Pharyngula
Evolution, development, and random biological ejaculations from a godless liberal
Stanford University is rich — $30 billion endowment, all that silicon valley money flowing their way — and you’d think that would translate into well-supported education. Working against that, though, is that universities, even private universities, tend to be ruled by regents chosen for their wealth and conservative bias, and somehow they always decide against egalitarianism and education. Senior faculty also become jealous and protective of their privilege, and can do great harm to their discipline. That’s how great universities erode into mediocrity.
So now the university has decided to terminate a prestigious creative writing program.
I want to add more detail below to the decision made last week by Stanford University: All twenty-three Creative Writing Lecturers were told they’d be fired, some this academic year, some next academic year. This is a group of lecturers who have — along with our students — built one of the top CW programs in the country, and who have done so with very little university support over the last four years, since the death of our fierce, mighty, and visionary program director Eavan Boland.
Creative writing programs are an important part of a liberal arts curriculum. I can tell you having taught creative writing, a lot of students have a dull, plodding approach to writing and it takes a great deal of effort to teach them to add a little fire or music to their writing. Stanford can afford to maintain a great creative writing program, but apparently doesn’t want to. Why? There are hints in the pattern of firings.
- The Jones Lecturers asked for a raise in 2023 (many lecturers made around $52,000), and exactly a year later, all of the lecturers who asked for pay raise were told they’d be fired. This seems beyond suspicious to us and to our students, and is in fact outrageous.
- The deans and our own director clearly indicated in the August 21 meeting that we would be replaced with younger and lower-paid lecturers. This is also evident in the university’s online statement here. Again, completely outrageous.
- It was the Senior Professors of our Creative Writing Program who voted to fire us, their junior colleagues, but interestingly… it was only the MALE professors who voted to fire us. Not one woman professor voted to fire the Jones Lecturers. And the decision to fire us was clearly not unanimous, and in fact received pushback from the English Department and in other quarters in the university.
Oh. They fired all the professors who had dared to ask for a raise ($52K/year would be a stretch in Morris, Minnesota, but Palo Alto? Insane), they are completely changing the program to be taught by adjuncts with one-year appointments, and huh…it was the men among the senior professoriate who decided to kill the program.
They’re turning a bunch of skilled writers loose with a solid dose of resentment? That’s a great way to build your brand, Stanford.
I am a cruel and terrible spiderlord. I have just been overwhelmed with these black widows, which are awesomely fertile. The two adults I have just produced two more egg sacs! There’s a hundred spiderlings in each, and every few weeks another sac erupts and produces a spiderling swarm! I have limited capacity to incubate the horde (although I am getting another incubator from a colleague soon), and also, these are black widows — I have to be careful to prevent any escapes onto campus.
My horrible solution so far is to take advantage of the fact that I have the mothers in a large cage with lots of room for the sprawling horde, and I go in and scoop out a lucky few spiderlings to live in separate vials, and, terrible as it sounds, leave the rest to die. Or maybe die. I’m a softie, so I do shake out a bunch of fruit flies into the container — but not enough to feed a population of hundreds. I figured that eventually they’d winnow down to manageable numbers without any intervention on my part.
I did not take cannibalism into account.
What I’m seeing is that there’s an unexpected distribution of spiderling sizes. The majority are tiny, some are getting large, and a few are getting to sub-adult size. What are they eating? Sure, I’m throwing in some fruit flies, but not really enough to plump up a lot of adults. Therefore, the bully spiderlings must be killing and eating their smaller peers, and growing to a larger size that allows more bullying and sibling murder. Conceptually, it’s a bit horrific.
Today I broke down and decided to distract the bigger spiderlings with a larger, non-conspecific meal, and gave them some mealworms.
The mealworm is in the center, and looming over it with a massive leg span is the young Flashman of this mob, dining on this lovely non-arachnid flavored meal. You can also see the cloud of small juveniles all over the place.
This is not my ideal solution. In the future, I’d like to isolate each egg sac as they’re produced, and control the population more precisely, but I can’t do that now. There’s a new egg sac in this container right now, but it’s in the middle of a tangle of sticky cobwebs, guarded by a fierce mama spider, and to get to it I’d have to stick my hand into this scurrying mass of spiderlings. I’m not worried about getting bitten, but more concerned that I have to make sure no one escapes.
I am aware that this is actually a good problem for an evil spiderlord to have.
There are two kinds of parents. 1) The ones who want their children to follow in their footsteps, take over the family business, continue their tradition as a farrier or door-to-door salesman or whatever. They live in dread that their child might turn out different, leave their faith, or someday disagree with their opinions. 2) The ones who encourage their kids to explore and develop their own interests and find happiness in their own skin. Guess what kind Richard Hanania would be if he, god forbid, were a parent?
The disclaimer that I’m for women living the lives they want
is negated by the fact that he’s calling a successful young woman living the life she wants the nightmare scenario
.
Just as the entire Republican party is echoing Hanania’s racism, they also share a love of misogyny.
Last week, Ann Coulter and other Republican bottom-feeders grossed normal people out by mocking Guz Walz for getting emotional during his dad’s speech at the Democratic National Convention (DNC). The insults didn’t just prove that the self-appointed protectors of “family values” wouldn’t know a loving family if they saw one. It was a reminder that the Trump campaign’s strategy continues to be appealing to ugly, bitter people with a message of resentment.
But the Walzes aren’t the only family whose evident happiness infuriates the extremely online MAGA movement. Harris’ family has drawn ire, as well. Especially her stepdaughter, 25-year-old model and designer Ella Emhoff, whose creativity, beauty, and easygoing love for her family has sent many on the right into paroxysms of rage. The daughter of Harris’ husband, Doug Emhoff, triggers the incel-minded online right by being a Brooklyn hipster who rejects the tiresome conservative rules for how women are allowed to dress or behave. In response, Donald Trump’s fanboys are in a total meltdown, unable to accept the existence of a woman who doesn’t care what they think of her. And they can’t hide that they’re furious that she looks great doing so.
In the real world, Ella Emhoff, who graduated from Parsons School of Design and has a modeling contract with IMG, is being declared “a fashion icon” for her effortless pairing of high fashion with her quirky tastes.
I guess I’m in category 2, since my 3 grown children are all living lives nothing like what I would choose for myself, and I’m proud that they’ve done that. Who wants to live in a world where half the people are forced to be tradwives? (Republicans, I guess.)
I should plug Kavin Senapathy’s new book, The Progressive Parent: Harnessing the Power of Science and Social Justice to Raise Awesome Kids.
Richard Hanania and the whole damn Republican party would hate it, which is why you should all run out and order it.
Once upon a time, I accused Nate Silver of being “a numerologist, or a horse race handicapper, and I suspected he was juggling the numbers to fit his expectations”. I was not very perceptive, and I missed the heart of Silver’s problem. He’s a gambling addict. I shouldn’t be surprised.
He has come out with a new book, essentially a confession, titled On the Edge, a 572-page doorstop that is actually a gambling manual. He has this mentality where the purpose of predictions is to win and win big, and he’s constantly angling for the risky bet that pays off on long odds.
This is the blurb for the book.
In the bestselling The Signal and the Noise, Nate Silver showed how forecasting would define the age of Big Data. Now, in this timely and riveting new book, Silver investigates “the River,” the community of like-minded people whose mastery of risk allows them to shape—and dominate—so much of modern life.
These professional risk-takers—poker players and hedge fund managers, crypto true believers and blue-chip art collectors—can teach us much about navigating the uncertainty of the twenty-first century. By immersing himself in the worlds of Doyle Brunson, Peter Thiel, Sam Bankman-Fried, Sam Altman, and many others, Silver offers insight into a range of issues that affect us all, from the frontiers of finance to the future of AI.
I fwowed up in my mouth a little bit. You, too, can be just like these con artists and charlatans — it’s the future of finance and AI!
Here’s the revelation that shocked me.
Whoa. He’s gambling $10,000 a day on basketball? If you had a friend who was throwing away that much on his gambling habit, wouldn’t you take them aside and suggest that they get help?
Notice also that he was churning $1.8 million into his daily betting routine between October and May, and at the end he comes out ahead…by about $5000. That’s some return on investment.
Also, I don’t believe him. I had an uncle who was addicted to betting on horse races, who claimed to have a system, who told me that on average he was coming out ahead, just like Nate Silver’s graph. Unfortunately, he was somehow living in poverty, getting by marginally, unable to afford the basics, and we’d just sometimes learn that he’d made a big score because he’d come home staggeringly drunk. The only people who profit in the long run from gambling are the race track owners and the bookies and the guys who run the liquor concessions.
I will say that hardcore gambling does have one useful outcome: it’s practitioners tend to be pretty glib about rationalizing their results. Somehow I’m not surprised that a gambling addict can write a 572 page book to justify his methods.
Just asking. I inherited this great big pile of 8mm film recordings made by my grandfather and father in the 1960s and 1970s and 1980s, which were pretty much unviewable — have you got an 8mm projector lying around? So I dropped them off at a Walmart Photocenter along with $650 to have them converted to digital. They’re sitting in Seattle right now, and I thought it would be a while until I could see them…but, you know, digital, so I just got an email saying I could view them over this thing called the internet.
Oh my god.
There’s my childhood, laid out in grainy, poorly lit, soundless, washed-out color. Christmases and camping trips, my great-grandparents alive again, my grandfather looking hale and sober, my grandmother middle-aged and strong, my father digging clams and picking up his kids, my mother in her 20s looking good, and all my siblings back again. I only had a few minutes to skim through these hours of film, but later I’ll have to watch them thoroughly and wallow in the old days.
Here, for instance, is me hugging my late brother sometime in the early 1960s.
If I’m found dead, drowned in a puddle of tears later this week, you’ll know what happened.
I’m going to upload these many recordings to YouTube to make them accessible to the rest of my family — no one else in the world will care but these are like jewels of ancient cinematography to me.
My son occasionally sends us photos from his location in the Middle East. I thought living in a small rural town in the Midwest was a little less than stimulating, but here’s sunset in Kuwait.
It looks a little strange because there’s a sandstorm about to blow in. The next day…
Next time we get a blizzard or whiteout, I’ll look at that and think, “it could be worse” (which is a very Minnesota thing to say, by the way.)
It’s that time of year when my wife’s garden bears fruit and it’s my turn to get to work in the kitchen. I get to spend my day rendering tomatoes and peppers and onions and garlic into sauce.
Then I have to prepare a lecture that tries to answer the question, “where did prehistoric people think humans came from.” Fortunately, we have a prehistoric historical document.
I’m such a fool. You’d think competition and privatization would improve the space program, but now we’ve got multiple examples of corporate failure.
I’ve mentioned the embarrassment of Boeing’s Starliner capsule, which seems to be a total piece of junk. It got astronauts up to the International Space Station, but it’s so untrustworthy that they’re considering using SpaceX to rescue them.
Except…Boeing and SpaceX space suits are incompatible. The astronauts might be stuck up there for as much as 8 months, or they can chance it and descend in a capsule with no suits. It’s probably OK. They have an old-fashioned fix: prayer.
Meanwhile, another billionaire has stepped up and is buying a trip into orbit. This is not just a joyride, he says, they’ve got a serious scientific purpose. That purpose is unclear. They’re going to go into a high orbit on a SpaceX Dragon capsule, high enough that it will pass through the Van Allen belts, and while they’re there, Jared Isaacman and one of the crew will go on a tethered spacewalk, exposing themselves to increased radiation. I don’t know why. It seems to be more of a daredevil gimmick.
Extra bonus stupidity: the Dragon capsule does not include an airlock, so they’re simply going to vent all of the atmosphere inside the capsule, forcing the other 3 crewmembers to sit in their spacesuits so Isaacman can go outside and wave at the camera. Yay! Decompression is fun!
Can we just put NASA back in charge? Bring back the grown-ups to run the show.
