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mathematical approach to terrorism

I have railed against Bush's policies from the beginning, and don't want to lend them any credibility by such a dispassionate analysis, but in arguing with my law professor/mentor, who is quite possibly the only neo-con for whom I have any respect, this is what I came up with.

Premises:

1 - terrorism is a method not an ideology
2 - sacrificing civil liberties, privacy, resources, or international standing, or pursuing warfare, or torture, or racial profiling could marginally reduce the (R) risk of terrorism by a factor (X)
But, 3 - terrorism is easy; there are so many manifold, emerging, and cheap methods, that its impossible to eliminate the threat completely.
therefore, 4 - it doesn't take special access, knowledge, resources, but only the will to do it.
5 - the policies in 2 cause blowback, by destablizing the countries attacked, galvanizing persons with a worldview supporting terrorist methods, and making life so manifestly cheap to persons vulnerable to such a worldview, that it increases (P) the number of persons with the will to pursue terrorism by a factor (Y).

factors:

R - risk of terrorism
X - factor by which neo-conservative policies might reduce R
P - people with the will to commit a terrorist act
Y - factor by which neo-conservative policies increase P
L - likelihood of a terrorist attack


formula: L = R x P
question: Is RxP > RxX x PxY.

Of course, I think not. But the only argument the neo-conservatives have left is the empirical statement "there hasn't been another terrorist attack in the U.S. since 9-11," so, empirically I suppose its still an open question.

But even if neo-conservative policies did reduce the risk, its not worth it. That's another blog.

Sheep's Prayer

God grant me the complacency to ignore the things I can change, the ignorance to judge the things I can't change, and the moral laziness never to learn the difference.


Dedicated to those borderline fascists with the nerve to call themselves Christians.

passage from The Brothers Karamazov

This passage was amazing. Can't say anything intelligent about it, you just have to read it:

"You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child's torturer, 'Thou art just, O Lord!' but I don't want to cry aloud then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It's not wort the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed on its stinking outhouse, with its unexpatiated tears to 'dear, kind God! It's not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They may be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace, I don't want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. ... I don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering, I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high high a price is asked for harmony; its beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. Its not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket." - Ivan Karamazov, Dostoevsky

"T"

Some things never change. Over time and geography, in every high school certain well-defined cliques and stereotypes endure. One stereotype is the "band geek." He' shy and insecure. He's not very athletic; doesn't have too many friends; doesn't have the hot girlfriend. And lets face it - sometimes he's just downright weird. The band geek is a lost, lonely soul - especially in a small town like Altavista.

Enter Mr. Temples.

I remember the first piece of music he handed us. We were still working on the B-flat scale - some of us had mastered it, and others hadn't. And we'd never played anything together as a band. It was called "Lone Star Ranger." It was a boring piece, designed for a beginner band. As I would come to find out, often we trombones have the most boring part - like, 24 whole notes in a row, all of them middle-F. Okay, so this one wasn't quite that boring, and we were new, so it took us a couple of weeks to get down the mechanics. Then one day T came in with a tape. He said, "Now I want you to put your horns down, close your eyes ... and listen to the story the music is telling." He put it so simply. But it had such an impact.

"That's silly," I thought. "What story? There aren't any words." But I gave it a good faith effort. I got as far as "well ... its kind of fast-paced, so I guess the ranger is probably on a horse." Beyond that, I couldn't elaborate much more. At the end of the exercise, we wrote down our stories and turned them in. Then, T told us his story. Of course, he painted an elaborate, evocative, passionate picture. I left class rather frustrated. "That's not fair. How was I supposed to know that that was the story."

But then, T was always the best conversationalist. It didn't matter what he was talking about, or if we'd heard the story 100 times beore - we were eager to hear him tell it again. Who else could make Altavista so interesting and exciting? We heard about his senior prom, his trips to DCI competitions with Jenny, or to New York with the band boosters, or the time they won Band of the Day, and one student jumped off of the top of the bleachers to hug him.

One day in the sixth grade, he came in and told us about marching band. He was so animated and excited. He told us how much work it was, how much time it took, that it wasn't for the faint of heart, but that it could be very rewarding. This prompted me to start going to the football games again, where I saw this little band with a sound - and an attitude - the size of Texas. I was floored. I had never wanted to be a part of something so badly. And before long I was.

On the first day of band camp, I was on time. I got yelled at: "Early is on time and on time is late!" We did these extremely boring exercises in the hot August sun, marching up and down the drill field, getting yelled at from 20 different people the whole time. "Roll your feet! Get in step! Put your head up! Stop talking! Put your head up! PUT YOUR HEAD UP!!!" T used to say that even if you fell on your face in the middle of a performance, you should get back up with your head so high, that everyone would think that's what you were supposed to do. At the end of each practice, we were called to attention. "Band! Ten hut!" "WITH PRIDE!" That was our mantra. And we were so proud. Yes, us - the band geeks. We had worked so incredibly hard. We had poured our sweat and emotion into the show, doing drill exercises, breathing exercises, run-throughs, marching from one block to another ad nauseum. practicing at home, section practices, music practice, a hundred fundraisers, helping paint the sets, and on and on - all orchestrated by T. And it was coming together. Yes, we were extremely proud. We were proud of ourselves, and we were proud to be a part of something so special. To turn heads in every competition, where we marched everywhere with our heads high. We were proud, because T was proud of us. And we always wanted to make T proud.

How can one person inspire so many? How can a single person, with hard work and force of personality, shape literally thousands of lives? Maybe, on some level deep down, we knew that he was bigger than one picture, bigger than the show, bigger than music, bigger than life. The thing about life lessons is that you almost never realize you're learning them at the time. T wasn't just telling us how to get through the ups and downs of a performance - he was showing us how to get through the ups and downs of life. With dignity, energy, always giving 200%, perfect practice and work, and with pride - pride in your work, even when it was 24 boring whole notes; pride in your accomplishments, as an individual and a group; pride in your friends and family; and pride in who you are - whether you're the band geek or the star quarterback.

But the most valuable lesson was the first one. I think back on how frustrated I was with the exercise - with "listening to the story." Of course, now I know there is no right answer to Lone Star Ranger. T wasn't asking us to find one objective story. We were supposed to tell the story.

He was giving us a voice.

And now he's not here to tell us his stories - before school, after school, on the bus, or in his impeccably decorated home. The ones we never got tired of hearing. But we long ago commited hundreds of his stories to our hearts. And now, we have a voice. What a wonderful gift he gave us. Altavista has lost a legend, and I've lost my hero, a mentor, and one of the best friends I ever had. But if its true that people live on in the people they impact, then T's doing just fine. Because now I remember that all I ever wanted to do with my life is somehow, in some way, pass it on. And I know I'm not the only one who feels that way.

Thank you T.

Fear And Loathing In Vermont

They looked like caricatures of the sons and daughters of bureaucrats from northern Virginia. Sitting there, planning their conference, filled with idealistic prattle about progressive causes. And Jesus God there were a lot of them in bumfuck Vermont in an existentially depressing era ... You see, America in the late 90s was a very special time and place to be a part of. There was apathy in every direction. Anyone could douse a flame anywhere with a steady regiment of ignorance and boredom. And, with the rise of profits and temporary autonomy in the internet, there was the sense that we didn't need each other anymore. Now, less than five years later, you can stand on a mountaintop in Vermont and look southward. And with the right kind of eyes, you can almost see the mushroom cloud rising from Washington D.C. But, no sympathy for the devil. Buy the ticket, take the ride.