Saturday, June 26, 2010

The Problem With Numbers

On the early afternoon of December 19, 1675, about 1,100 New England colonial soldiers and friendly Natives marched on a large, fortified Narragansett village located in the Great Swamp in present-day South Kingstown, Rhode Island.  A few hours later the fort was in flames while hundreds of Narragansett men, women and children lay dead.

Not long after, Puritan ministers sang the praises of this great victory—one desperately needed by the colonists, who had suffered a series of defeats to Wampanoag and Nipmuc warriors in the opening months of King Philip’s War.

Two days later, one of the English chaplains involved in the Great Swamp Fight wrote that about 200 Narragansett men had died.  His sources were two of the captains involved in the thick of the battle, at least one of whom tried to do some counting.  About a month after that a captive from the Narragansett side confirmed 150 to 200 of his fellow warriors killed.

Later, a spy overhead the Narragansett estimate 40 fighting men had been killed along with 300 old men, women and children.  Another captain at the fight estimated “300 fighting men” were killed.

You see where this is going?  In a world of imprecision, we always have nice, precise numbers to fall back upon.  Watch.

The following year, a merchant in New England claimed 600 Narragansett had been killed in the battle—introducing the concept that the Narragansett removed their dead (in the heat of the battle) so that the English could not count them.  By the time the Puritan ministers wrote their histories a few years after King Philip’s War ended, one claimed seven hundred fighting men had been killed, along with another 300 that later died of their wounds.

The dead count had risen from 200 to a 1,000 in about 24 months, depending upon who was doing the counting (and what they were trying to prove).

That’s one of the problems with numbers. 

In Saturday’s Wall Street Journal, “The Numbers Guy” discussed how difficult it has been to estimate the amount of oil spewing into the Gulf of Mexico from the BP disaster.  One week it was 12K to 19K barrels a day; a few weeks later, 35K to 60K.  The Feds in charge of estimating—obviously influenced by lawyers unavailable to Puritan ministers--have made clear that these estimates are made only to aid recovery planningOther estimates will be prepared for purposes of fines and litigation, which run $1,100 to $4,300 a gallon spilled.

BP understands the problem with numbers.

Here’s a surprise from The Numbers Guy: We still don’t know today how much oil really spilled into Prince Edward Sound from the Exxon Valdez.  Exxon estimated 10.8M gallons by subtracting the total in the Valdez from the total offloaded.  (Seems like a word problem in school—pretty straightforward.)  Except we now know that a lot of seawater was recovered along with the oil.  Some scientists estimate that perhaps 30M gallons, not 10.8M, spilled into the Sound.

Exxon is sticking with 10.8M as the “number that was agreed upon at the time.”  Exxon understands the problem with numbers.

Peggy Noonan had a smart way of saying it when she described President Obama’s major briefing on Afghanistan, the one that set the current strategy.  She said the president seemed to think his government experts might have answers.  Instead, “They have product.  They had factoids.  They have free-floating data.  The have dots in a pointillist picture, but they’re not artists, they’re dot-makers.”

President Obama knows the problem with numbers.

I see it in the annual reports about First Night in Boston, the celebration of New Years that features free concerts and ice sculptures and lots of people wandering around downtown.  I don’t know how to estimate crowds, but I do understand it helps both Boston’s pride and police overtime to suggest “hundreds of thousands” at the event.  OK, maybe. . .but I’ve been there, and there seemed to be plenty of elbow room.

I see it when we arrive at work and compare snowfall levels in our backyards after a February storm.  “We had eight inches.”  “Eight inches?  We had at least 10.”  “Pshaww—10 inches?  That’s nothing.  We had at least 14.  And it snowed sideways.”

(That’s nothing.  We lived for three months in a paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six in the morning, clean the paper bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down t' mill, fourteen hours a day, week-in week-out, for sixpence a week, and when we got home our Dad would thrash us to sleep wi' his belt.)

One of my favorite “business books” of all time is Innumeracy by John Allen Paulos.  In it, he argues that we ought to at least take a stab at being numerate, given that our society often hinges on science and math.  What Paulos doesn’t warn is that even the numerate have a trial ahead of them.  Understanding the subtlety and logic of numbers is a fine skill, unless you can’t trust the numbers, or they change depending upon who is presenting them.

Old historian-consultant joke: Q: How many Narragansett died in the Great Swamp Fight? A: What point are you trying to make?

When there are lots of precise answers to the same problem, we can pick the one we like best.

That’s one of the problems with numbers.  But you already knew that.

For example, how much do you weigh? 

Come again?

See, you did already know that.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

The History of Print (Though Our Book Group's Eyes)

My wife and I belong to a book group composed of five very likeable and smart couples.  We launched in May 2001 and are now reading our 68th book, Tinkers.  The hosting couple chooses the book and will sometimes serve food and drink that match the story. 

In light of the radical changes in publishing, I was pondering the other day the various ways our group has “accessed” the books we have “read” over the years.  A quick list would include:

  1. Borrow book from library
  2. Buy new book from store
  3. Buy used book from store/yard sale
  4. Buy new book on-line
  5. Buy used book on-line
  6. Listen to book on tape
  7. Listen to book on CD
  8. Listen to digitally downloaded book (or creepy voice on Kindle)
  9. Read book on PC
  10. Read book on Kindle
  11. Read book on iPhone
  12. Read book on iPad
  13. Watch movie adaptation
  14. Watch heartwarming Hallmark adaptation
  15. Watch inscrutable YouTube version
  16. Read book on Sparknotes (oops)
  17. Don’t read book (at all, but fake it by saying "the use of color and texture throughout was appealing")
I probably missed one or two, but if you count just “platforms,” that’s a paper book, tape, CD, epaper, digital audio, and digital print.  So, for a bunch of 50-somethings who grew up with nothing but the printed word, that’s pretty good technological adaptation, no?

I might add, at the end of every book group the hardest thing we five couples do is try to pick a new date when nobody is traveling, nobody has family commitments, and everyone has time to read the selection.  In 2001, most of us would have taken out our Daytimers, or looked at the big paper family calendar hanging in the kitchen.  Now, our date technology has evolved as rapidy as our book technology--though science has yet to improve our ability to actually find the next date.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Binding Innovation: Sewing Machines and Social Networking


I’ve been re-reading Daniel Boorstin’s The Americans: The Democratic Experience for maybe the third time.  It’s just full of compelling stories about the formation of America, and especially good in spotting unconventional entrepreneurs and innovators.  It’s fair to say, in fact, that in the America that Boorstin observes, there’s hardly an American who is not an entrepreneur or innovator.

Boorstin, who died in 2004, is one of those folks you can’t help but hold in awe.  He was a lawyer, a professor at the University of Chicago for 25 years, the librarian of Congress, the senior historian of the Smithsonian—the list goes on.  But what is most impressive is that Boorstin never, ever stopped writing, including dozens of books and two major trilogies (of which The Democratic Experience is part, and the Pulitzer Prize-winning part at that).

When Boorstin went before the Senate to be confirmed as librarian of Congress, several senators demanded that he not write while serving in the post.  He refused, but promised to do it on his personal time: weekends, evenings, and from 4 a.m. to 9 a.m. every morning.

One of the better-known stories Boorstin tells in The Democratic Experience is of the invention of the sewing machine, including the commercial and patent battle in the 1850s between Isaac Merrit Singer and Elias Howe, Jr.   In 1850 the sewing machine was a curiosity.  By 1870, 700,000 were being manufactured annually. By 1900, 8,000 patents had been issued on the machine, a tribute to relentless improvement.

This “tireless ally of the world’s great sisterhood” (as an immodest 1880 Singer brochure described it) turned out not to do precisely what it had been invented to do: reduce the time and drudgery of sewing.  An 1867 Atlantic Monthly article wondered aloud if there was any woman alive who could say her time spent sewing was less after than before the sewing machine.  “As soon as lovely woman finds that she can set ten stitches in the time that one used to require, a fury seizes her to put ten times as many stitches in the garment as she formerly did.”

So, clothing got better, but the time spent making it did not.  (This is the difference between sketching out a chart by hand in 60 seconds, and having to do it on PowerPoint.  What wonderful labor savings the computer has wrought, eh?)

But if the sewing machine was a spectacular invention, the real innovation that resulted changed the very meaning of clothing and led to a “clothing revolution” in the second half of the 19th century in America

First, where 80% of clothing was homemade in the years after the American Revolution, 80% of clothing was “ready-made” by 1900.   Or, as the American consumer ascended over the American producer, such clothing would come to be known as “ready to wear.”  Meanwhile, the once noble term “hand-me-down” took on the meaning of shabby, unwanted clothing.

It’s hard for us to imagine what this meant in a world of ill-fitting, ethnic, hand-me-downs.  Imagine a Russian Jew, an Irish Catholic and a French Huguenot all arriving on Ellis Island on a Monday, and by Thursday all wearing essentially the same affordable, well made, good-fitting clothing as they walked down Broadway.  Poof—the sewing machine was stitching Americans.

Boorstin points out that this “democracy of clothing” bedeviled Europeans who visited America and could not tell a person’s class by his clothing.

Ready-to-wear clothing is what I would call, for lack of a better term, a binding innovation.  It bound people more closely together and built community.  It leveled and connected individuals in a kind of invisible web.  In the case of nineteenth-century America, it helped form a national identity.

Now, consider the most binding innovations in American history.  The newspaper would have to have been one; Boorstin writes about farmers who subscribed to three daily newspapers when they became available (postal delivery being another binding innovation) just to reduce the isolation of the farm.  The Montgomery Ward and Sears catalogs were incredibly binding innovations as well, as was the retail storefront, mass merchandising and advertising

Perhaps the granddaddy of all binding innovations in America, and the one we have come to hate most, is the television.  Millions of people from Baton Rouge to Bangor to Topeka to Olympia would (not so long ago) rush home on Thursdays to watch the same show at 8 p.m. so that they could talk about it the next morning at work.  Television taught a country built in states and regions what was beautiful, funny, sad, and historic.  It created national products and stars.  It taught us—whether Southerner or Westerner or New Englander-- how we wanted to look and smell, how we should decorate our homes, and what we should covet at Christmas.  

It’s hard to imagine a more binding innovation—and a greater nation-maker—than network television.

Which gets to my final wondering: Have the important technologies of the last twenty years been binding in nature?  This seems particularly important if you consider that newspapers are imploding, television declining and fracturing, and ready-made clothing (from Carhartt to Abercrombie and Fitch) is as apt to denote class as not.

The MP3 (and iPod in particular) is clearly a splintering innovation; it isolates and reduces civil discourse.  So, too, the personal computer, which is a solitary experience that has replaced “group” television as the after-dinner technology of choice.  Counter this, of course, with social networking which binds, but in a funny kind of way—around tribes, as Seth Grodin might say--and quite often transitory and hurtful ones.  (I saw a 300,000 person tribe on Facebook today all planning to boycott BP, which would wipe out the local distributor who had nothing to do with the Gulf spill and likely push BP’s oil to China.  That’s the kind of tribe that clearly shows the clueless nature of binding social networking.)

The Web was supposed to give us democracy (like ready-made clothes) and instead gave us massive powerbrokers like Google and Facebook.  Google binds but only as a common tool; the activities we undertake with it are sublimely personal. 

So, it’s all got me a little bit worried.  I love modern innovations that provide choice and flexibility and speed and improve the quality of my life.  And there seem to be more and more of those coming out every year.  

All of which leaves me feeling a little bit unbound.  Fractured.  Even splintered.  

It sure is going to be a very interesting century.