficult to say in two or three words, but to understand you have to go back sixteen years to when I arrived here. Compared to then, all the Dayaks are now Christians. They go to war with a cross. They’ve all bought rosaries. They are not killers.” And then, in English: “It’s very difficult to explain…

“Those involved in the war didn’t want any of it. They did it against their will. They didn’t intend to do anything wrong. They did it all unconsciously. Even if they killed four thousand people, they are not the killers of the Madurese.

“Dayaks have two sets of rules and teachings—the ones of their ancestors, and the rules and regulations set by the government. But when they are under pressure and need to express what they are all feeling in the face of that pressure, they have no choice. They have to go by the ancestral book.”

I asked where the Bible fitted into this.

“It’s difficult to say. Maybe those involved in the situation, deep in a trance based on the teachings of their ancestors, poorly educated…” He shook his head, and began another train of thought. “The educated ones didn’t get involved—they refused that kind of belief…”

I asked: “Is it a sin to cut the heads off Madurese?”

“I cannot see into people’s souls,” said the priest. “I can only see their actions and here I can see that they act together, not on their own, that they act because they believe it is a good thing. I say in church it is wrong to murder, you must save the life of every person living on earth and they understand that, but when it is war…there are other things.”

Parry convincingly argues that a headhunting epidemic will affect Borneo every generation, as young men itch to assert their bona fides. The Indonesian government would thus do well to start gearing up for 2015.

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The Best of Oh Nine: Books*

December 29th, 2009

As with yesterday’s list, the asterisk is in the post title for a very good reason—namely, to tip you off that the titles mentioned below didn’t necessarily come out in 2009. They are, rather, things we read and dug over the past 12 months. Apologies for the relative brevity of the list, but our most common reaction to books this year was “meh.” Perhaps that’s because, due to the nature of our polymathic work, we often read books because they contain esoteric information, not because they’re great literature. But the ones below passed the test by a country mile. In no particular order, and not including the obvious:

The Snakehead: An Epic Tale of the Chinatown Underworld and the American Dream A killer non-fiction account of the whole Golden Venture fiasco, wrapped into a narrative about the human smuggling racket. There were several times throughout when we stopped and simply marveled at the reporting—Patrick Radden Keefe left it all out on the floor with this one.

Papillon The ultimate tale of escape, featuring one of the coolest culture-clash set pieces we’ve ever come across. The movie version pales in comparison.

The Twelve Caesars We struggled with this one for the first hundred pages or so, but the pace picks up once the emperors start turning crazy. We also learned a ton about the minutiae of Roman politics, which in turn shed light on the contemporary Beltway soap opera we now endure. How little has changed in the public sector since the heyday of gladiatorial combat. [Read more →]

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The Mongoose as Showman

December 29th, 2009

We’ll be posting later today about the best books we read in 2009, but we thought we’d start the day by shouting out a book sure to be atop our to-read list for the coming months: Snake vs. Mongoose: How a Rivalry Changed Drag Racing Forever.

Drag racing owes much of its current success to that rivalry, which pitted Tom “Mongoose” McEwen against Don “Snake” Prudhomme throughout much of the late sixties and early seventies. When the two men started going at it on the strip, drag racing was barely a blip on the public consciousness, a fact that irked McEwen to no end. He thus came up with the idea of giving himself and Prudhomme zoologically correct nicknames, complemented by some insanely awesome helmet art. McEwen, the lesser racer, also volunteered to play the heel to Prudhomme’s face:

“I was the [BSer] and Prudhomme was the racer,” said McEwen. “I’d set up the deals, then we’d go out to the track, and he’d usually beat me. There were times when he was beating me so regularly that the only way I could have beaten him was if he got lost on the way to the track and I got to single.

“We were a good team; we complemented each other. Don was the serious guy, spent a lot of time with his car, and I was more like the wrestlers today; saying how bad I was going to beat him to build interest in the deal.”

That “deal” eventually led to a celebrated series of Hot Wheels, which led to drag racing’s growing popularity throughout the seventies. Little did most of the new fans realize that the Snake vs. Mongoose rivalry was pure showmanship, to the point that McEwen and Prudhomme were actually legal business partners—an arrangement akin to Larry Bird and Magic Johnson secretly playing for the same team during the eighties.

A few vintage clips of the Snake and Mongoose doing battle can be found in this drag-racing montage, though they’re sandwiched between numerous shots of mind-blowing seventies fashion.

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Best of Oh Nine: Movies*

December 28th, 2009


Before the film geeks among you point out that the photo above is from a movie released in 2005, please note the asterisk. See, our deal is that we didn’t really get out to the theater much this year—blame Microkhan Jr. and the economic decline, both of which conspired to keep us at home much more than we would have liked. So, alas, the bulk of our movie-watching this year was done in the living room, which means we’re ill-equipped to comment on 2009’s celluloid bounty.

But we did make our way through a bunch of classics, overlooked gems, and flicks we just plain missed during their theatrical runs. Our list, then, is a collection of the best movies that flared across our headquarters’ LCD screen this year, thanks to the magic of Netflix. In no particular order:

Pusher 3: I’m the Angel of Death By far our favorite entry in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Pusher trilogy, due to a truly terrific performance by leading man Zlatko Buric. No need to have watched the two preceding films in order to enjoy this one. One caveat, though—it gets ridiculously grisly in the last 15 minutes.

Stray Dog Our first Kurosawa crime flick, but hopefully not our last. The baseball scene alone is worth the price of admission.

Tyson Having grown up smack-dab in the middle of Iron Mike’s reign, we couldn’t resist James Toback’s shamelessly one-sided documentary about our generation’s most feared pugilist. Hearing the ex-champ describe his sexual preferences is something we’re unlikely to soon forget. [Read more →]

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Gravity Denied

December 28th, 2009

Growing up in Los Angeles, we were annually subjected to a series of PSAs cautioning against celebratory gunfire on New Year’s Eve. In fact, we distinctly remember a police officer visiting our elementary school one year before the holiday break, in order to caution us against going outside in the initial minutes after they calendar’s big turn.

The anti-gunfire campaign continues in L.A., though not without yielding some positive results—it’s been ten years since the city’s last fatality ascribed to celebratory shooting. But the LAPD still logs around 150 reports of the potentially lethal practice each year, which makes us wonder whether it’ll ever totally disappear. Given the practice’s surprisingly long history in the U.S., it seems like it might be too woven into our cultural fabric to vanish:

A seventeenth century Virginia law prohibited shooting “any guns at drinking (marriages and funerals only excepted)….” Maryland, in 1642, also ordered that, “No man to discharge 3 guns within the space of ¼ hour… except to give or answer alarm.” Gunshots were the common method of warning neighbors that the Indians were attacking. Because so many people were shooting guns while celebrating, it was impossible to be certain that gunshots indicated an Indian attack.

Colonial Americans did a lot of shooting, and they weren’t always very careful about what direction those shots went. A statute adopted at the Massachusetts 1713-14 legislative session complained, “Whereas by the indiscreet firing of guns laden with shot and ball within the town and harbour of Boston, the lives and limbs of many persons have been lost, and others have been in great danger, as well as other damage has been sustained…” the legislature prohibited firing of any “gun or pistol” in Boston (“the islands thereto belonging excepted”).

Celebratory gunfire is hardly just an American problem, of course. Our comrades in Macedonia also tend to forget the law of gravity when good times roll around.

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The Redemption of Snively

December 24th, 2009


We’re winding it down for Christmas, but not before we leave you with a minor token of our Yuletide gratitude: a clip from Yogi’s First Christmas, undoubtedly the best animated ursine-themed holiday film in existence. We’ve spent years trying to convince the world of this flick’s unheralded magnificence, a crusade which led us to write the following for Slate‘s “Guide to Overlooked Christmas Movies” two years ago:

The movie is far smarter than the standard kiddie dreck. The story, for starters, depends on the viewer possessing at least a passing knowledge of zoology: Yogi Bear and his sidekick Boo-Boo are accidentally aroused from hibernation, allowing them to enjoy their first Yuletide celebration.

When not learning to ski or fending off the lusty Cindy Bear, Yogi stays busy foiling the Grinch-like plans of a spoiled brat named Snively and his trollish associate, Herman the Hermit. When the nasty duo’s resistance to holiday cheer inevitably melts, Yogi deserves all the credit—his message of unconditional love is one that does Christmas’s holy namesake proud.

Yogi’s First Christmas is by no means perfect, and there are headscratching moments of terrible pacing and belief-defying idiocy—how, for example, did Herman learn to fly a helicopter? But for viewers willing to look past the film’s minor flaws, a retro treat awaits.

Okay, that’s enough polymathism for a few days. We’ll see you back here early next week, with more Bulletproof Project, First Contact, and Bangladesh-related posts than you can possibly handle. Khan’s honor.

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Twinkies for Peace

December 23rd, 2009

Staying on the food-taboo theme, we recommend this recent paper from the eternally irresistible Journal of Ethnobiology and Ethnomedicine. The whole thing is worth a read, especially the authors’ various theories regarding why taboos exist. Our favorite nugget comes in the section dedicated to explaining why taboos may have formed to protect human health:

Eating to regulate emotions has been listed as one of the five classes of “emotion-induced changes of eating” by Macht and IgE-mediated atopic diseases are known to be associated with depression and suicide rate. An increase of unsaturated fatty acids in the diet has been found to be correlated with decreased violent behaviour and an exposure to sunflower seeds and colorants derived from the fungus Monascus ruber can cause asthma attacks. Finally, low glycaemic meals have been reported to improve memory and ability to sustain attention, features that might not have gone unnoticed by our forebears in earlier times and could have led to the avoidance or recommendation not to consume certain food items.

As you can tell by our bolding, it’s the bit about fatty acids that struck a chord with us. If our species is, indeed, hard-wired to favor unsaturated fatty acids as a means of increasing social cohesion, that might go a long way toward explaining some recent trends. Keep in mind that food scientists only recently discovered that unsaturated fatty acids could be made more shelf stable by partially hydrogenating them—a process that results in tasty foods that wreak havoc on our internal circuitry. Instinctively drawn toward these foods, then, our waistlines expand as our crime rate declines.

So perhaps more policing and tougher sentencing isn’t the solution to violent crime. A carpet bombing of Little Debbie products may do the trick much more efficiently.

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Love Those Arthropods at Popeyes

December 22nd, 2009


A comment on an otherwise forgettable post just got us thinking: isn’t there something completely random about the Western culinary take on arthropods? We have apparently decided to feast on only one of the phylum’s four remaining subphyllum—Crustacea. But we gag at the thought of eating the terrestrial cousins of shrimp, lobsters, and crayfish. Why is that? Why not a nice, crispy scorpion every now and again, in lieu of beef or chicken?

Don’t say it’s because of toxicity—a scorpion’s poison is quickly neutralized by frying. And as far as we can tell by looking through the genetic data, crayfish and scorpions share a remarkable amount of DNA.

Our hunch is that each culture develops its dietary taboos out of early experience, and that those taboos persist even after technology has rendered them no longer useful. Back in the day, it probably make perfect sense to avoid messing with scorpions; but now that the critters can be safely farmed, we still have yet to adjust our perceptions. Cultural memory lingers.

A nice video of a man sampling scorpion here. We wonder how the dish compares, tastewise, with Popeyes Crawfish Tackle Box.

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Back from the Land of Shadows

December 22nd, 2009


Upon recently hearing the classic Super Cat track “Scalp Dem” on WeFunk, we were reminded of a curious incident in dancehall history: Super Cat’s resurrection from the dead.

Okay, perhaps it wasn’t quite as dramatic as alll that. But back in May of 1997, the wire services ran a story stating that Super Cat had been mortally wounded during a Brooklyn holdup. This wasn’t mere Jeff Goldblum tomfoolery, but rather a legit news item confirmed by a New York Police Department spokesman. Within hours, though, it became clear that the victim was not Super Cat—perhaps someone at the hospital had a copy of Boops! lying around, and realized that the dying young man on the table wasn’t the Jamaican dancehall king.

Remembering this tale got us thinking: how many other times throughout history have rumors of a person’s demise been greatly exaggerated? Or not rumors, necessarily, but ostensibly reported-out media obituaries. We all know about that famous incident involving Mark Twain, but there have been plenty of other times when the Reaper’s arrival has been reported prematurely.

The one that stands out to us, though, is the case of Kate Webb, a Kiwi war correspondent who was captured in Cambodia in 1971:

Catherine M. (Kate) Webb, United Press International bureau manager in Phnom Penh missing since April 7 and feared dead was freed Saturday by Communist led forces…

She and her driver and a free-lance photographer were accompanying Cambodian paratroopers near Pieh Nil Pass when enemy troops attacked. The Cambodians fell back and one partrooper told other newsmen he saw enemy soldiers grab Miss Webb and drag her into the jungle.

Cambodian units returned to the scene of the fight eight days later and said they found the body of a foreign woman with extensive head wounds. It was presumed that the victim was Miss Webb.

In fact, that body was cremated and the ashes returned to Webb’s parents in New Zealand. We can only imagine their joy and shock upon learning weeks later that their daughter was alive, and free.

Several months back, we posted about the only “survivor” of Pan Am Flight 103—a man who missed the plane by five minutes, due to the fact that he was downing pints of Carlsberg with pals at the airport bar. He spoke of how the incident changed him, making him less materialistic and more spiritual. Do the loved ones of those who’ve “returned” from The Great Beyond undergo similar changes? And how do they deal with receiving a gift so many millions regularly pray for—a second chance at a relationship that seemed permanently broken by death?

Paging Michael Apted. Please tackle this issue in your next multi-decade documetary series.

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For the Grand Empress Who Has Everything

December 21st, 2009


Perhaps you think our khanic nature means that we’re firm believers in Tengriism, and thus won’t be sitting around the Christmas tree come Friday morning. But that’s not the case at all—while we do have a soft spot for Umay, we’re also big on the holiday spirit. Christmas will be roundly celebrated up here in Atlah, with egg nog and and a Big Wheel for Microkhan Jr.

But what to do about the Grand Empress? We’re heading out now to do some last-minute shopping, seeing as how we’ve yet to buy her a single gift. Might any readers advise us on what to get a Dirty Doll? Keeping in mind, of course, that we’re pretty close to flat broke. Bayarlalaa, good sirs and madams.

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Farewell, Dynamite

December 21st, 2009

Vladimir TurchinskySad news out of Moscow, as word comes that Vladimir “Dynamite” Turchinsky has passed on. For those unfamiliar with the realm of Russian bodybuilding and/or action films, Turchinsky could legitimately lay claim to the title of “The Schwarzenegger of the East,” having transitioned from a successful athletic career to cinematic stardom. He also had an interesting sideline business in setting Guinness World Records:

[Turchinsky] is included in the Guinness book of records for pulling a double-decker bus weighing 20 tonnes for 100 meters with only his left hand. He also managed to budge the 260-tonne-strong Ruslan cargo plane.

Turchinsky’s death should at least caution wealthy Muscovites against indulging in plasmapheresis, a blood-doping procedure that supposedly rejuvenates the body. The same lesson noted in the post below applies here, too: just because something sounds medically logical doesn’t mean it is.

A touching video tribute to Dynamite can be found here. We can only hope there are ample barbells in that Great Gym in the Sky.

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The Stickiness of Folkways

December 21st, 2009

A Jamaican doctor has found that an alarmingly large number of her nation’s mothers aren’t breastfeeding like they should—not because they’ve been swayed by formula ads, but rather due to the persistence of several toxic myths of indeterminate origin. Chief among these? The belief that “infants needs bush tea to clear their stomach in the mornings.”

It’s discouraging to note that this is hardly the first time Jamaica’s health authorities have raised the red flag regarding the tea myth. Back in 1982, the practice was blamed for contributing mightily to the nation’s high infant mortality rate. Yet there has been little improvement in that rate over the past two decades, at least among children younger than 12 months.

We can’t help but wonder why the tea myth persists. Perhaps it’s because our brains are hard-wired to gravitate toward the seemingly obvious, and no number of pointy-headed dudes in lab coats can ever convince us otherwise. The tea myth does, after all, have it’s roots in something both rational and observable to the layperson—the fact that tea is both refreshing and medicinal. And if an infant is nothing but a little human, the logic goes, why wouldn’t he or she derive the same benefits from the drink as mommy? The physician responsible for the latest research in Jamaica neatly summed up the challenges her cohorts face when attempting to educate mothers:

“It’s very difficult in a hot country, when a mother is hot to tell her that her baby is not hot, although you’re trying to say to them, ‘look at what you have eaten versus what the baby has eaten, you have eaten pure solids while the baby has had only liquid, so you’re thirsty, the baby is not’,” Dr Samuda said. “It’s very difficult but it is something we have to work on.”

The good doctor, alas, is up against the same human foible that let bloodletting flourish for roughly two thousand years. Best of luck to her.

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Stallone in Full McBain Mode

December 18th, 2009


We have a complicated relationship with Cobra, and thus hesitated for a beat before deciding to honor it with this week’s Bad Movie Friday showcase spot. To its credit, the movie does a fine job of conjuring up a psycho murder cult, the members of which gather in warehouses to bang together axes in rhythmic unison. But Sly Stallone’s performance here is beyond unsubtle, and the movie’s message deeply odious. The New York Times nailed it back in 1986:

This film shows such contempt for the most basic American values embodied in the concept of a fair trial that Mr. Stallone no longer, even nominally, represents an ideology that is recognizably American. In one scene Cobra pours gasoline over his enemy. ”You have the right to remain silent,” he sneers contemptuously, right before he throws the lighted match that sets his foe on fire. Later the archvillain, a character that is a cross between a James Bond fantasy villain such as Jaws and a raging psychopath, delivers a scorching monologue – a feat of linguistic sophistication that Cobra would have a hard time matching. The murderer depicts the legal civilities that force police to try to arrest prisoners and deliver them to the courts for trial as idiotic. ”The courts are civilized,” the villain says derisively. ”I’m not civilized,” Cobra answers, getting right to the point. ”This is where the law stops and I begin.”

A quick shot of Cobra’s office reveals an enormous portrait of President Reagan on his wall. This touch is probably meant to call up associations between Cobra and the President, but it does the opposite. The only places in which offices routinely have overblown portraits of the heads of Government are Eastern European Communist countries or dictatorships elsewhere in the world – the kinds of countries where Government officials mock the idea that everyone deserves a fair trial – just as Cobra does.

If you have a spare minute, by the way, we highly recommend this 60-second summary of the flick.

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The Toothache Glyph

December 18th, 2009

MayanHieroglyphs
With all the 2012 hooey certain to kick into ever-higher gear over the coming months, it’s worth taking a look back at how we learned of the Mayans’ paranoia in the first place. That means checking in with one of the great heroes of hieroglyphics decipherment, Tatiana Proskouriakoff, who first figured out that Mayan stelae were historical chronicles, rather than imagistic prophecy. The Tubes now contain a copy of her milestone 1961 article on the topic, which is a must-read for any and all linguistics junkies:

If the “upended frog” date is a birth date, the fact that it was celebrated for only a limited period suggests that that period was the person’s lifetime, and effectively refutes my original notion that the “toothache glyph” expresses the human sacrifice shown on the “niche” stelae. More likely, thee stelae portray the accession of a new ruler, the “seating on high of the Lord,” as the Maya books put it. Subsequent stelae, too, are probably portraits of the lord.

For the record, we are so dubious on the 2012 stuff that we’re willing to make y’all a wager: if the world is, indeed, incinerated two years hence, we will give each and every one of your a free Microkhan mesh hat. It’s the perfect headgear for the apocalypse.

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The Pause That RefreshesDetoxes

December 18th, 2009

CocaColaMorphineAddictionA debate over the best-ever Coca-Cola slogan recently led us to this useful list, which contains some ad-speak that likely wouldn’t pass muster on today’s Madison Avenue. Our favorite archaic slogan is the one from 1906: “The great national temperance beverage.” This struck us as more than a little humorous, given Coca-Cola’s roots as a cocaine-laced wine—one that its creator, John Stith Pemberton, used as a balm for his own crippling morphine addiction:

Pemberton had a personal reason for his interest in coca as a cure for morphine addiction: he was probably using French Wine Coca in an attempt to break his own habit. Three people associated with him in the final year of his life stated categorically that Pemberton was an addict. J.C. Mayfield recalled under oath that “Dr. Pemberton was in bad health. We did not know at the time what was the matter with him, but it developed that he was a drug fiend.” Mayfield’s ex-wife wrote that Pemberton was “for years addicted to the morphine habit.”

“Morphinism,” as it was then called, was increasingly prevalent, particularly among physicians and pharmacists. The importation of opium to the U.S. had increased dramatically, from almost 146,000 pounds in 1867 to over 500,000 pounds in 1880. Advertisements purporting to offer cures for the habit appeared frequently in Atlanta papers.

Yet despite his addiction, Pemberton was able to launch a company now worth billions of dollars. Perhaps that says something about the ability of addicts to function within society—could Pemberton’s case be a small argument in favor of managing addiction, rather than sticking with our current zero tolerance approach? This is not to suggest that morphine was good for Pemberton’s long-term health—his years of use eventually caught up with him. But what if that use had been managed within a health system, rather than something he took great pains to conceal? It’s enough to make one question whether methadone maintenance is really worth the trouble. Maybe those Canadians are on to something after all.

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Thanks for Your Patience

December 17th, 2009


Our pressing Wired deadline hits in exactly four hours for now, so we’re scrambling. Thanks for putting up with our relative lack of thoughtlessness these past few days—we’ve had to dedicate the bulk of our mental bandwidth to Kenya-related matters, for the good of the whole Microkhan crew. As we lean for the finish-line tape, please enjoy the classic track above, from arguably the most underrated female rapper in history.

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Bulletproof: The Tadtad

December 17th, 2009

Tadtad
Our semi-regular Bulletproof Project today takes us to the southern Philippines, specifically the perpetually conflict-addled island of Mindanao. It is there that a family of quasi-Christian cults collectively known as the Tadtad (“Chop Chop”) flourish, and occasionally wreak bloody havoc on the unfortunate populace.

The Tadtad remind us a bit of Uganda’s Lord’s Resistance Army, in that they’ve combined Christian doctrine, ancient shamanism, and Fascist radicalism into one awful cocktail. Like the other movements we’ve chronicled in this series, the Tadtad is able to attract young recruits by promising them a comic-book power—the ability to render bullets harmless. The various groups that constitute the Tadtad whole each favors a different approach to granting this power—amulets made of human kneecaps, t-shirts bearing Latin inscriptions, various anointing oils. Yet no matter what a group’s method, the end result is always the same—misguided kids get killed, and the leaders stand ready with excuses as to why their magic didn’t work:

Sixteen cultists who died in a fierce clash Friday with lawmen believed they were invincible against bullets, but their ”magical powers” did not work because many of them were sinners, the leader of the Catholic God’s Spirit cult said yesterday.

Alfredo Obsioma, 44, leader of the 300-member cult, said the 16 who were killed were disloyal followers who had ignored his advice not to fight the team of law enforcers who had come to arrest one of the cultists.

Four civilian militiamen also died in Friday’s encounter at the cult’s colony in Barangay Kimanait, Pangantucan town.

”They (the cult members) sinned. They had vices and above all, they resorted to violence,” Obsioma told the INQUIRER here…

Obsioma, a former Army soldier, said amulets made of paper scribbled with Latin prayers would have been enough to make his followers invincible to bullets.

”But the amulets are only for the good. They are not supposed to be used for evil,” he said.

He said the slain cult members had ignored his advice not to attack the police team, who had gone to the colony to arrest cult member Roberto Madrina Jr. Madrina was wanted on a charge of frustrated murder for stabbing a certain Patricio dela Cruz in a nearby village in 1989.

”They were emboldened by the idea that bullets would not harm them. They were mistaken,” Obsioma said in the vernacular.

”They lost their power when they disobeyed me,” he said.

We’d be curious to know what Obsioma’s excuse is when his charges inevitably perish while fighting under orders.

By the way, we highly recommend this 2000 Atlantic piece about the Tadtad, in which it’s revealed that a certain cult maintains its invincibility by only attacking on Mondays and Thursdays.

(Image via Robert Gumpert)

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Kenya, Continued

December 16th, 2009


Still plugging away on the Kenya piece for Wired, so few if any deep thoughts this afternoon. Fortunately, The Tubes provide us with a quick and easy way to keep the Microkhan mojo going—namely, the priceless ad above for C-3PO cereal. This breakfast treat not only further lined George Lucas’s burgeoning pockets with cash; it also inspired one of the most touching paeans we’ve ever encountered. To wit:

I thought I’d feel the same about my miraculously located box of C-3P0’s as I did as a child, but I don’t. I can look into it, figuratively transform it into a crystal ball and remember things I otherwise never would’ve remembered, but no, it’s not the same. Might have something to do with how much I’ve changed, and how my priorities have changed, or maybe it’s just because I can’t eat it. I’ve taken away one lesson, small as it may be, and consider learning it well worth the eighty-five thousand dollars I spent to get old cereal.

It’s okay to pretend. I’m not hurting anybody.

C-3PO didn’t only want to fill you with essential vitamins and minerals shortly after dawn; he also wanted you to give up the Pall Malls.

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Let There Be Hydroelectricity

December 16th, 2009

Romanian Electricity StatueExplicitly Communist architecture gets a unfairly bad rap from critics. Sure, builders behind the Iron Curtain were overly fond of dismal panelaks and other multi-dwelling units that reeked of dingy misery. But when the last true believers in the dictatorship of the proletariat decided to go the triumphalist route, man, did they ever pull it off with quirky verve.

The most famous example of this may be the equestrian statue on Prague’s Vitkov Hill, which actually conceals a secret meeting room where party apparatchiks once gathered to machinate. (We know this because we once snuck into said room circa 1996, only to discover the filming of an English-language Pepsi commercial.) But our favorite example of triumphal Communist architecture is definitely the Prometheus statue at Romania’s Vidraru Dam. What better way to celebrate man’s mastery over flowing water than by commissioning Constantin Popovici to build a 10-meter-high statue of the man who gave us the gift of fire (and subsequently paid for this transgression in the most grisly fashion imaginable)?

We probably shouldn’t have expected anything less than grandeur from Nicolae Ceausescu, though. The man definitely had a thing for oversized structures; pity that he didn’t dedicate similar passion to ratcheting down his own evil quotient.

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Swamped With Kenya

December 15th, 2009


Pressing Wired deadline, so we’re checking out for a spell. Enjoy the above in our absence; we’ll return as soon as we sort out these monster edits.

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Are You Having a Laugh?

December 15th, 2009

Humphry DavyThe abundance of museums dedicated to the history of anesthesia is really something to behold. While we certainly can’t deny the landmark nature of this medical wonder, we were a bit bowled over to discover so many institutions dedicated to exalting its virtues and warehousing its antique equipment.

But therein lies Microkhan gold, particularly the archival materials related to medicine’s surprisingly longtime reliance on nitrous oxide. Before it was relegated to the dentist’s office (and pre-concert parking lots), laughing gas was used in all manner of medical procedures—particularly during childbirth, when women were allowed to self-administer as much nitrous as they desired. Given the substance’s quasi-spiritual effects, we can only imagine that mixing it into nature’s most mind-blowing event changed more than a few philosophical outlooks.

Our recent research into the history of nitrous oxide inevitably led us to the text that started it all, way back in 1800: Sir Humphry Davy’s fantastically titled Researches, Chemical and Philosophical; Chiefly Concerning Nitrous Oxide, or Dephlogisticated Nitrous Air, and Its Respiration. This was the first study of the effects of nitrous on human subjects, and its section dedicated to self-reports is a must-read. One of our favorite accounts comes from a man named James Thomson, who was obviously deeply affected by his laughing-gas bender:

My inspirations became uncommonly full and strong, attended with a thrilling sensation about the chest, highly pleasurable, which increased to such a degree as to induce a fit of involuntary laughter, which I endeavored to repress. I felt a flight of giddiness which lasted a few moments only. My inspirations now became more vehement and frequent; and I inhaled the air with an avidity strongly indicative of the pleasure I received. That peculiar thrill which I had at first experienced at the chest now pervaded my whole frame; and during the two or three last inspirations, was attended with a remarkable tingling in my fingers and toes. My feelings at this moment are not to be described: I felt a high, an extraordinary degree of pleasure, different from that produced by wine, being divested of all its gross accompaniments, and yet approaching nearer to it than any other sensation I am acquainted with…

It is extremely difficult to convey to others by means of words, any idea of a particular sensations, of which they have had no experience. It can only be done by making use of such terms as are expressive of sensations that resemble them, and in these our vocabulary is defective. To be able at all to comprehend the effects of nitrous oxide, it is necessary to respire it, and after that, we must either invent new terms to express these new and particular sensations, or attach new ideas to old ones, before we can communicate intelligibly with each other on the operation of this extraordinary gas.

If only Mr. Thomson had lived to hear Stars of the Lid.

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The Bridge Factor

December 14th, 2009

Suicide and Bridges
In the course of questioning the utility of suicide-proof barriers on bridges, a political scientist makes an intriguing observation:

In order to determine if exposure to bridges increases the suicide rate, I examined the relationship between the suicide rate and the number of bridges likely to attract suicidal individuals in all 50 states plus Washington D.C. from 1979 through 2004 (the only years for which complete data was available). Bridges likely to attract suicide victims were defined as those bridges over 30 meters (about 98 feet) high with pedestrian access. In order to statistically test the relationship between the number of bridges and the suicide rate in a state in a given year, I use a technique known as linear regression. Essentially, this is the process of fitting a trend line to a scatter plot of data, and then testing to see if the trend line has a positive, zero, or negative slope. If increased exposure to bridges leads to more suicides, we would expect to see more suicides in states that have more bridges, and thus a positively sloping trend line.

This figure reveals that there is a negative relationship between the overall suicide rate and the number of bridges in a state, exactly the opposite of the relationship we would expect to see if bridges helped cause suicides and suicide prevention barriers saved lives. It does not seem plausible that increasing the number of bridges in a state would directly reduce the suicide rate – instead, the number of bridges in a state may be a proxy for some other factor that reduces the suicide rate (such as a robust state economy). At any rate, there is no evidence to suggest that increased exposure to bridges increases the suicide rate.

The author then makes a leap to contend that this means barriers have little effect, since people intent on suicide will simply find another way of bringing about their own demise. While we’re not entirely sold on that line of argument, we have previously made clear that decades worth of anti-suicide measures seem to have done little to affect America’s overall suicide rate. So clearly whatever we’re doing now isn’t working as well as we’d hope.

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Plywood Savior

December 14th, 2009


Upon re-watching the infamous Arthur Digby Sellers scene in The Big Lebowski, we were recently motivated to check into the history of iron lungs. To our amazement, the archaic contraption recently received a shout-out in a Central Illinois newspaper, which recalled the invention of a more eco-friendly alternative: the wooden lung:

The six-foot-long wooden lung was built from materials “you’d find in any hardware store or lumber shop in any one horse town,” noted Ralph C. Osborn, Eureka Williams vice president of engineering. The “Bloomington lung” was put together using, among other items, household electrical switches; a washing machine motor and gear box; an inner tube from a tractor tire; a wash tub; an alarm clock; and the aforementioned plywood.

On Aug. 10, [1949], the machine was put to an unexpected life-and-death test. That night, 8-year-old Rudy Landherr of the Whiteside County community of Morrison arrived at St. Joseph’s to find both iron lungs occupied. With paint still drying on the plywood, hospital staff realized they had no other choice than to use the wooden lung. Landherr remained inside the cobbled-together machine through the night, unable to breathe without it. The next morning he was moved to an iron lung when one became available.

Popular Mechanics would later advise its readers how to build DIY versions of the machine. And even once polio ceased to be much of a threat in North America, fabrication geeks kept at it—just check out the video above, filmed in 1979.

We now wonder, sadly, if this sort of technology has to be brought out of mothballs, given the recent uptick in polio cases in the developing world.

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The Beard of Destiny

December 14th, 2009

Clint Session Beard
As is made clear in our mission statement, management reserves the right to occasionally drop the fascination with esoterica in favor of talking pro football (the American kind). Let us now invoke that right in order to discuss our beloved Indianapolis Colts, who yesterday clinched the top seed in the AFC playoffs.

This accomplishment brings us a modicum of joy, but perhaps a great deal less than in years past. That’s not because we’ve lost our passion for the team, but rather due to the fact that repeated playoff failures have soured us on the import of regular-season success. We have extremely traumatic memories of losing to the Steelers in the 2005 divisional playoff game, after posting a 14-2 record. And don’t get us started on last year’s overtime loss to San Diego, in which we were done in by a punter.

So color us pessimistic at this point. That said, we are encouraged by one significant omen this season: the incredible beard now being sported by linebacker Clint Session (above). It took us a while to place our finger on why this beard is great, but we finally figured it out: Session is obviously taking his facial-hair cue from Gregory Peck’s version of Captain Ahab. This thrills us to no end, seeing as how Moby-Dick is one of our favorite books of all time. If Session is bringing some Ahab into the Colts’ locker room, could that mean the team is about to reward our years of devotion with another Super Bowl ring?

On the other hand, Ahab does end up missing out on his grand prize. But we’ll pretend that Session’s beard merely signals that our team is on the correct wavelength, rather than doomed to disaster due to someone’s maniacal obsession with the unobtainable.

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Watch for Falling Rocks

December 11th, 2009


We’re more than a little ashamed to admit we remember the brief Ewok craze of the mid-1980s, when two made-for-TV follow-ups to Return of the Jedi hit the tube. While we realize now that the Ewoks were a harbinger of the soul-crushing awfulness of Jar-Jar Binks, we were suckers for the furry critters back in the day. Yet even as wide-eyed fourth graders, we were disappointed with The Ewok Adventure and its Wilford Brimley-starring sequel, Ewoks: The Battle for Endor. The nine-year-old brain is surprisingly capable of sensing when an artist is just milking it.

Yet these movies represented the brief heyday for actor Eric Walker, who continues to live on the small glory he accrued in the role of Mace. In fact, he now appears to earn his living on the convention circuit—check out his website, the splash page of which features this unforgettable testament to the Ewoks’ mysterious allure:

Beyond the good vs evil narrative element, the human message within the Ewok films reminds us of the importance of virtue and the sacred principles of family. We see this in Mace’s brotherly love for his little sister Cindel Towani, (played by Aubree Miller), and their desperate search for their parents. And certainly in some way with each sci-fi convention appearance, Eric brings the nobility and charm of Mace Towani with him. Eric has embraced what has become an ongoing celebration and recognition of a lesser known but truly essential part of the Star Wars universe. And in doing that he brings a palpable excitement not lost in the shadows of things past, but of those things we hold so precious. Things like the dreams of our youth, the ever lasting mystery of imagination, the freedom to still dream, and the un-compromising depth of adventure.

The site’s convention pictures are highly, highly recommended.

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The Reaper Runs Roughshod

December 11th, 2009

Marshall Islands
One of the happier trends these days is the general improvement in human life expectancy, even in nations that are suffering through armed conflict, natural disasters, or other great misfortunes. Believe it or not, for example, the average life expectancy in Afghanistan has actually increased steadily in recent years, as has the hallowed figure in such tough locales as Burkina Faso, Haiti, and Timor-Leste. (You can graph any nation’s life expectancy over time with this handy Google tool.)

But the picture is not universally rosy. In most cases, the dips in life expectancy have been temporary, and easy to ascribe to factors such as war or internal turmoil. Many of the former Soviet republics, for example, experienced huge declines in life expectancy in the mid-1990s, primarily because their health-care sectors disintegrated overnight. (The excess vodka probably didn’t help, either.)

Much tougher to explain away, however, is the slow, steady, and long-term decline of life expectancy in several South Pacific nations. Most notable among these cases is that of the Marshall Islands, where the average life expectancy has declined about five years since 1987. Strangely, this decline has taken place even as the nation’s infant mortality rates have improved.

So what gives out there just west of the International Date Line? We thought the legacy of 1950s nuclear testing might factor into the equation, but the authors of this 2004 study from the International Journal of Epidemiology have a different hyopthesis regarding the mortality enigma in the South Pacific:

Pacific Island countries show highly variable patterns of mortality. Whereas high-mortality populations are affected particularly by infectious diseases and undernutrition (especially in children), low-mortality countries are afflicted with noncommunicable diseases and injuries in adults. However, even the least developed, high-mortality countries show urban–rural differentials, with noncommunicable diseases emerging as health problems in urban areas. In Nauru, noncommunicable diseases and accidents, particularly for males, are sufficiently problematic to greatly increase adult mortality and reduce life expectancy. This cause-structure of mortality also explains wide sex differentials in death rates, with much higher death rates in males.

The layman’s interpretation here might be that shifts in the population’s diet have increased the number of heart-disease deaths, while agricultural workers too rarely receive immediate medical treatment for life-threatening injuries. Both of these mortality factors could be easily addressed, given the political will and sufficient (albeit relatively paltry) outside funding. Maybe it’s time for the Marshall Islands government to call in the marker it’s earned by supporting Taiwan all these years.

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