Shared Parenting Research conference in Boston May 29-30

I’m going to attend the International Conference on Shared Parenting, May 29-30. It happens to be here in Boston!

Professor Malin Bergstrom will be there. She has comprehensive data on all children in Sweden, which makes her the rock star in my opinion. (See “Children, Mothers, and Fathers” for references to her work.)

Professor Linda Nielsen will be there. We interviewed her for a chapter in Real World Divorce on the subject of “Does it make sense to run a court system to pick a winner parent and, mostly, discard the loser parent?”

Professor William Fabricius will be there. He provided the research input to the Arizona state legislature that led them to adopt 50/50 shared parenting as a default (see our Arizona chapter) and perhaps can take credit for Nevada following Arizona’s lead.

Let me know if you’re going to be in town and we can get together for coffee at the conference!

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Louis Zamperini re-encounters the U.S. military bureaucracy

Louis Zamperini survived 47 days on a raft and imprisonment by the Japanese. He wasted away to 67 lbs. and was rescued (by the atomic bomb) within weeks of his likely death. Devil at My Heels covers his return to the world of plenty:

I lined up for a breakfast meal ticket at the mess hall, but an orderly, scanning a list of names on a clipboard, turned me away. “Sorry,” she said. “This food is only for prisoners of war.” “But I’m a prisoner.” “You’re not registered as a POW.” I couldn’t believe my ears. That was the first I’d heard of it, officially. “Maybe so, but I’m still a prisoner. I’ve been one for more than two years. Ask anyone.” “Sorry. Your name’s not on the list.” Unbelievable. They thought I was just trying to get a free meal, and the pity was that a good look at me proved that I desperately needed one. It’s like if you don’t have an appointment with a doctor, you say, “But, Doctor, look at me, I’m dying.” “Well, yes, you are. Come on in.” I tried again: “I’m skinny. I’m hungry. I’m a prisoner of war.” She wouldn’t budge. “Sorry. No I.D. You’re not listed.” Rather than argue, I went to the Red Cross tent and put two and two together on the way. At Ofuna, the secret interrogation camp, the Japanese hadn’t registered me as a POW— and apparently had neglected to correct that after transferring me to Omori. Even so, I thought that after my broadcast proved to the army that I was alive— certainly I was well known enough that if anyone with any clout had heard, it would make the news— someone would have added me to the POW list. Obviously not. It was assumed that I was already on it. That brought up another problem: without the proper I.D. I wouldn’t get new clothes either.

Zamperini is nearly killed trying to get home:

I SPENT AS much time as I could on Okinawa but eventually had to continue my journey home. Guam was the next scheduled stop, only I got put on the wrong plane and ended up headed for Manila, capital of the Philippines. At first I didn’t want to fly at all; the plane was a B-24 with a plywood deck and forty former POWs inside. But it was the only way home, so I climbed aboard. Midflight the pilot got a call that Manila was socked in with rain and to land instead on a little fighter strip between two mountains at Laoag, in northern Luzon. We came in from the beach side, taxied up between the peaks, and parked overnight. The next day they turned the plane around and we sped down the runway, heading toward the water. Suddenly, I realized we had a problem. The plane should have been airborne but wasn’t. With the wind against us, the runway was too short for a big craft, so heavily loaded. I rushed to the bomb-bay window and looked out. There was the water, right in front of us, and a mound of dirt; I guess they’d bulldozed sand into a small dike to keep the ocean from flooding the runway. I thought, Oh no, after all I’ve gone through, now I’m dead? Then the B-24 hit that bump at the end of the runway, bounced into the air, and settled down so low that whitecaps came through the ill-fitting bomb-bay doors and soaked us. Fortunately the plane never dipped below that level.

No food without an official POW registration status:

MANILA, UNFORTUNATELY, WAS more of the same situation I’d encountered on Okinawa— and worse. I’d gotten a bottle of rare and valuable whisky as a present on Okinawa, but someone stole it from my tent in Manila, and yet again I couldn’t get food or clothing. So I did what I’d done before: head to the Red Cross tent and tell my story.

He does better with his family:

In the living room, more pictures and flashbulbs and voices. Finally, I broke away and wandered aimlessly through the house and out the back door to the garage. To my surprise, I found my 1939 Plymouth convertible inside. At least my parents hadn’t sold it. As I ran my hand over the smooth wax job and patted the hood, my reserve gave way and the dam burst. I rushed back inside, crying. Soon, everyone was in everyone else’s arms. At dinner I was too nervous to eat everything my mother had prepared, but I devoured the risotto to the last grain. Afterward we had coffee, and I noticed everyone looking at one another with expressions that seemed to ask, “Now?” My mother nodded, and everyone trooped out of the living room and returned moments later with armfuls of brightly wrapped packages. These were presents, tagged CHRISTMAS 1943, CHRISTMAS 1944, JANUARY 26, 1945 (my birthday), and notes that read: “Thinking of you on your birthday, wherever you are,” and the like. Here was the full proof that my family had never given up hope, had never stopped believing I was alive, and it struck deeply, not only reaffirming their love but revealing to me— despite all our previous differences— just where I’d come by the indomitable spirit that had kept me going on the raft and in prison camp. And to think that this was the family I’d often ignored, the mother I’d once, years ago, accused of loving Pete more than me. I was ashamed and overcome. My family and friends didn’t try to get me to talk about POW camp or my war experiences except to say, with obvious satisfaction at the positive outcome, that monthly checks from my life insurance had arrived at the house for almost a year and been deposited in the bank, where they lay untouched— another symbol of their faith in my return.

 

 

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A damned mob of (code-)scribbling women

Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1855, commenting on the competition among novel authors:

America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash-and should be ashamed of myself if I did succeed.

The Wall Street Journal updates this story for 2017 with “Facebook’s Female Engineers Claim Gender Bias; Analysis found female engineers received 35% more rejections of their code than men”. (How was anyone able to verify the gender ID of the purportedly “female” and “male” programmers?)

Separately, “Girls Who Code founder to Ivanka Trump: Don’t use my story”, mentions that America may soon be blessed with two additional female programmers:

Ivanka Trump said that she planned to take a coding class this summer with her daughter, Arabella.

[Source: The above two stories appeared right next to each other in my Facebook feed, promoted by different friends.]

Related:

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Louis Zamperini explains the crash that led to his raft journey and imprisonment

Louis Zamperini survived 47 days on a raft and then imprisonment by the Japanese. He explains the crash that led to this in Devil at My Heels:

WE ARRIVED IN the downed plane’s vicinity [on an unsuccessful search and rescue mission] to find cloud cover at one thousand feet. Phil dipped to eight hundred to get a better look and called me to the cockpit while we circled so I could scan the sea for wreckage or a life raft. Suddenly the RPMs on our number one (left outboard) motor dropped radically. It shook violently, sputtered, and died. Phil called the engineer forward to feather the props. Blades normally face nearly flat to the wind so they can cut into the air and pull the plane forward. However, when a motor stops, those surfaces are like a wall and everything slows. Feathering means to turn the blades edge-on to the wind. Think of it this way: you’re in a car doing seventy miles per hour. Put your hand out the window, palm forward, and the wind will blow it back. Turn the edge of your hand to the wind, and it slices right through. Feathering is possible because we had variable-pitch propellers, allowing a different blade angle for takeoff, cruising, or when the motor stopped. After the Nauru raid a new engineer had joined our crew, a green kid just over from the States. He was so eager to help that he rushed into the cockpit and feathered the left inboard (or number-two) motor by mistake— and it died. That old musher could barely fly with four motors and no bombs; suddenly we had two motors out, both on the same side.

THE MOST FRIGHTENING experience in life is going down in a plane. Those moments when you fall through the air, waiting for the inevitable impact, are like riding a roller coaster— with one important difference. On a roller coaster you close your eyes, hold on despite the sheer horror, and come through. In a plummeting plane there’s only sheer horror, and the idea of your very imminent death is incomprehensible. Of course, only if you’ve lived through a crash can you tell anyone about the abject terror. You think, This is it. It’s over. I’m going to die. You know with 100 percent of your being that the end is unavoidable. Yet a part of you still believes you can fight and survive no matter what your mind knows. It’s not so strange. Where there’s still life, there’s still hope.

His explanation of how he survived is completely different from what a younger author writes in Unbroken:

Everybody in the service gets the same combat training. We go to the front line with the same equipment. When the chips are down, some will panic and run and get court-martialed. Why? Because we’re not all brought up the same. I was raised to face any challenge. If a guy’s raised with short pants and pampering, sure, he goes through the same training, but in combat he can’t face it. He hasn’t been hardened to life. It’s important to be hardened to life. Today kids cut their teeth on video games. I’d rather play real games. This generation may be ready to handle robotic equipment and fly planes with computers, but are they ready to withstand the inevitable counterattack? Are they emotionally stable? Are they callous enough to accept hardship? Can they face defeat without falling apart?

The young writer (Laura Hillenbrand) attributes Zamperini’s success to fortunate genetics, basically. Zamperini himself says it was a lack of childhood coddling.

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Meet in Moscow next week?

Friends/Romans/Readers:

I’m going to Moscow next week to give a talk at the New Economic School (probably Saturday, May 13). I will arrive at 0400 on Sunday morning, May 7 in order to begin the de-jetlag process. If any of you would like to meet for coffee or to sight-see, I would be grateful.

Please email me, philg@mit.edu, if you’re going to be in Moscow between May 7 and May 14.

Thanks in advance.

(Also, if you have any advice for the first-time visitor to Moscow please post it here in the comments section. I’m staying pretty close to Red Square and don’t want to venture too far afield.)

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Library of Congress has solved America’s illegal aliens problem

From https://www.loc.gov/aba/cataloging/subject/ :

The Library has extended the comment period on its proposal to replace the subject heading “Illegal aliens” to Saturday, August 20, 2016. The survey will remain open for comment through that date.

(Retrieved April 28, 2017)

 

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Louis Zamperini on flight training

Before he became a bombardier, Louis Zamperini was training as a pilot. Here’s his description of learning to fly from Devil at My Heels:

MY PRIMARY TRAINING started on March 19, 1941, at the Hancock College of Aeronautics in Santa Maria, just south of San Luis Obispo, in California. They’d named the field after Captain G. Allan Hancock, a big oilman who built the Hancock Library of Biology and Oceanography at USC. He also created Hancock Park in Los Angeles, a famous mid-Wilshire neighborhood, on part of the land left to him by his father, Major Henry Hancock. I drove north with a couple of buddies. The army took pictures of me in my tracksuit, posing in a racer’s starting-line crouch, on an airplane wing. Because of my track career, I was always good for some free publicity, and I was happy to help. After a few weeks of ground studies they finally put me in a training plane. What a shock. I’d flown to New York on commercial planes, but it’s different in a small craft. Some guys loved it. I didn’t. At first I got a little disoriented, twisting and turning, but when they put me through the “spins,” that was it. I had a better time on the ground. We got weekends off, and most of us went into town to drink. That was fine as long as you didn’t come back drunk. If you did, the MPs would haul you to the infirmary and forcefully inject a 15 percent Argyrol solution straight up your penis. It burned and you’d scream your head off and not sleep well that night. They said it was for our own good, though. The air corps didn’t want anyone to catch VD from the girls in town. I heard more than one recruit protest, “No, I didn’t have any sex with any woman.” But who trusts a drunk?

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Louis Zamperini on today’s sports culture

Louis Zamperini, in Devil at My Heels:

CONGRATULATORY WIRES POURED in from family and friends. Not only had I proven a point for Pete and myself, I’d made the Olympic team. Those who didn’t qualify were gentlemen, congratulating us and bidding us a good time in Berlin. No emotion, just Godspeed. Today it’s different. Someone who doesn’t make the team might weep and collapse. In my day no one fell on the track and cried like a baby. We lost gracefully. And when someone won, he didn’t act like he’d just become king of the world, either. Athletes in my day were simply humble in our victory. I believe we were more mature then. Today’s athletes have more muscle and better physical-fitness programs, lighter shoes and faster tracks— but some still can’t win or lose cheerfully. Maybe it’s because the media puts so much pressure on athletes; maybe it’s also the money. In my day we competed for the love of the sport. Performance-enhancing drugs could be had, but no one wanted to win unfairly or damage his health. In my day we patted the guy who beat us on the back, wished him well, and that was that.

[revisiting this in 2011, age 94] We had a single soccer ball for four or five blocks’ worth of kids; you were lucky if you got to kick it once. We had free time to burn. Distractions? Radio, yes, but no TV. Movies were only once a week. We were happier than people are today, despite the hard times. We overcame adversity and each time we did we enhanced our hardiness. We also knew how to win and lose gracefully. When I was a young runner, I went undefeated for three and a half years. But I knew that this winning streak could not go on forever, that some day I’d lose. So I asked myself what kind of loser I wanted to be. I decided that I’d handle it with grace. Four or five months later the day arrived. When another runner won the race I went over and congratulated the man. The runner’s family and girlfriend embraced me. Today losing teams stare at the ground. Just once I’d like to see the losing coach walk over and congratulate the winning coach.

 

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Should public schools provide free lunches?

“Shaming Children So Parents Will Pay the School Lunch Bill” (nytimes, 4/30/2017) is interesting for the comments.

Most of the readers express outrage that Big Government is not quite big enough. Also, it is the Trumpenfuhrer’s fault how things are run by local school districts. A sampling:

Donald Trump gets away with $900m unpaid tax bill and yet we are shaming our children for $5 unpaid lunch bill. Go figure.

Some of the $50 billion Trump proposes for military spending would be useful here…

A few of Trump’s weekends in Florida would buy lunches for all the children.

We in the “World’s Richest Country” or the “Greatest Country” shouldn’t ever allow school kids to be shamed or go hungry. What happened to our sense of decency?

If America can afford tax cuts for the richest people, it can afford to drop the idea of cuts — no, just reduce them by the necessary amount — and pay for school lunches. These would not be free lunches, for indeed there is no such thing, but prudent-investment lunches.

I wonder how many of these parents voted for Trump. Desperate and poor, did they vote against themselves and their children? If so, why should I care about them Just askin’ . .

(Maybe we should have free food at schools, but only for kids whose parents can prove that they voted for Hillary and post virtuous messages on Facebook?)

It turns out that collecting the money it itself a painful bureaucratic process:

My daughter is finishing up at a public school. I had to set up a lunch account for her on a special website with a credit card. I had to manage the balance. Even I had trouble. It was a real pain. Now imagine not having internet service at home. Or a credit card. Or having 4 kids to do this for. It is not always just a money issue. Again the school does not accept cash. I can understand not having the money. What I cannot understand is why some schools make it so hard to manage a lunch account.

But where there is painful government bureaucracy there is also profit:

What this article does not mention, and is a big contributor to the student’s family debt, is that many schools now use third party profit making companies to administer these so-called lunch accounts. Companies like mypaymentsplus.com pitch their services to school districts, who then award them the payment administering contract. Those companies, in turn, charge the families service fees (supposedly for the “convenience”) in the neighborhood of 5%. That works out to the equivalent of one meal per month not going to the student, but to a money-making operation instead.

A handful of readers suggest that children and parents could exhibit fiscal responsibility:

No mention of the “brown bag” option? Too rushed in the morning to make a sandwich? Make it the night before. Especially the high school students who are old enough to take responsibility for this simple task.

Here’s an iconoclastic thought: What ever happened to parents packing an inexpensive, nutritious lunch of peanut butter, banana, raisins and carrot sticks? Why pay someone else to do what you should do, then rail about its flaws?

It’s incomprehensible that these parents aren’t packing a lunch for their child to take to school. By the look of these families, they have access to plenty of food.

How is it the school’s fault for not giving children lunch if the child hasn’t paid for it? Should we teach the kids it’s OK to take things from others without money? Should we go a step further and say that you should EXPECT free things in life?

[from a Swedish-American] Parents should be responsible for feeding their children, not schools.

Gina D is, well, there is no polite way to say this… a potential hater:

The tactic is shameful. No question about it. But in this particular case, how many lunches would the nail job and tats have paid for? [Gina was apparently looking at the photos]

Reeducation camp for this gal if she wants to keep living in the Caring Republic of California!

Uh oh, here is a potential Trump voter who snuck into a nytimes subscription:

Whose kids get the humiliation of “lunch debt?” The middle class. The ones whose taxes pay for everyone else’s free lunch. Can you imagine the rage of these parents, who may both be working two jobs to be in the middle class, when they find out that their kid came home hungry because they forgot to pay the lunch bill, or they just didn’t have the cash around when they needed to pay. The current system of means testing just builds resentment among the middle class for the less well off, not to mention prevents some kids who need a free lunch from getting it. Means tested social programs are divisive and short sighted, whether they are for lunch or university tuition. Free lunch for all or free for none.

In Nation of Victims, any time is a good time to talk about one’s victimhood and the enduring scars:

In 1958 a nun (Sister of Charity in southwestern Pa) at my Catholic grade school shamed me because my father was an alcoholic. I have never forgotten that horrible experience.

One interesting aspect of the comments is that a remarkable number of taxpaying citizens seem to be unaware that they are already funding school food to the tune of about $17 billion per year (see this schedule from February 2015). The Federal handouts started life at $70 million in 1947 and grew to $6.1 billion in 2000 (USDA).

What a heartless nation America has become. … What next in modern America? Cut off the air supply of babies whose parents don’t pay taxes?

A very Great America. The president of the country sits on chairs made of gold, but kids can’t get a meal.

What is wrong with us? In other developed nations do children go hungry? One child in five in this country lives in poverty. Yeah, we are number one by a wide margin in developed countries in the percent of childhood poverty.

This is so sad. Philanthropists give tons of money to others in third world countries and Oprah started a school in Africa. What is wrong with taking care of the neediest in our country?

This puts the truth to our moniker as the richest country in the world. [Blake Strack has apparently not looked at this list of countries ranked by per capita GDP.]

[See Canvassing for Elizabeth Warren (2012) for a passionate local liberal who was unaware of the existence of Medicaid, a $486 billion/year program at the time.]

Some people do stay focused long enough to consider the actual food:

Its not as if this lunch food is in any way good for the kids.

From the looks of those in the photos with the article, they could do with missing a few meals. Pizza and chocolate milk ??? When the kid is obese?

Internet lets us hear from Smug Europeans:

I’m happy to be living in a country (Finland) where all children automatically get a free lunch in school, paid for out of public funds, every day of the school year. Nor would the menu include pizza; kids get enough junk food outside school. The lunches are nutritionally well planned, as well as designed to be (mostly) appealing to kids. It’s like single-payer, free or low-cost health care; once you get used to it. you can’t imagine any other way to run things.

[Yes, well, I’m sure it would work great here in the U.S. too… as long as we could import enough Finns to run the whole thing.]

As someone who regularly gets hardcopy bills from government agencies in the mail, typically for $5 to $25 (landing fees at government-run airports), I have a suspicion that administrative costs of collecting lunch money may render the net proceeds negligible (keep in mind that 2/5ths of American children in 2015 qualified for taxpayer-funded lunch and 1/5th for taxpayer-funded breakfast (CNN)).

What about schools teaching fiscal responsibility? Most school districts have buried themselves in explicit debt from new buildings and in implicit debt from pension obligations (just need that 8 percent real return on investment every year for the next 50 years and for every retired schoolteacher to smoke two packs per day; then the numbers will work out!). So they are probably not well-situated to lecture students about paying bills, living within one’s means, etc.

Perhaps the best argument for the current system is that students have an opportunity to learn, at a young age, that working may not be better than collecting welfare. By working at a medium-wage job, in addition to giving up 2000 hours (plus commuting time) per year, a young American will impair his or her opportunity to get a taxpayer-funded house, taxpayer-funded food (SNAP), taxpayer-funded health care, and a taxpayer-funded mobile phone. A daily reminder that families where adults don’t work get cash or cash-equivalents from families where adults do work might be useful input for a young American’s life planning.

My personal idea: Set out an unlimited buffet for all students and teachers, but restrict it to healthful food that nobody really wants to eat: salad, cut vegetables, tofu, brown rice. Nobody goes hungry, nobody gets fatter, and kids who want to eat junk food are motivated to pack a lunch. Even without any revenue, costs to taxpayers will be far lower than under the present system because the idea of eating salad is so terrifying that many more students will bring lunches.

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How can a computer company lose data that it gathered only a minute earlier?

Dell has refused to accept a return of the XPS 13 2-in-1 that they sold me for $2,400 (sampling of issues: it gets stuck in “tablet mode” even when opened as a laptop, it can’t stay connected to a Bluetooth mouse, it stops listening to its touchscreen hardware, and it stops listening to the trackpad (so eventually there is no pointer at all and you’d have to remember all of the Windows keyboard shortcuts to accomplish the basics)).

On the theory that “Maybe 25 hours on the phone with these guys isn’t enough and the 26th hour will be the charm,” I called 877-907-3355 to try to get tech support. This starts with a 2-minute automated process of entering, via voice, the “service tag” (letters and numbers). The automated attendant confirms the service tag. Then it tries to transfer you to “the right department.” Once this resulted in immediate disconnection. When the call was successfully transferred to a human, the first thing that she asked was “What’s your service tag number?” (Before I could give it to her, the call was disconnected, but that’s incidental to the subject of this post.)

As a computer nerd I am always fascinated when companies have a customer service system that asks for some information and then has no way to make the typed-in stuff available to the human who ultimately answers the phone. Also, that it seems to be rare for customer service agents to have access to Caller ID. So a lot of time is wasted in asking the customer a callback number (not to mention the potential for errors).

In the case of Dell, perhaps they have an incentive to waste customer time so that people stop calling for tech support (though how many will buy a second machine from this company?). But that’s not true for a lot of other companies that answer phone calls. If they are inefficient and drop information on the floor it ends up costing them extra customer service hours as well as potentially reducing customer loyalty.

So… why can’t the computers that answer the phone talk to the computers on the agents’ desks? And why can’t they see Caller ID? How hard can that be?

[Okay, and before the Mac fans start dishing out ridicule in the comments section, let me admit in advance that I made a huge mistake by buying this machine! Obviously a MacBook (or even a $500 Acer) would have outperformed this $2,400 Dell. And if the MacBook had failed for some reason, I would be able to zip over to the Apple Store and get it fixed rather than spending hours on the phone with Dell or returning it to them for service (projected turn-around time: 2+ weeks).]

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