Cine (Taken with Cinemagram)
By David Roher
In case you haven’t been hanging around the benighted corners of the political internet lately, there’s an idiotic backlash afoot against Nate Silver, the proprietor of the FiveThirtyEight blog who made his name as one of the sharpest baseball analysts around.
With the election just a few days away, analysis based on state poll aggregation—Silver’s included—suggests that Barack Obama is a heavy favorite against Mitt Romney. The president holds a slight but strong lead in key electoral states. This doesn’t sit well with many political pundits, who insist that the outcome is anyone’s guess and headed down to the wire. Many of these people have directed their anger toward Silver, whose New York Times-hosted blog has predicted a strong probability of an Obama victory since June. They insist he is biased or sloppy in his methodology, even though they seem unaware of how he makes his predictions and of statistical analysis in general. They say—and I’m not kidding—he’s too gay for this sort of work.
In retrospect, we should’ve seen it coming. It was only a matter of time before the war on expertise spilled over into the cells of Nate Silver’s spreadsheets. In fact, in some ways it had already. Turns out that nothing could have prepared Silver better for the slings and arrows of a surly and willfully obtuse pundit class than working on the fringes of sportswriting over the past decade.
Heartwarming Tearjerker of the Day: The Michigan Humane Society, in collaboration with the Michigan Anti-Cruelty Society, a local plumbing company, and an excavation crew from Waterford Township, successfully rescue a one-month-old Daschund mix that had been trapped inside drain pipe for over 12 hours.
YOU KNOW WHEN YOU’RE JUST DRIVING AROUND OR YOU’RE IN H&M OR SOMETHING AND SOME STUPID SONG COMES ON AND IT JUST DIGS UP ALL THESE FEELINGS THAT YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WERE BURIED IN THE SEDIMENT AT THE BOTTOM OF YOUR HEART AND YOU’RE JUST SITTING AT A RED LIGHT OR FONDLING A SWEATER AND YOU START GETTING THE WEEPS? LIKE YOUR EYES JUST START LEAKING AND SUDDENLY YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT THE WAY YOUR EX’S HAIR SMELLED OR A T-SHIRT THEY HAD THAT WAS FALLING APART AND IT’S JUST AVRIL LAVIGNE’S ‘MY HAPPY ENDING’ OR FUCKING HALL & OATES OR SOMETHING AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY YOU’RE CRYING, LET ALONE CRYING TO THE MUSICAL EQUIVALENT OF A STICK OF GUM, AND YOU START THINKING ABOUT TIME MACHINES AND L’ESPIRIT DE L’ESCALIER OR RILKE QUOTES OR WHATEVER AND THE SALESGIRL IS JUST LOOKING AT YOU LIKE, “WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM?” AND YOU WANT TO SCREAM, “SOMETIMES I FEEL FEELINGS, YOU PERT, JUDGMENTAL EATING DISORDER BILLBOARD! LEAVE ME ALONE!” BUT YOU DON’T, YOU JUST PUT THE SWEATER BACK OR THE LIGHT CHANGES AND YOU GO ON ABOUT YOUR DAY AND THE FEELING FADES BUT YOU WONDER FOR HOURS WHAT ELSE IS BURIED DOWN THERE, WAITING FOR A RYAN ADAMS SONG OR A STARBUCKS COMMERCIAL TO DISLODGE IT AND RUIN YOUR WHOLE EVENING?
I’M LIKE A TICKING TIME BOMB OF USELESS NOSTALGIA FOR THINGS THAT PROBABLY NEVER EXISTED.
FORGET ABOUT IT. I’LL BE FINE IN TEN MINUTES. LET’S JUST GET A LATTÉ AND GO TO SEPHORA. I’M ALMOST OUT OF MASCARA.
ARE YOU OLDER THAN JESUS?
ARE YOU OLDER THAN PLASTIC?
DID YOU INVENT PLASTIC?
WILL YOU THROW THE RINGS FROM PLASTIC SODA BOTTLES AT ME SO I CAN PLAY WITH THEM?
I LOVE YOU.