Square Roots of Rubik's Cube

Two-thirds of my life ago, halfway through high school, people started showing up with a cube, each side a nine-square array of a single color. Or at least, that's how it looked when you bought it. The sub-cubes moved, and the aim was to have it scrambled, then work your way back to one color per side. There are about 43.25 quintillion positions possible, so getting there by randumb luck could take a while, so the toy appealed mostly to puzzlers.

At least initially, but upon entering the American market, the company that licensed it of course wanted it to be the next Big Thing, the toy hit of the early '80s. And for that to happen, it should not test consumers' patience or make them feel like idiots. And so began the stupidification of the Rubik's Cube.

I had a friend who had the Cube. No rube was he, but also not a genius, or even especially dedicated. He was, however clever enough to want to look smart, aware enough to know that there was a book that explained how to solve the cube, and rich enough to buy said book. (I should explain to the kids that there was no internet in that benighted decade--books were how we learned back then.)

Scads of cads bought the book, then showed up and showed off how quickly they could "solve" the cube. Soon enough, even the half-bright denizens of the high school halls knew that these charlatans were just going buy the book, and were nothing special. But Americans with money will not be written off lightly, and when fake-solving the cube did not prove impressive, rubbed others' noses in their impecuniousness. Solving the cube through wits alone was a sign of poverty. I kid you not.

The Rubik's Cube became a tool for showing off on a grander scale as well. Tournaments were organized. The joy of solo solution gave way to speed. America's capitalists took pride in the fact that despite it's invention by a commie, it took the U S of A to turn it into a blockbuster. Erno Rubik was from Hungary, but the name sounded Russki to most Americans, and the few who knew better congratulated themselves that Hungarians worshiped blue-jeans and would have gladly thrown off the Soviet yoke given the chance (or, given the US military support that had been implied when they actually did attempt rebellion, but that's another story). By and large, though, it felt like an appropriation of Eastern science for Western profit, which during the Cold Ware conjured a victory on par with our scoring the Soviet-effacing humor of Jakov Smirnoff. Which again, is not a joke.

So the Rubik's Cube became the Big Thing, until it was supplanted by Cabbage Patch Dolls or something equally brilliant. Wikipedia claims it was advertized as having "billions of positions," which is both 10 orders of magnitude too small and completely reasonable, given the target audience's sub-Soviet numeracy and enthrallment with Carl Sagan. It didn't matter how many positions the damned thing could take, since people tended to go buy the book or toss it into the oblivion drawer.

Meanwhile, the un-square had moved on to something more interesting.

Attack of the Suit Zombies

The Northwest is not immune to the Zombie fascination sweeping the nation. Seattle, especially, had had it's share of zombie events, and the fact that hipsters there proclaim that the craze is Over can be taken as evidence that they were at the leading edge of the phenomenon to begin with.

But to my eye, it ain't over. Like most things that replicate, it has evolved. Zombi americanus, your run-of-the-mill species, is widespread to the point that supernaturalists have all checked it off on their lists and are bored with them. Fortunately, diversification has reared its many heads, and new species are emerging. 


One of these has popped up in Olympia recently. As soon as the legislative session began, swarms of Z. politicensis were observed on the capitol campus, and milling about at coffee shops and bars. They are easily distinguished from local warm-bloods and zombies by the fact that they all wear suits, which is extremely rare here. Only the Alpha males appear very comfortable in these garments--the young staffers and interns look outright comical, dressed up in big-boy clothes--and are the only ones to fear.


The rest of the pack mostly occupy themselves clumsily rushing to hearings they cannot comprehend or, as I said, milling about, trying to look important but with such vacant eyes it is impossible to take them seriously. Loitering behavior is interpreted by some ethologists as evidence of decreased brain function, and I am not going to argue that, but there is more to it. Look at them; they are almost all male. Nobody has yet explained the gender imbalance, but we've all noticed it. Some say it is because politics, like its sporting analogs mixed martial arts and golf, is interesting only to those afflicted with testosterone poisoning.  

My theory is that all this milling about is the suit zombies' way of attempting to find a mate. Hang out long enough at the drinking establishment, and maybe a female will become enamored enough with that Armani suit to let it be removed. She is likely to be disappointed, the dangly bits being among the first to drop off after zombification. The slow brain that is a hallmark of the genus takes a while to come to terms with this, and attempted mating behavior drags on for years in some cases.

Some observers suggest that Z. politicensis has already separated into two species, but I'm reserving judgment until I see a real difference, especially since most of the splitters rely on mental inclination, which is so very limited in the genus. The Equus variety is allegedly distinct based on having a highly developed social conscience compared to Elephas, but this quality remains latent, rarely expressed in a way that would lead to conflict, much less actual domination. This may be a result of the testicular absence, but I make it a habit not to check. If anything, the Elephas tendency to want to chop off pieces of the body politic ("Teachers....unnnhhhh....Unions!" they moan, waving cleavers) seems like better evidence of differentiation.


Meanwhile, the living among us tolerate this seasonal visitation. Local businesses sell them coffee and alcohol to fuel their milling about. Soon enough, they will leave, long enough before summer that the rains will wash away their residue so we can feel clean again. It is frustrating to have the rest of the state, whenever they complain about some policy, refer to it is "Olympia's," rather than pointing at the suit zombies who live elsewhere and congregate here for a brief while, but we have thick skin and all our parts. We carry on after the carrion moves on. 

Preserving Rotten

 
Thanks Seestah, for forwarding me this interesting article about historic preservation in England...of Johnny Rotten graffiti.

At least, that's how it's being described. Front Man always gets the credit. And, of the images popping up for these charicatures, of course his weighs the most kilobytes. McClaren, the band's manager, is the smallest of the personnel I can find. No Cook and only a video glimpse of the conveniently labeled "Fatty Jones." Johhny saw himself as some kind of muppet. Eyes sly and at the same time more big-eye cute (this was the '70s after all) than anyone else's. Like Sid's:

Sid's is hilarious. Another muppet, but instead of being cuddly he's Harvey Pekar on a bad day. Or, subtract the nose-eyes-ears, and you find that the "charicature" was superimposed on an already existing graffitum: a medical illustration of Sid's undercarriage from directly beneath. That there's rock star taint at the bottom. 


Some people say Sid didn't have much to live for, and after seeing this, I can see how you might think that, but don't discount the malevolent Front Man, upset about his new bassist's burgeoning popularity. Lydon walks in and sees that Sid is already being immortalized, because surely, the National Trust will someday turn this into a museum. Infuriated, he transformed Sid, drew himself as the lovable one, the other guys as jokes, and the manager like some wicked bird clutching money. See?

So now, there's a professor at York who has published an article in the esteemed journal Antiquity about the archaeology of these drawings and their significance to English heritage. I cannot or willnot pay to view the article, so I can only hope the authors' caught the Vicious palimpsest, because that's some good superposition there.


Most of the media interest in this focuses on the professor saying that these are as important as Tut's tomb or even the early Beatles tapes. They mention that the good Doctor believes the graffiti'd flat is eligible for formal recognition, complete with blue plaque, but neglect to mention that he considers the current DIY preservation may be best continued in the punk mode--no bleedin' sign. 

On the other hand: an article in Antiquity, academic interest, the historic preservation community acknowledging and sometimes embracing a few monuments to protest movements. God Save the Queen, and National Trust Save the Sex Pistols. The Great Swindle continues.


All the more beautiful because the irony swings both ways. Anarchy, "I wanna destroy," eh? Not only did you not bring down the system, it is stronger than ever and amuses itself by treating your art as collectibles to buy. Coopted even more than imagined when you started doing business with McClaren and embraced Front Manhood, right Johnny?

 

Percentages

This blog aims to be about culture in the anthropological sense (if not the academic kind), instead of the high Culture that people tend to blend with the Arts. Observations about how people behave, how we live in this place and time, and the stories we tell all the time and to each other, as opposed to how they sound through scripts and screens. I did this a lot in Mojourner Truth, my original blog, where the word "culture" looms largest in the keyword cloud. I included a grab bag of eclecticisms there, and I suppose here there may be less politics and economics. 

But I was going to write about percentages. Our culture is obsessed with them. Fantasy leagues and political polls are driven by them. When we are told to look into the eyes of science, the irises are pie charts. Americans habitually answer the necessarily imprecise question of "How sure are you?" with a percentage. This month, popular frustration with the oligarchs has sprung a new term into the media and popular culture: "The 99%"


I've generally been most interested in the cultures of the 99%, and occasionally rant about archaeologists and writers who dote on the other 1%. Yeah, I had a great time mapping a chiefly compound in Kona, but it does not hold my sustained interest the way humble homes and taro patches do. In the here and now, it's the same.


"I am the 99%" and "Occupy Your Town" fit handily on signs, buttons, and bumper stickers, not to mention newscast and web graphics. I know that locally there is some objection to the Occupy label. Military forces occupy, often unjustly, and there are native people who are sick of occupation. But, the logo files are out there, and it's hard to re-brand a groundswell already in motion. Still, Olympia has been occupied by regular people for a long time, and compared to the rest of the country, big corporations occupy ground a bit more nervously and surreptitiously, and I'd rather call myself a 99-er than an Occupier.


But last night, after dark but not late, I visited Occupy Olympia on their first day. They're in Sylvester Park instead of the Capitol grounds, which is cool because it's more a part of our city, and besides it resonates with the historical capitol, in a time when democracy operated closer to the ground.


The percentage out there was less than 0.5% of the general population, but much higher of Evergreen College. The largest percentage of people were dancing, and another large contingent was gathered around receiving instruction and handouts on how to deal with police (who were nearby in numbers approaching 1.5% of the Sylvester population, and were neither dancing nor arresting). A significant percentage of the crowd was engaged in milling about, and all the signs I saw were on the ground leaning against something. About 1% was engaged in fretting that the small but unknown percentage smoking pot would delegitimize the serious political message of the movement, while 0.5% did an amazing hula-hoop demonstration that I am sure no corporate executive will ever match. Maybe 3-4% were occupied at the first aid and kitchen areas, and 0.0% were at a table with pamphlets. I was in the <5% who were older than 30, and among those in the <50% not decked out in activist wear. I'm guessing that somewhere north of 50% of the Occupiers figured I was an untalented undercover cop.


What percent of the crowd I saw stayed all night? Brisk and dewy beats cold and rainy, but I'm guessing that the last bus back to Evergreen may have been operating at a higher percentage of filled seats than usual. On the national level, will "The 99%" become another hollow label, or will we stop the bus and replace the driver, change the route, insist on a culture that treats us all more fairly?


That's probably a topic for the political blog I have yet to start. For this one, I'll drop by Sylvester now and then to see where evolution takes the tribe in the square, and chime in now and then with whatever other cultural things strike my fancy. (But not too fancy,...I wanna remain in the 99%)