Journal articles: 'Federal Insurance Company of New York' – Grafiati (2024)

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In this enjoyable work, Kenneth Lipartito and Carol Peters share with us the story of John Elliot Tappan, a Minneapolis lawyer who brought financial innovation to the American heartland. In an era before mutual funds, money market accounts, and in many locations safe diversified savings banks, Tappan saw the need for a safe, small denomination, financial instrument for middle-class savers. The result was Investors Syndicate and its “face-value” certificate, a combination of zero-coupon bond and term life insurance that savers of modest means could purchase in small installments. By providing the small investor with a safe means of saving a small amount each month, Investors Syndicate (latter IDS and American Express Financial Advisors) would grow into one of the nations financial behemoths. Along the way, Tappan and his company would overcome financial panic, depression, war, epidemic, and corrupt postal inspectors (the federal regulators of the day).

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This article explores the economic issues related to financial crises at insurance companies, using an example from the Great Depression, the National Surety Company. National Surety was a large and diverse American insurance company that experienced a major crisis in 1933 due to losses from its guarantees of mortgage-backed securities. I find that policyholders were able to stage a massive run on the company by demanding the return of their unearned premiums. A key dynamic of the crisis was that policyholders at an insurance company have a dual role as holders of liabilities and as providers of income. In addition, I establish that government officials believed National Surety to be systemically important, due to the size of its insurance business and because many of its counterparties were societal actors that these officials sought to protect. As a result, the New York State Insurance Commissioner used emergency powers to reorganize the company, with the goal of providing continuity to its business lines outside mortgage-backed security insurance.

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Michael Shnayerson. Coal River: How a Few Brave Americans Took on a Powerful Company—and the Federal Government—to Save the Land They Love. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2008.Jeff Goodell. Big Coal: The Dirty Secret Behind America’s Energy Future. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2007.Silas House and Jason Howard. Something’s Rising: Appalachians Fighting Mountaintop Removal. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2009.

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AbstractHistorians have long recognized that one of the principal functions of early nineteenth-century American state governments was the distribution of economic privileges, including preferential grants of corporate privileges. North, Wallis, and Weingast label such regimes natural states and argue that government as privilege dispenser is a characteristic of most societies and, in some few instances, represents a transitional phase between traditional premodern societies and modern open-access democracies. This article documents the operation of the natural state in New York, focusing on how Martin Van Buren's Democratic coalition manipulated the distribution of bank and insurance company charters so as to advance the interests of their Democratic coalition. Consistent with the North, Wallis, and Weingast interpretation, the evidence shows that the transition to open access was neither smooth nor inevitable; Van Buren's Democratic coalition reversed the long-run trend toward greater access until they were unseated during the financial crisis years of the late 1830s.

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In July of 1826, a financial panic on Wall Street caused several companies to fail abruptly and precipitated runs on two of New York City's fifteen banks. Life and Fire Insurance became the largest of the bankruptcies. In violation of New York's banking statutes, the firm had engaged in lending on a massive scale during the speculative boom that prevailed in 1824–25. Innovative lending techniques had been developed outside the traditional banking sector—in this case, in the insurance industry. These lending practices, based on an instrument known as a post note, were initially sound, but were later extended to riskier borrowers and ultimately proved ruinous. In the credit crisis that began in late 1825, the value of the Life and Fire's assets fell dramatically, and in a desperate effort to raise cash, the directors resorted to fraud.

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Object Neurosurgeons are a high-risk group for allegations of malpractice. To determine the kinds of cases and the neurosurgical practice patterns associated with the highest proportion of litigation, the authors examined the experience over a 5-year period of a major physician-owned and -administered insurance company dealing with this issue, the Medical Liability Mutual Insurance Company (MLMIC) of New York. With the MLMIC cases as a basis, the authors also analyzed areas of physician vulnerability and determined the steps neurosurgeons can take to reduce potential litigation. Methods All cases closed against MLMIC-insured neurosurgeons from January 1, 1999, through December 30, 2003, were reviewed. Variables examined included allegation, anatomical site, and the ultimate resolution of the case. Of the 280 cases against neurosurgeons that were closed during the study period, 156 (56%) involved the spine, 109 (39%) involved the head and/or brain, and 15 (5%) reflected miscellaneous allegations. These proportions are relatively similar to the 1999 procedural statistics for neurosurgical practices. Of the cases examined, 98 were closed with a total loss indemnity of approximately $50 million, and 182 resulted in no indemnity payment. Conclusions A neurosurgeon's chances of being sued for malpractice are not necessarily related to the medical complexity of a particular case but rather to the types of cases with which the physician is involved. Elective spinal surgery cases constitute the majority of litigation. Neurosurgeons can take steps to reduce their vulnerability to potential litigation and to increase the odds of a successful defense.

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Abstract We examine mechanisms as to why insurance and individual risk reduction activities are complements instead of substitutes. We use data on flood risk reduction activities and flood insurance purchases by surveying more than 1000 homeowners in New York City after they experienced Hurricane Sandy. Insurance is a complement to loss reduction measures undertaken well before the threat of suffering a loss, which is the opposite of a moral hazard effect of insurance coverage. In contrast, insurance acts as a substitute for emergency preparedness measures that can be taken when a loss is imminent, which implies that financial incentives or regulations are needed to encourage insured people to take these measures. We find that mechanisms leading to preferred risk selection are related to past flood damage and a crowding out effect of federal disaster assistance as well as behavioral motivations to reduce risk.

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After a long arbitration in New York, a Canadian company wins substantial damages against a British multinational, only to see a federal court vacate the award.1 Two grounds are given for vacatur: the arbitrator was biased, and the arbitrator manifestly disregarded the applicable law. Not deterred, the winning claimant seeks to enforce the award against the defendant’s London bank accounts.What effect (if any) should a court in England give the American award? Should an English court ignore the arbitrator’s decision or the federal judge’s order? Should the English court make its own investigation into the legitimacy of the vacatur?

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Two competing public policies, an individual’s right to choice of medical provider and the need to reduce health care costs, have collided as the federal government and the states implement health care reform. During his first year in office, President William J. Clinton focused on health care reform; however, Clinton was unsuccessful in implementing his “Health Security Act" and national debate dissolved into partisan bickering. With the failure to establish a coherent national policy on health care, the states and private and public health care entities are reshaping the market. Simultaneously, the courts and administrative agencies entertain public policy arguments favoring choice or cost reductions.Fee-for-service (FFS) medical care allows individuals to receive medical care from their provider of choice. Under the FFS model, individuals chose their health care provider, receive care, and the provider bills an indemnity insurance plan on the basis of service provided. The emergence of managed care organizations (MCOs) narrowed and, in some cases, eliminated this right to choose one’s health care provider.

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On April 26, 1995, the United States Supreme Court limited the reach of the preemption provision of ERISA in New York State Conference of Blue Cross & Blue Shield Plans v. Tavelers Insurance Co. (115 S. Ct. 1671 (1995)). In Travelers, the Supreme Court upheld the validity of a New York statute requiring hospitals to collect surcharges from patients covered by commercial insurers and requiring health maintenance organizations (HMOs) to pay a surcharge to the state's general fund that varies depending on the number of Medicaid-eligible HMO members enrolled. Neither patients insured by Blue Cross/Blue Shield plans nor the plans themselves are similarly charged under the statute. Several commercial insurers and HMOs claimed the surcharges should be preempted under ERISA because they are levied on patients whose insurance or HMO membership premiums are purchased by an ERISA plan.The ERISA preemption clause means that federal regulation, or lack thereof, supersedes state regulation that is related to employee pension and benefit plans. This preemption clause prevents states from changing health care and benefit law for a significant portion of state residents.

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International, rather than domestic, causes of both the Bank Holiday of 1933 and the calm in the banking system that followed are emphasized here. New information on gold losses by the New York Federal Reserve, rather than domestic currency hoarding, serve to explain the Bank Holiday's specific timing. Expectations that Roosevelt would devalue the dollar stimulated much of the gold loss. I also argue that Roosevelt's restrictions on gold holdings and foreign exchange dealings and his devaluation of the dollar by 60 percent were more important to the stability of the banking system after the Bank Holiday than was deposit insurance.

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OBJECTIVE The Massachusetts health care insurance reform law passed in 2006 has many similarities to the federal Affordable Care Act (ACA). To address concerns that the ACA might negatively impact case volume and reimbursem*nt for physicians, the authors analyzed trends in the number of neurosurgical procedures by type and patient insurance status in Massachusetts before and after the implementation of the state's health care insurance reform. The results can provide insight into the future of neurosurgery in the American health care system. METHODS The authors analyzed data from the Massachusetts State Inpatient Database on patients who underwent neurosurgical procedures in Massachusetts from 2001 through 2012. These data included patients' insurance status (insured or uninsured) and the numbers of procedures performed classified by neurosurgical procedural codes of the International Classification of Diseases, Ninth Revision, Clinical Modification (ICD-9-CM). Each neurosurgical procedure was grouped into 1 of 4 categories based on ICD-9-CM codes: 1) tumor, 2) other cranial/vascular, 3) shunts, and 4) spine. Comparisons were performed of the numbers of procedures performed and uninsured patients, before and after the implementation of the reform law. Data from the state of New York were used as a control. All data were controlled for population differences. RESULTS After 2008, there were declines in the numbers of uninsured patients who underwent neurosurgical procedures in Massachusetts in all 4 categories. The number of procedures performed for tumor and spine were unchanged, whereas other cranial/vascular procedures increased. Shunt procedures decreased after implementation of the reform law but exhibited a similar trend to the control group. In New York, the number of spine surgeries increased, as did the percentage of procedures performed on uninsured patients. Other cranial/vascular procedures decreased. CONCLUSIONS After the Massachusetts health care insurance reform, the number of uninsured individuals undergoing neurosurgical procedures significantly decreased for all categories, but more importantly, the total number of surgeries performed did not change dramatically. To the extent that trends in Massachusetts can predict the overall US experience, we can expect that some aspects of reimbursem*nt may be positively impacted by the ACA. Neurosurgeons, who often treat patients with urgent conditions, may be affected differently than other specialists.

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ResumenEs sabido que durante la primera década del siglo XX en México se construyó un gran número de edificaciones, tanto públicas como privadas, que significaron la difusión de materiales y técnicas constructivas modernas. Además del sentido moderno de sus funciones, muchas resultaron de procesos de gestión de la construcción novedosos, pues su realización implicó la importación de estructuras complejas, de grandes dimensiones, con gran variedad de materiales. Más que en sus aspectos técnico-constructivos, este artículo busca hacer énfasis en la incorporación de los mecanismos de gestión que estos implicaron. Los proyectos de los arquitectos Theodore De Lemos y August Cordes, construidos por el ingeniero mexicano Gonzalo Garita, con estructuras de acero de la empresa de Edward y Foster Milliken, también con sede en Nueva York, fueron resultado del desarrollo de un mercado en el cual aparecieron los primeros empresarios de la construcción modernos del país. El trabajo se centra en la realización en la Ciudad de México de los edificios para la Casa Boker y para la Mutual Insurance Company of New York en el contexto de las obras realizadas por los proyectistas y contratistas en Manhattan, Ciudad del Cabo o Johannesburgo. De ese modo se entiende una gestión moderna de proyectos y obras que se adelantaba a la globalización de nuestros días.AbstractIt is known that during the first decade of the twentieth century in Mexico was built a large number of buildings, both public and private, which meant the dissemination of modern building materials and techniques. Many of them were the results from new construction management processes, since their implementation implied the importation of complex and large structures which included different materials. More than about their technical-constructive aspects, this article seeks to emphasize the incorporation of the management mechanisms that these implied. The projects of the architects Theodore De Lemos and August Cordes, built by Mexican engineer Gonzalo Garita, with Edward and Foster Milliken’s steel structures company, also based in New York, were the result of the development of a market in which appeared the first entrepreneurs of modern construction in the country. The work focuses on the realization in Mexico City of the buildings for Casa Boker and for the Mutual Insurance Company of New York, in the context of the works of the designers and contractors in Manhattan, Cape Town or Johannesburg. In this way we understand a modern management of projects and works in advance of our day’s globalization.

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On the evening of October 29, 2012, “Hurricane” Sandy made land- fall on the New York coastline, battering the land with strong winds, torrential rain, and record-breaking storm surges. Homes and commercial structures were destroyed; roads and tunnels were flooded; and more than 23,000 people sought refuge in temporary shelters, with many others facing weeks without power and electricity. At the time, Sandy was heralded as one of the costliest hurricanes in the his- tory of the United States; the second costliest hurricane only to Katrina, which hit New Orleans in 2005. Unfortunately, recent experience with Hurricanes Florence, Maria, Harvey, and Irma suggest that this pattern of devastating superstorms may become the new norm as climate change produces more extreme and unpredictable weather events. In Sandy’s aftermath, as individuals returned to their homes, or what remained of them, and communities began to rebuild, the true cost of the storm became apparent. A year after the storm, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (“FEMA”) estimated that over $1.4 billion in assistance was provided to 182,000 survivors of the dis- aster; another $3.2 billion was provided to state and local governments for debris removal, infrastructure repair, and emergency protective measures. More than $2.4 billion was provided to individuals and businesses in the form of low-interest loans through the Small Business Administration (“SBA”), and millions more were spent on grants de- signed to implement mitigation measures in the future and to provide unemployment assistance to survivors. Before the storm, homeowners paid premiums for flood insurance provided through the National Flood Insurance Program (“NFIP”), and for homeowner’s insurance provided by dozens of private insurers. In the months following the storm, they began to file claims for assistance in rebuilding their homes. While many such claims were re- solved successfully, many homeowners were unhappy with the settlement amounts offered by their insurance carriers and felt compelled to file lawsuits in the surrounding state and federal courts. Many of those lawsuits were filed in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of New York (“EDNY”). This case study describes the EDNY’s specifically crafted, unique approach to handling the mass litigation that ensued from Sandy’s devastation, documents some of the problems that the Court faced during that mass litigation, and describes some of the lessons learned from the Court’s experience.

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George Eastman may not have been a father, but to the residents of Rochester, New York, the principal founder of Eastman Kodak was a doting uncle. In addition to donating millions of dollars to Rochester-area schools and hospitals, Eastman reportedly paid to remove the tonsils of every child in town. Even after his death in 1932, his company looked after of its employees and retirees. For example, Kodak refused to use its size to negotiate for cheaper medical care for its Rochester employees. If it had, most small businesses in the area would have likely faced higher insurance rates and the prospect of eliminating health benefits for their employees entirely. Only about seven percent of Rochester residents do not have health insurance today, compared with fifteen percent nationally.That may change, however. Faced with growing foreign competition and demands for higher returns, last summer Kodak threatened to desert its long-standing approach to buying insurance and encouraged its 44,000 retirees to join a health plan that excluded two high-priced hospitals.

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The creation of value for customers depends significantly on the knowledge, skill and motivation of service employees. Heskett, Sasser and Schlesinger (2003, The value profit chain. New York, NY: The Free Press) argued that customer value is created by satisfied, productive and loyal employees. This indicates that the company must first provide value to employees. What has not sufficiently been analysed is how to and who should provide value to employees. We verified that not only the company provides value through its policies or systems, but also through those managers who lead at middle level. They play an essential role in creating value for employees when guiding them consistently through specific behaviours that promote value for customers. Our research has focused on developing specific middle managers’ behaviours in order to create a climate focused on service that contributes to enhancing employee value in the commercial unit of a leading insurance company in Peru. The literature explains the need of a generic climate (GC) as a foundation for focused climates, but it has not been demonstrated how to link these climates through the leadership of middle managers. We applied a model of service leadership that facilitates this link, emphasizes excellence in service and enhances employees’ value.

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Problems in the field of health law often force tradeoffs between uniformity and particularity in health care decision-making. Patients are highly diverse in terms of their basic health status, willingness to accept risk or uncertainty in new treatments, and ability to pay for care. And health care experts - doctors, research scientists, insurance company reviewers, and health economists - are similarly diverse in their perception of the best treatment and payment structure choices. In a world with such persistent heterogeneity of opinions and preferences, a society's choice between centralized rules for treatment and payment and a more diffuse decisional regime is both crucial and controversial. Opt for a uniform national rule - say, a federal statute governing treatment standards, drug approval, or health finance - and many beneficial autonomous transactions between doctors and patients are squelched, with possible detrimental effects on population health and medical innovation.

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Abstract The Tax Cuts and Jobs Act (TCJA) eliminated the ACA's “shared responsibility payment,” which penalized those who failed to comply with the requirement to purchase health insurance. In this article the authors explain efforts in several states to respond to this change by adopting individual health insurance mandates at the state level. Although there are good reasons to think that states may be reluctant to consider establishing their own mandates, New Jersey, the District of Columbia, and Vermont quickly joined Massachusetts in establishing such measures in 2018. In 2019 California and Rhode Island enacted state-level mandates. Four other states—Maryland, Connecticut, Hawaii, and Washington—formally considered mandates but have not enacted them. The authors compare the policy debates among these states and one other state, New York, which has not seen a legislative proposal for a mandate despite its strong support for the ACA. Their analysis explores the dynamics within the US federal system when a key component of a complex and politically salient national initiative is eliminated and states are left with many policy, political, and administrative questions of what to do next.

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Abstract Research confirms serious and concerning health implications for lonely and socially isolated older adults. Studies consistently demonstrate that older adults who are lonely or socially isolated have higher rates of depression, more health conditions, and greater mortality. AARP Services, Inc. (ASI) and UnitedHealthcare (UHC) are committed to the health and well-being of insureds in AARP® Medicare Supplement Plans insured by UnitedHealthcare Insurance Company (for New York certificate holders, UnitedHealthcare of New York), recognizing that health and wellness should be promoted on a holistic level to ensure successful aging. As part of this commitment, a research initiative entitled Aging Strong 2020 has been developed. Its purpose is to impact insureds’ personal and social investments in their well-being Thus a related series of interventions are aiming to increase resilience by focusing on enhanced purpose in life, social connectedness, and optimism. This symposium will specifically discuss these efforts related to social connectedness and how they have improved well-being among lonely older adults. First discussed is the prevalence and outcomes of loneliness in a large national survey. Interventions include use of animatronic pets, a telephonic reminiscent memory program, and an online self-compassion mindfulness program. Findings from these initiatives demonstrate that interventions designed to improve loneliness and well-being among lonely older adults can contribute to the holistic model of health.

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Gerald J. Lieberman was born on December 31, 1925, in Brooklyn, New York, after a hectic New Year's Eve trip to the hospital. His father, Joseph, spelled his last name Liberman, but his mother, Ida, preferred Lieberman, the spelling that she and some of Joseph's siblings used. Joseph and Ida had come to this country from Lithuania. Joseph worked for the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, and they lived in an “historic” section of Flatbush. The much wanted baby boy was the center of the family, which included two doting older sisters, Shirley and Rosalind. He grew fast — one of the tallest boys in nearby Public School 197 — and achieved his adult height at about the age of 13. As a boy, he was described as towheaded and gawky. Jerry did not realize that he had a middle initial until he was 15 and needed a birth certificate to get a work permit. Jerry asked his parents if they had given him a middle initial, but they did not remember. In any case, since the J does not stand for anything, Jerry likes to quip that his middle name is Jinitial.

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Domino's Pizza is testing “Domicopter” drones to deliver pizzas, which will compete with Taco Bell's “Tacocopter” drones. Not to be outdone, Amazon is working on an army of delivery drones that will cut out the postal service. In Denmark, farmers use drones to inspect fields for the appearance of harmful weeds, which reduces herbicide use as the drones directly apply pesticides only where it is needed. Environmentalists send drones into glacial caves or into deep waters, gathering data that would be too dangerous or expensive for human scientists to procure. Federal Express dreams of pilotless aerial and terrestrial drones that will transport goods more cheaply, reliably, and safely than vehicles operated by humans. Human rights activists deploy drones over conflict zones, intelligently searching for and documenting abuses for both rhetorical and legal purposes. Aid agencies send unmanned drones to villages deep in jungles or behind enemy lines, maneuvering hazardous terrain to bring food and supplies to endangered populations. Medical researchers are experimenting with injecting drone blood cells into humans that can mimic good cholesterol carriers or identify and neutralize cancerous cells. Parents in Vermont are using flying drones to accompany children to school, giving a whole new meaning to helicopter parenting. And Pilobolus, a New York dance company, has choreographed a dance in which drones and humans engage each other in the most human of acts: the creation of art.

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Purpose. The purpose of this study was to evaluate the effectiveness of a management training seminar, developed through a partnership among a college, a managed care company, and a state public health department, to increase the level of organizational support for employee heart health in selected companies. Design. Quasiexperimental. Setting. Worksites, including heavy and light industries, school districts, insurance companies, county health agencies, and health care centers. Subjects. Twenty western New York companies matched on size, industry type, and interest in worksite health promotion. Intervention. Seven training seminars held at a college for 1 year and directed primarily at human resource managers. Training was supplemented by the availability of student interns, faculty consulting, a vendors' fair, and various program planning aids. Measures. Groups were assessed using HeartCheck, a measure of organizational support for employee heart health. Results. A fourfold difference in change for HeartCheck was observed by the experimental vs. comparison groups (p < .01), along with significantly greater increases on five of the instrument's six subscales (p < .05). The level of HeartCheck reached in the experimental group matched those seen in highly acclaimed commercially sponsored programs. Conclusion. This study represents one of the first attempts to intervene at the organizational level within a worksite health promotion initiative. Positive results were observed that appear to be both meaningful and cost-effective.

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The laws and regulations governing mobility are inconsistent and antiquated and should be modernized to encourage innovation as we prepare for an autonomous car future. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (“NHTSA”) has concluded that Autonomous Vehicles, or Highly Automated Vehicles (“HAVs”) may “prove to be the greatest personal transportation revolution since the popularization of the personal automobile nearly a century ago.” Preparation for a HAV world is underway as the mobility industry evolves and transforms itself at a remarkable pace. New mobility platforms are becoming more convenient, more automated and more data driven—all of which will facilitate the evolution to HAVs. However, that mobility revolution is hindered by an environment of older laws and regulations that are often incompatible with new models and platforms. Although there are a number of different mobility models, this article will focus on carsharing, peer-to-peer platforms, vehicle subscription programs, and rental car businesses (yes, car rental is a mobility platform). All of these mobility models face a host of inconsistent legal, regulatory and liability issues, which create operational challenges that can stifle innovation. For example, incumbent car rental, a mobility platform that has been in place for over 100 years, is regulated by various state and local laws that address everything from driver’s license inspections to use of telematics systems. Although physical inspection of a customer’s driver’s license at the time of rental is commonplace and expected in a traditional, face-to-face transaction, complying with the driver’s license inspection for a free-floating carsharing or other remote access mobility model becomes more problematic. Part B of this article will review current federal and state vehicle rental laws and regulations that may apply to incumbent rental car companies and other mobility models around the country, including federal laws preempting rental company vicarious liability and requiring the grounding of vehicles with open safety recalls, as well as state laws regulating GPS tracking, negligent entrustment, and toll service fees. Part C poses a series of hypotheticals to illustrate the challenges that the existing patchwork of laws creates for the mobility industry. For instance, whether a mobility operator can utilize GPS or telematics to monitor the location of a vehicle is subject to inconsistent state laws (permitted in Texas, but not California, for example). And vehicle subscription programs are currently prohibited in Indiana, but permitted in most other states. Similarly, peer-to-peer car rental programs currently are prohibited in New York, but permitted in most other states. Finally, Part D of the article will offer some suggested uniform rules for the mobility industry.

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Since the relaxation of federal sanctions on the planting of Ribes crops because of the development of white pine blister rust (WPBR) immune Ribes cultivars (3), a small industry for the production of Ribes fruit for fresh and processing markets was established in New York and surrounding New England states. The majority of Ribes acreage in the region is planted to a WPBR immune black currant R. nigrum cv. Titania. From 2008 to June 2011, symptoms resembling those caused by WPBR pathogen Cronartium ribicola were observed at a large (>12 ha) R. nigrum cv. Titania planting in Preston, CT. In 2008, infection was restricted to a single field (100% incidence), but in 2009, all fields suffered from premature defoliation by late July. In 2010 and 2011, there was considerable incidence (>85%), but premature defoliation was kept in check by chemical management. Symptoms began as chlorotic lesions (0.5 to 4.3 mm in diameter) on both sides of the leaf. These chlorotic lesions had margins delineated by leaf veins and many developed necrotic (0.3 to 0.9 mm in diameter) centers on the upper surface of leaves within 2 to 3 weeks. The undersides of lesions developed blisters containing orange uredinia (0.1 to 0.33 mm in diameter) with smooth peridia that broke with the production of yellow-orange urediniospores (30 × 15 to 25 μm). Symptoms and signs were consistent with published descriptions of C. ribicola (1) and with WPBR infections on highly susceptible R. nigrum cv. Ben Alder planted at the New York State Agricultural Experiment Station in Geneva. Additional confirmation was provided by sequencing the two internal transcribed spacer (ITS) regions and the 5.8S gene (GenBank Accession No. JN587805; 98% identity with No. DQ533975) in the nuclear ribosomal repeat using primers ITS1-F and ITS4 as described previously (2,4). Furthermore, an attempt was made to confirm pathogenicity in the greenhouse by inoculating shoots of potted nursery stock of R. nigrum cv. Titania. Shoots were inoculated by rubbing leaves with either an uninfected currant leaf or a currant leaf from Preston, CT sporulating with urediniospores. Plants were subsequently misted with dH20 and covered with plastic bags for 24 h. Plants were watered biweekly and kept in a greenhouse with 39 to 65% relative humidity at 21 to 26°C. Shoots were monitored for symptom development on a weekly basis. After 3 weeks, 2 of the 10 plants inoculated with infected leaves developed chlorotic lesions and uredinia identical to those on leaves from Preston, CT, while all others remained healthy. Although not easily reproducible in a greenhouse, the breakdown of immunity in R. nigrum cv. Titania was observed for the last 4 years in Connecticut. Given that WPBR immunity was one of the conditions for legalized planting of Ribes, the breakdown of immunity has potentially deleterious implications particularly for nearby states like Massachusetts and New York, in which the Ribes industries are expanding. Moreover, Ribes growers may need to rely on chemical management programs to manage WPBR in the future. References: (1) G. B. Cummins. Illustrated Genera of Rust Fungi. Burgess Publishing Company, Minneapolis, MN, 1959. (2) M. Gardes and T. D. Bruns. Mol. Ecol. 2:113, 1993. (3) S. McKay. Hortic. Technol. 10:562, 2000. (4) T. J. White et al. PCR Protocols: A Guide to Methods and Applications. Academic Press, Inc., San Diego, CA, 1990.

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The cyberattack on the Colonial Pipeline system was impossible to “keep on the lowdown” as industrial attacks of limited scale often are. The shutdown of a 2.5 million B/D system of 5,500 miles of pipeline spanning from the US Gulf Coast to the East Coast does not go unnoticed. And early unconfirmed reports of a ransom payment made to decrypt the seized data intensified the spotlight on the incident. (Continental CEO Joseph Blount confirmed a $4.4-million payment on 19 May.) During what surely was a crisis management nightmare involving not only Colonial but also the US Department of Energy, Department of Transportation, Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, Department of Homeland Security (DHS), and the Pipeline and Hazardous Materials Safety Administration (all agencies thanked by Colonial in a 15 May tweet), the information made public has heightened concerns about the security of data and critical infrastructure globally. Foremost is the escalation in the multiple layers of bad actors involved in a single attack. The FBI identified the ransomware-as-a-service (RaaS) DarkSide, which it has been investigating since October 2020. Criminal partners conduct attacks and then share the proceeds with the ransomware developers. The agency released a flash alert about DarkSide on 10 May with indicators of compromise and mitigation measures once infected. “Mitigation measures once infected.” The alert may have come too late for Colonial, whose business network was hit rather than its operational technology (OT) networks that control the pipeline. To contain the damage, it took down its own OT network. An example supporting this action of last resort occurred last year when a ransomware attack on an unidentified natural gas company’s business networks moved into its control systems at a compression facility, halting operations for 2 days, according to a DHS alert. DHS said the company did not have a plan to respond to a cyberattack. A report by FireEye, a cybersecurity firm that confirmed its hiring by Colonial, said since initially surfacing in August 2020, the creators of DarkSide and its partners have infiltrated organizations in more than 15 countries. Affiliates retain a portion of each ransom fee, ranging from 25% for fees less than $500,000 to 10% for fees greater than $5 million. Ransomware operators are masters in extortion and are using new tactics to widen their net of exploitation. In April, the DarkSide operators said in a press release that they were targeting organizations listed on the NASDAQ and other stock markets and were willing to give stock traders advance notice of upcoming attacks to allow them to reap profits when stock prices dropped as a result of the breach, according to FireEye. In another example, an attacker obtained the victim’s cyber insurance policy’s coverage limits and used that knowledge during ransom negotiation, refusing to lower the ransom fee. What this means for organizations is that their boards should assess the full spectrum of risk from prevention to detection as a business risk and have a plan in place to execute when an attack occurs. The investment required may be far less than the increasingly exorbitant ransom fees and the costs associated with the theft or destruction of data and disruption to the business.

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The COVID-19 pandemic has exposed the inequalities facing vulnerable populations: those living in economically precarious situations and lacking adequate health care. In addition, frontline workers deemed essential to meet our basic needs have faced enormous personal risk to keep earning their paychecks and the economy running. Immigrant communities face an intersection of all three vulnerabilities (e.g., economic precarity, health care barriers, essential workforce), making them one of the most vulnerable populations in the United States. We conducted 26 interviews via Zoom with immigrant service providers in Pennsylvania and New York, including lawyers, case workers, religious leaders, advocates, doctors, and educators in order to gain a better understanding of the impact of COVID-19 on immigrant communities. These interviews affirmed that immigrants are concentrated in essential industries, which increases their exposure to the virus. In addition, they lack access to social safety nets when trying to access health care or facing job/income loss. Last, COVID-19 did not adequately slow the detention and deportation machine in the United States, which led to increased transmission of the virus among not only detainees but also others in the detention system, surrounding communities, and the countries to which people were deported, countries that often lacked an adequate infrastructure for dealing with the pandemic. Based on our interviews, we have a series of specific policy recommendations to diminish the vulnerability of immigrants and create social safety nets that will include them and protect them when the market fails to do so. Immigrants of all types have made indispensable contributions to the US economy during the pandemic and before it. First, Congress and states should pass legislation to provide COVID-19 relief payments to all essential workers, regardless of their status, as compensation for putting their lives on the line to keep the economy running. Second, as a public health imperative, federal and state governments should expand coverage of Medicaid and Children’s Health Insurance Programs (CHIP) to include immigrant essential workers and their children, regardless of their status. Third, DHS should not refer essential workers to removal proceedings, and immigration courts should terminate all removal proceedings for essential workers without criminal records. When it comes to issues of health care affordability and access, Congress must continue to revise the Affordable Healthcare Act to expand coverage for those who do not qualify for Medicaid but earn too little to afford insurance on their own. Finally, there must be a review and rigorous enforcement of workplace health and safety standards, particularly when it comes to farming, meatpacking, food production, and food service industries. Our final recommendations are specific to DHS and two of the primary agencies they oversee: Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and the Border Patrol. First, there needs to be a review of ICE policies and practices, leading to a shift in policy that keeps mixed-status families intact and minor children out of detention centers and that streamlines and expands the asylum process. Second, both Congress and the administration must create additional paths to legal status where none now exist, including for recipients of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) and for children who have arrived since June 2007.

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Background:It is presumed that the phenotype of the axial spondyloarthritis (axSpA) may differ in females and males; the published data are controversial.Objectives:To explore the sex differences in disease features and radiographic progression in axSpA.Methods:A total of 210 patients with axSpA (115 with radiographic and 95 with non-radiographic axSpA) were selected for analysis. Spinal radiographs were scored by two readers in a random order according to the modified Stoke Ankylosing Spondylitis Spinal Score (mSASSS). Pelvic radiographs were scored according to the grading system of the modified New York criteria; a sacroiliitis sum score was calculated as a sum of the grades for both sacroiliac joints. Mann-Whitney and Fisher exact tests were performed for group comparisons. A multivariable regression analysis was performed to analyze the influence of gender on radiographic progression.Results:Males (n=107; 51%) were significantly younger at disease onset (34.8 ± 10.3 vs. 31.5 ± 11.2 years, p=0.008) and at diagnosis (37.5 ± 10.2 vs. 34.1 ± 11.2 years, p=0.006); symptom duration at baseline was similar (4.1 ± 2.6 vs. 4.3 ± 2.8 years, p=0.66). Females were less often HLA-B27 positive (74 (72.5%) vs. 92 (86.0%), p=0.02), had higher baseline disease activity (BASDAI 4.3±2.2 vs 3.7±2.0; p=0.05), but lower baseline C-reactive protein level (7.1 ± 10.9 vs. 12.3 ±18.2 mg/l, p=0.08), and similar time-averaged ASDAS (2.5±0.8 vs 2.4±1.0; p=0.385). Males more frequently had definite radiographic sacroiliitis (70.1% vs. 38.8%; p<0.001), higher sacroiliitis sum score (4.9 ±1.9 vs 3.2±1.8, p<0.001), and higher mean mSASSS (6.1 ± 10.7 vs 2.4 ± 4.0; p=0.100) at baseline. Other variables were comparable between the groups. There was a trend for a higher radiographic progression in males in all explored outcomes, statistically significant only for the formation/progression of syndesmophytes (23 (21.5%) vs. 10 (9.7%), p=0.023), with no differences in the radiographic progression of sacroiliitis. In a multivariate logistic regression analysis, similar odds for spinal radiographic progression, new syndesmophyte formation and radiographic progression of sacroiliitis by ≥1 grade were seen –Table 1.Conclusion:There was a trend for male patients to have more radiographic damage at the baseline and more progression after two years, as reflected by the percentage of patients with new syndesmophytes.:Table 1.Association of sex with radiographic progression in spine and sacroiliac joints after 2 years of follow-up.Parameter, n (%) or mean±SDFemale(n=103)Male(n=107)PSpinal radiographic progressionmSASSS change0.46 ± 1.631.00 ± 2.850.25Progression of mSASSS by ≥2 points10 (9.7)20 (18.7)0.08New syndesmophytes or progression of syndesmophytes10 (9.7)23 (21.5)0.02Progression of radiografic sacroiliitisChange of the sacroiliitis sum score0.14 ± 0.940.13 ± 0.730.58Progression of sacroiliitis by at least 1 grade in opinion of both readers17 (16.5)9 (8.4)0.09mSASSS – modified Stoke Ankylosing Spondylitis Spine Score;Acknowledgments:GESPIC has been financially supported by the German Federal Ministry of Education and Research (BMBF). As funding by BMBF was reduced in 2005 and stopped in 2007, financial support has been obtained from Abbott / Abbvie, Amgen, Centocor, Schering-Plough, and Wyeth. Since 2010 GESPIC is supported by Abbvie.Dr. Murat Torgutalp was supported by the Scientific and Technological Research Council of Turkey (TUBITAK).Disclosure of Interests:Mikhail Protopopov Consultant of: Novartis, Murat Torgutalp: None declared, Joachim Sieper Consultant of: AbbVie, Boehringer Ingelheim, Eli Lilly and Company, Janssen, Merck, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, and UCB Pharma, Speakers bureau: AbbVie, Boehringer Ingelheim, Eli Lilly and Company, Janssen, Merck, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, and UCB Pharma, Hildrun Haibel Consultant of: Abbvie, Jansen, MSD, and Novartis, Speakers bureau: Abbvie, Jansen, MSD, and Novartis, Fabian Proft Grant/research support from: Novartis Pharma GmbH, Consultant of: Consultancy / speaker fees from: Abbvie, BMS, Celgene, Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB, Speakers bureau: Consultancy / speaker fees from: Abbvie, BMS, Celgene, Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB, Valeria Rios Rodriguez Consultant of: Abbvie, Novartis, Martin Rudwaleit Consultant of: AbbVie, BMS, Celgene, Janssen, Eli Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB Pharma, Denis Poddubnyy Grant/research support from: AbbVie, MSD, Novartis, and Pfizer, Consultant of: AbbVie, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Eli Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB, Speakers bureau: AbbVie, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Eli Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB

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Abstract Background: The prevalence of thalassemia in the US is rising due to migration, new births, and improved survival. Advances in monitoring and treatment have significantly reduced morbidity and mortality in transfusion-dependent thalassemia (TDT), the most severe form of this inherited disease. Thalassemia Treatment Centers (TTCs) utilize a comprehensive care model to provide expert-recommended and evidence-informed treatment, but a majority of the patients with TDT are not managed at such centers owing to long travel distance and lack of insurance portability. The resulting lack of access to specialized care increases the risk of complications and reduces health-related quality of life. To address this challenge, a national project was launched to develop Thalassemia Management Checklists (TMCs), a set of quick reference guides that provide decision support to physicians for blood transfusion, iron overload and chelation therapy. Methods: Three TTC's (New York, NY, Philadelphia, PA, and Oakland, CA) collaborated on the development of the following TMCs: (1) Guidelines for Managing Transfusion therapy for Thalassemia, (2) Monitoring of Iron Overload, and (3) Monitoring Deferasirox Therapy. A comprehensive review of literature including over 600 published studies and case reports, as well as the existing expert guidelines was conducted. Utilizing relevant references, the clinical guidelines were developed and a consensus on content and design of the Checklists was achieved. Subsequently, feedback obtained from national experts and patients with thalassemia was incorporated into the final Checklists. Results: Each Checklist was divided into three sections and formatted as a quick reference guide. Part 1 was a summary table having essential information printed on one side of letter-sized paper. For transfusion therapy, the table contained actions to be triggered by the pre-transfusion hemoglobin level. For iron overload, the optimal and elevated liver and cardiac iron concentration were defined along with the frequency of iron measurement using MRI. For monitoring of deferasirox, the monitoring guidelines for adverse effects and the response to abnormal laboratory tests were presented. Part 2 consisted of a literature review and rationale for the recommendations presented in the table, which was printed on the opposite face of the page. Part 3 was a bibliography of publications cited in the literature review that was made available online with a link provided in the TMC. The final product was three separate pages each covering a single topic, allowing easy access to the summary information while displaying detailed information on demand. The TMCs were distributed as printed copies to hematologists and can be downloaded from thalassemia-related websites. Discussion: The TTC's involved with this effort recognized that physicians providing care to only a few patients with TDT within general hematology (or more commonly oncology) -focused practices are far more likely to consult a desktop quick reference guide instead of a textbook, journal or handbook of comprehensive guidelines. TMCs are expected to cover most of the routine management of TDT while encouraging consultation with TTC's for complex decisions. TMCs will form the backbone of the first national attempt to standardize the management of TDT and reduce disparities in access to and quality of care. Over the next 3 years, the adoption of TMCs and their impact on patient care will be formally evaluated in selected regions. Patient access to TMCs through online publication will increase knowledge and promote self-advocacy. We are grateful to Craig Butler and Cooley's Anemia Foundation for coordinating this project. This project is/was supported by the Health Resources and Services Administration (HRSA) of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) under grant number U1AMC28548: Cooperative Agreements to Support Comprehensive Medical Care for Thalassemia with no funds from non-governmental sources. This information or content and conclusions are those of the author and should not be construed as the official position or policy of, nor should any endorsem*nts be inferred by HRSA, HHS or the U.S. Government. Disclosures Lal: Insight Magnetics: Research Funding; La Jolla Pharmaceutical Company: Consultancy, Research Funding; Novartis: Research Funding; Bluebird Bio: Research Funding; Terumo Corporation: Research Funding; Celgene Corporation: Research Funding. Sheth:Terumo Corporation: Research Funding; Novartis: Research Funding; La Jolla Pharmaceutical Company: Research Funding; Celgene Corporation: Consultancy, Research Funding; Bluebird Bio: Consultancy. Kwiatkowski:Novartis: Research Funding; Apopharma: Research Funding; bluebird bio: Consultancy, Honoraria, Research Funding; Terumo: Research Funding; Agios Pharmaceuticals: Consultancy, Research Funding.

Abstract:

Background:Peripheral symptoms (PS), such as arthritis, enthesitis, and dactylitis, are common in axial spondyloarthritis (axSpA); data showing the association of PS and spinal radiographic progression in axSpA are controversial.Objectives:To analyze the association of PS and spinal radiographic progression in patients with axSpA.Methods:A total of 210 patients with axSpA (115 with radiographic and 95 with non-radiographic axSpA) were selected for analysis. Spinal radiographs were scored by two readers in a random order according to the modified Stoke Ankylosing Spondylitis Spinal Score (mSASSS). Pelvic radiographs were scored according to the grading system of the modified New York criteria; a sacroiliitis sum score was calculated as a sum of the grades for both sacroiliac joints. Mann-Whitney and Fisher exact tests were performed for group comparisons. A multivariable regression analysis was performed to analyze the influence of PS on radiographic progression.Results:Of the 101 (48.1%) patients with PS, 78 had peripheral arthritis, 48 - enthesitis, 12 - dactylitis. 32 patients had ≤1 PS. Patients with PS were older, less frequently HLA-B27 positive, compared with patients with no PS (73 (73.0%) vs. 93 (85.3%), p=0.028), had higher disease activity (time-averaged ASDAS over 2 years 2.6 ± 0.9 vs. 2.3 ± 0.9; p=0.032), worse physical function (BASFI 3.5 ± 2.3 vs. 2.3 ± 2.2, p<0.001), higher exposure to disease modifying anti-rheumatic drugs (39 (38.6%) vs. 22 (20.2%), p=0.003) and lower baseline radiographic sacroiliitis sum score (3.8 ± 1.9 vs. 4.4 ± 2.1, p=0.026); other baseline characteristics were similar. Patients with PS had lower absolute progression in mSASSS after 2 years of follow-up than those without (0.28 ± 1.39 vs 1.15 ± 2.9, p=0.045); 7.9% of patients with PS had a progression of mSASSS by ≥2 points compared to 20.2% in patients without PS (p=0.011). Radiographic progression of sacroiliitis was similar in both groups. In a multivariable regression analysis, presence of PS was associated with a lower mSASSS progression and lower odds for the mSASSS progression by ≥2 points after 2 years of follow-up: β=-0.98 (95% -1.68 to -0.28) OR=0.33 (95% CI 0.12 to 0.91), respectively – Table 1.Table 1.Association of peripheral symptoms with radiographic progression in axial spondyloarthritis after 2 years of follow-up.Multivariable linear regression analysisOutcomeβ (95 %CI)mSASSS change score−0.98 (-1.68 to -0.28)*Change of the sacroiliitis sum score−0.06 (-0.32 to 0.20)**Multivariable logistic regression analysisOutcomeOdds ratio (95 %CI)Progression of mSASSS by ≥2 points0.33 (0.12 to 0.91)*Progression of sacroiliitis by at least 1 grade in opinion of both readers0.84 (0.33 to 2.09)**mSASSS - modified Stoke Ankylosing Spondylitis Spine Score.*Adjusted for the smoking status, HLA-B27 status, NSAIDs intake, baseline syndesmophytes, and time-averaged ASDAS.**Adjusted for the smoking status, HLA-B27 status, NSAIDs intake, sacroiliitis sum score at baseline, and time-averaged ASDAS.Conclusion:Presence of PS is associated with distinct characteristics of SpA including slower radiographic spinal progression which might be explained partly by the numerically lower mSASSS score at baseline.Acknowledgments:GESPIC has been financially supported by the German Federal Ministry of Education and Research (BMBF). As funding by BMBF was reduced in 2005 and stopped in 2007, financial support has been obtained from Abbott / Abbvie, Amgen, Centocor, Schering-Plough, and Wyeth. Since 2010 GESPIC is supported by Abbvie.Dr. Murat Torgutalp was supported by the Scientific and Technological Research Council of Turkey (TUBITAK).Disclosure of Interests:Murat Torgutalp: None declared, Mikhail Protopopov Consultant of: Novartis, Fabian Proft Grant/research support from: Novartis Pharma GmbH, Consultant of: Consultancy / speaker fees from: Abbvie, BMS, Celgene, Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB, Speakers bureau: Consultancy / speaker fees from: Abbvie, BMS, Celgene, Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB, Joachim Sieper Consultant of: AbbVie, Boehringer Ingelheim, Eli Lilly and Company, Janssen, Merck, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, and UCB Pharma, Speakers bureau: AbbVie, Boehringer Ingelheim, Eli Lilly and Company, Janssen, Merck, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, and UCB Pharma, Valeria Rios Rodriguez Consultant of: Abbvie, Novartis, Hildrun Haibel Consultant of: Abbvie, Jansen, MSD, and Novartis, Speakers bureau: Abbvie, Jansen, MSD, and Novartis, Martin Rudwaleit Consultant of: AbbVie, BMS, Celgene, Janssen, Eli Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB Pharma, Denis Poddubnyy Grant/research support from: AbbVie, MSD, Novartis, and Pfizer, Consultant of: AbbVie, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Eli Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB, Speakers bureau: AbbVie, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Eli Lilly, MSD, Novartis, Pfizer, Roche, UCB

Abstract:

The objective of this panel is to provide attendees with the opportunity to learn about what they always wanted to know about the wide world of human factors consulting, but were afraid to ask (or didn’t know to ask). This session should be of interest to meeting attendees at any stage of their career, including students and those who might be considering a career change or branching out. These panelists, together, have experience over a wide range of consulting domains, as well as being individuals who are at different stages in their consulting careers. As such, the panel session will provide attendees with multiple perspectives on select topics and on responses to attendees’ questions. Sheree Gibson, PE, CPE is President of Ergonomic Applications, a small industrial ergonomics consulting firm in South Carolina. She has been a consultant for most of her professional life, working for a forensic consulting firm as well as an in-house ergonomics consultant for Michelin Tire before setting out on her own. She has a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering and a M.S.E. in Applied Ergonomics, both from West Virginia University. She is active in the American Industrial Hygiene Association, the American Society of Safety Engineers and HFES. Sheree is also Vice-President of the Foundation for Professional Ergonomics. Richard Kelly, PhD earned his doctorate in Engineering Psychology from New Mexico State University and went on to work as an engineering psychologist for the Army at White Sands and then for the Navy at SPAWAR in San Diego. After about 10 years supporting large and small RDT&E programs and leading teams of scientists and engineers, he left the government to start Pacific Science & Engineering (PSE). Over the past 34 years, PSE has grown steadily from 2 to 50 employees and has been a prime contractor, subcontractor, and consultant on hundreds of projects in many different domains, including military, intelligence, industrial process, commercial, medical, education, autonomous vehicles, and more. PSE remains an independent, employee-owned company entirely focused on human performance in complex systems. The technical staff have received numerous recognitions from clients and professional groups for their outstanding work that makes a real difference for our users. Dee Miller, PhD works at Dell, Inc. in the Business Transformation Office as the Senior Principal UX & Service Design Engineer building relationships and appropriately influencing relevant internal teams and direct business contacts in the adoption of a human-centered approach to designing internal systems and processes and delivering services related to Order Experience Life Cycle. She recently started an independent consultancy called Dawn Specialty Consulting. One of the first projects of the new consultancy is consulting with a local non-profit and a police department on applying design thinking to community policing initiatives. Dee has prior experience consulting with state and federal government agencies on matters pertaining to transportation and healthcare. Tom Albin, PE, CPE, PhD is a licensed professional engineer and a certified professional ergonomist. He holds a PhD from the Technical University of Delft in the Netherlands. Currently the principal of High Plains Ergonomics Service, Tom has been engaged in ergonomics consulting since 2001. He has extensive experience as a researcher, a corporate ergonomist and as a product developer. He is active in the US and International Standards community, chairing the ANSI/HFES 100 computer workstation standard and serving as an accredited US expert on several ISO committees. He was Executive Director of the Office Ergonomics Research Committee from 2007 until retiring in 2018. Tom’s consulting work has been principally concerned with physical ergonomics issues in office and industrial settings. Current projects deal with evaluation of injury risk during push and pull tasks and with applied anthropometry. Topics Panelists will each be given time to introduce themselves at the beginning of the session. Each will speak for 7-10 minutes about their career path, ‘what I like best about consulting’, and ‘3-5 things I wish I had known before I started consulting’. The panel will also address the following topics: ethics, running a business (business plans, financing, insurance, legalities, managing employees, marketing, building relationships with clients, and writing contracts), and work/life balance. These topics will be introduced, in the form of questions from the moderator if/when questions from the audience are exhausted.

Abstract:

Este estudo descreve e analisa o processo variável da vogal epentética em palavras na língua inglesa iniciadas por clusters por aprendizes brasileiros de inglês como segunda língua (L2). O objetivo dessa pesquisa é, então, identificar a frequência de inserção da vogal de apoio na posição inicial das palavras em língua inglesa que se iniciam com um dos seguintes clusters: /sp/, /st/, /sk/, /sl/, /sm/, e /sn/. O corpus deste estudo é constituído por 18 informantes paraibanos, aprendizes de inglês como L2, estratificados nos níveis básico, intermediário e avançado de proficiência. Os dados mostram que as variáveis sonoridade do encontro consonantal, nível de proficiência, instrução explícita na L2 e contexto precedente foram as mais relevantes à realização do fenômeno. REFERÊNCIASALLAN, D. Oxford placement test 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004.ALVES, U. K. O que é consciência fonológica. IN: LAMPRECHT et. al. Consciência dos sons da língua: subsídios teóricos e práticos para alfabetizadores, fonoaudiólogos e professores de língua inglesa. 2 ed. Porto Alegre: EDIPUCRS, 2012, p. 29-41.BOUDAOUD, M.; CARDOSO, W. Vocalic [e] epenthesis and variation in Farsi-English interlanguage speech. Concordia Working Papers in Applied Linguistics, 2, 2009.CARDOSO, W. The variable development of English word-final stops by Brazilian Portuguese speakers:A stochastic optimality theoretic account. Language variation and change, v.19, 2007, p. 1-30.______, W. The Development of sC Onset Clusters in interlanguage: markedness vs. frequency effects. Proceedings of the 9th Generative Approaches to Second Language Acquisition Conference, (GASLA 2007), ed. Roumyana Slabakova et al., 15-29. Somerville, MA: Cascadilla Proceedings Project, 2008.CARLISLE, R. The effects of markedness on epenthesis in Spanish/English interlanguage phonology. Issues and Developments in English and Applied Linguistics, 3, 1988, 15-23._______, R.S. The Influence of Environment on Vowel Epenthesis in Spanish/English Interphonology. Applied linguistics, v.12, n.1, 1991, p. 76-95._______, R. Environment and markedness as interacting constraints on vowel epenthesis. In:_______ J. Leather; JAMES, A (Eds.), New sounds 92 (p. 64–75). Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam Press, 1992._______, R. S. Markedness and environment as internal constraints in the variability of interlanguage phonology. In:_____. M. Yavas (ed.) First and Second Language Phonology. San Diego: Singular Publishing Company, 1994 p. 223-249.______, R. The modification of onsets in a markedness relationship: Testing the interlanguage structural conformity hypothesis. Language learning, v.47, 1997, p. 327-361.______, R. The acquisition of onsets in a markedness relationship. A longitudinal study. Studies in second language acquisition. 20, 1998, 245–260.COLLISCHONN, G. Um estudo da epêntese à luz da teoria da sílaba de Junko Ito (1986). Letras de hoje, Porto Alegre: v. 31, n.2, 1996, p. 149-158.CORNELIAN JR, D. Brazilian learners’ production of initial /s/ clusters: Phonological structure and environment. New Sounds 2007: Proceedings of the Fifth International Symposium on the Acquisition of Second Language Speech, 2007.DUBOIS, J. et al. Dicionário de lingüística. São Paulo: Cultrix, 2006.ESCARTÍN, C. I. The development of sC onset clusters in Spanish English. Tese – Concordia University, Canadá, 2005.GASS, S.; SELINKER, L. (eds). Language transfer in language vs learning. Newbury House, Rowley, Massachusetts, 2008.LABOV, W. Padrões sociolinguísticos. Tradução de Marcos Bagno; Mª Marta Pereira Scherre e Caroline Rodrigues Cardoso. São Paulo: Parábola Editorial, (1972) 2008.LUCENA, R. M; ALVES, F. C. Análise Variacionista da Aquisição do /p/ em Coda Silábica por Aprendizes de Inglês Como LE. Revista Intertexto. v. 5, n. 2, 2012.PEREYRON, L. Epêntese vocálica em encontros consonantais mediais por falantes porto-alegrenses de inglês como língua estrangeira. Dissertação (Mestrado) – Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio Grande do Sul, Porto Alegre: 2008.RAUBER, A. S. The production of English initial /s/ clusters by Portuguese and Spanish EFL speakers. Unpublished Master's thesis, Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina, Florianópolis, SC: Brazil, 2002.RAUBER S.; BAPTISTA. The production of English initial /s/ clusters by Portuguese and Spanish EFL speakers. Rev. Est. Ling. Belo Horizonte: v. 12, n. 2, 2004, p. 459-473.REBELLO, J. T. The acquisition of English initial /s/ clusters by Brazilian EFL learners. Florianópolis: UFSC, 1997.SANKOFF, D.; TAGLIAMONTE, S.; SMITH, E. GoldVarb X: a variable rule application for Macintosh and Windows. Department of Linguistics. University of Toronto, 2005.SELINKER, L. Rediscovering interlanguage. New York: Longman, 1972.SILVA. T. C. Dicionário de fonética e fonologia. São Paulo: Contexto, 2011. Recebido em 30-10-2018.Aceito em 22-02-2019.

Abstract:

Abstract Background: The number of times a patient will seek acute care in the emergency department or require hospitalization for sickle cell related illness has not been described in a population-based manner. Twenty years ago, rates of acute care visits for 3,578 patients who were part of the Cooperative Study of Sickle Cell Disease were reported, eloquently describing patterns of acute care utilization for people followed at select centers. In that study, only 1% of patients had more than six visits per year and 5% of the population (who made three to 10 visits per year) accounted for almost one-third of all visits. The objective of this study is to describe the emergency department and hospital utilization for patients with sickle cell related conditions over a two- year period. This study will be the first to provide a complete assessment of the utilization patterns of patients with sickle cell disease, one that is multi-state, inclusive of all ages, all insurance types, and includes patients that are followed at community, academic and tertiary care centers. Methods: We conducted a retrospective cohort study using 2005 and 2006 State Emergency Department and State Inpatient Databases that include encrypted personlevel identifiers to allow linkage of record level information. The data are from the Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project (HCUP), a Federal-State-Industry partnership sponsored by the Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality. Data for all sickle cell related emergency department visits and hospitalizations within the following seven states (Arizona, California, Florida, Missouri, South Carolina, Tennessee, and New York) were extracted for each patient. To be eligible, a patient had at least one sickle cell specific visit, defined as a visit with a principal diagnosis of sickle cell crisis or a secondary diagnosis of sickle cell disease with a principal diagnosis that was sickle cell related (e.g. pneumonia, stroke, fever). All sickle cell related visits were linked by unique personal identifiers, thus clustering visits by patient and allowing population-based statewide assessments of utilization. An emergency department visit on the same day as an inpatient hospitalization was counted only as an inpatient hospitalization to avoid over counting care-seeking visits. The distribution of acute care visits for each patient (presented as numbers of emergency department visits and hospitalizations over the two-year period) was determined for the entire cohort, then stratified as child versus adult. Results: A total of 24,668 patients with sickle cell disease made 86,535 acute care visits during the two-year study period, 33,520 (38.7%) were emergency department visits and 53,015 (61.3%) were inpatient visits. Of the 24,668 patients, 8,895 (36.1%) were less than 18 years of age; 15,773 were adults. 52.8% of the entire cohort made one visit in the two year period. 1,320 (5.4%) patients had more than 12 visits over the two-year time period; 3,210 (13.0%) made 6–20 visits over two years, and accounted for 31,752 (36.7%) acute care visits. An additional 579 (2.4%) patients had more than 20 visits over two years, accumulating 18,701 (21.6%) acute care visits. Children were less likely to have more than 12 visits over the two years (1.9%) compared to adults aged 18–45 (8.1%) and were also less likely to be in the high utilization group of 6–20 visits over two years (9.9% of children compared to 15.8% of those 18–45 years old). Conclusions: A significant proportion of patients with sickle cell disease seek acute care multiple times in an emergency department setting or through hospitalization. Our population-based study demonstrates an increased proportion of high utilizers compared to previous work, especially among adult patients. Our findings likely reflect the difference in healthcare utilization in the broader community as compared to that within a cooperative study in academic settings. It suggests that some patients, adults in particular, may have limited access to urgent care in a primary care setting and would benefit from better access and more aggressive preventive care. Further work on patterns of and reasons for utilization, especially emergency department care, in this high-utilizer group, would be helpful in targeting and improving overall care for these patients.

Abstract:

In this issue of Journal of Disaster Research, we introduce nine papers on societal responses to recent catastrophic disasters with special focus on long-term recovery processes in Japan and the United States. As disaster impacts increase, we also find that recovery times take longer and the processes for recovery become more complicated. On January 17th of 1995, a magnitude 7.2 earthquake hit the Hanshin and Awaji regions of Japan, resulting in the largest disaster in Japan in 50 years. In this disaster which we call the Kobe earthquake hereafter, over 6,000 people were killed and the damage and losses totaled more than 100 billion US dollars. The long-term recovery from the Kobe earthquake disaster took more than ten years to complete. One of the most important responsibilities of disaster researchers has been to scientifically monitor and record the long-term recovery process following this unprecedented disaster and discern the lessons that can be applied to future disasters. The first seven papers in this issue present some of the key lessons our research team learned from the studying the long-term recovery following the Kobe earthquake disaster. We have two additional papers that deal with two recent disasters in the United States – the terrorist attacks on World Trade Center in New York on September 11 of 2001 and the devastation of New Orleans by the 2005 Hurricane Katrina and subsequent levee failures. These disasters have raised a number of new research questions about long-term recovery that US researchers are studying because of the unprecedented size and nature of these disasters’ impacts. Mr. Mammen’s paper reviews the long-term recovery processes observed at and around the World Trade Center site over the last six years. Ms. Johnson’s paper provides a detailed account of the protracted reconstruction planning efforts in the city of New Orleans to illustrate a set of sufficient and necessary conditions for successful recovery. All nine papers in this issue share a theoretical framework for long-term recovery processes which we developed based first upon the lessons learned from the Kobe earthquake and later expanded through observations made following other recent disasters in the world. The following sections provide a brief description of each paper as an introduction to this special issue. 1. The Need for Multiple Recovery Goals After the 1995 Kobe earthquake, the long-term recovery process began with the formulation of disaster recovery plans by the City of Kobe – the most severely impacted municipality – and an overarching plan by Hyogo Prefecture which coordinated 20 impacted municipalities; this planning effort took six months. Before the Kobe earthquake, as indicated in Mr. Maki’s paper in this issue, Japanese theories about, and approaches to, recovery focused mainly on physical recovery, particularly: the redevelopment plans for destroyed areas; the location and standards for housing and building reconstruction; and, the repair and rehabilitation of utility systems. But the lingering problems of some of the recent catastrophes in Japan and elsewhere indicate that there are multiple dimensions of recovery that must be considered. We propose that two other key dimensions are economic recovery and life recovery. The goal of economic recovery is the revitalization of the local disaster impacted economy, including both major industries and small businesses. The goal of life recovery is the restoration of the livelihoods of disaster victims. The recovery plans formulated following the 1995 Kobe earthquake, including the City of Kobe’s and Hyogo Prefecture’s plans, all stressed these two dimensions in addition to physical recovery. The basic structure of both the City of Kobe’s and Hyogo Prefecture’s recovery plans are summarized in Fig. 1. Each plan has three elements that work simultaneously. The first and most basic element of recovery is the restoration of damaged infrastructure. This helps both physical recovery and economic recovery. Once homes and work places are recovered, Life recovery of the impacted people can be achieved as the final goal of recovery. Figure 2 provides a “recovery report card” of the progress made by 2006 – 11 years into Kobe’s recovery. Infrastructure was restored in two years, which was probably the fastest infrastructure restoration ever, after such a major disaster; it astonished the world. Within five years, more than 140,000 housing units were constructed using a variety of financial means and ownership patterns, and exceeding the number of demolished housing units. Governments at all levels – municipal, prefectural, and national – provided affordable public rental apartments. Private developers, both local and national, also built condominiums and apartments. Disaster victims themselves also invested a lot to reconstruct their homes. Eleven major redevelopment projects were undertaken and all were completed in 10 years. In sum, the physical recovery following the 1995 Kobe earthquake was extensive and has been viewed as a major success. In contrast, economic recovery and life recovery are still underway more than 13 years later. Before the Kobe earthquake, Japan’s policy approaches to recovery assumed that economic recovery and life recovery would be achieved by infusing ample amounts of public funding for physical recovery into the disaster area. Even though the City of Kobe’s and Hyogo Prefecture’s recovery plans set economic recovery and life recovery as key goals, there was not clear policy guidance to accomplish them. Without a clear articulation of the desired end-state, economic recovery programs for both large and small businesses were ill-timed and ill-matched to the needs of these businesses trying to recover amidst a prolonged slump in the overall Japanese economy that began in 1997. “Life recovery” programs implemented as part of Kobe’s recovery were essentially social welfare programs for low-income and/or senior citizens. 2. Requirements for Successful Physical Recovery Why was the physical recovery following the 1995 Kobe earthquake so successful in terms of infrastructure restoration, the replacement of damaged housing units, and completion of urban redevelopment projects? There are at least three key success factors that can be applied to other disaster recovery efforts: 1) citizen participation in recovery planning efforts, 2) strong local leadership, and 3) the establishment of numerical targets for recovery. Citizen participation As pointed out in the three papers on recovery planning processes by Mr. Maki, Mr. Mammen, and Ms. Johnson, citizen participation is one of the indispensable factors for successful recovery plans. Thousands of citizens participated in planning workshops organized by America Speaks as part of both the World Trade Center and City of New Orleans recovery planning efforts. Although no such workshops were held as part of the City of Kobe’s recovery planning process, citizen participation had been part of the City of Kobe’s general plan update that had occurred shortly before the earthquake. The City of Kobe’s recovery plan is, in large part, an adaptation of the 1995-2005 general plan. On January 13 of 1995, the City of Kobe formally approved its new, 1995-2005 general plan which had been developed over the course of three years with full of citizen participation. City officials, responsible for drafting the City of Kobe’s recovery plan, have later admitted that they were able to prepare the city’s recovery plan in six months because they had the preceding three years of planning for the new general plan with citizen participation. Based on this lesson, Odiya City compiled its recovery plan based on the recommendations obtained from a series of five stakeholder workshops after the 2004 Niigata Chuetsu earthquake. <strong>Fig. 1. </strong> Basic structure of recovery plans from the 1995 Kobe earthquake. <strong>Fig. 2. </strong> “Disaster recovery report card” of the progress made by 2006. Strong leadership In the aftermath of the Kobe earthquake, local leadership had a defining role in the recovery process. Kobe’s former Mayor, Mr. Yukitoshi Sasayama, was hired to work in Kobe City government as an urban planner, rebuilding Kobe following World War II. He knew the city intimately. When he saw damage in one area on his way to the City Hall right after the earthquake, he knew what levels of damage to expect in other parts of the city. It was he who called for the two-month moratorium on rebuilding in Kobe city on the day of the earthquake. The moratorium provided time for the city to formulate a vision and policies to guide the various levels of government, private investors, and residents in rebuilding. It was a quite unpopular policy when Mayor Sasayama announced it. Citizens expected the city to be focusing on shelters and mass care, not a ban on reconstruction. Based on his experience in rebuilding Kobe following WWII, he was determined not to allow haphazard reconstruction in the city. It took several years before Kobe citizens appreciated the moratorium. Numerical targets Former Governor Mr. Tosh*tami Kaihara provided some key numerical targets for recovery which were announced in the prefecture and municipal recovery plans. They were: 1) Hyogo Prefecture would rebuild all the damaged housing units in three years, 2) all the temporary housing would be removed within five years, and 3) physical recovery would be completed in ten years. All of these numerical targets were achieved. Having numerical targets was critical to directing and motivating all the stakeholders including the national government’s investment, and it proved to be the foundation for Japan’s fundamental approach to recovery following the 1995 earthquake. 3. Economic Recovery as the Prime Goal of Disaster Recovery In Japan, it is the responsibility of the national government to supply the financial support to restore damaged infrastructure and public facilities in the impacted area as soon as possible. The long-term recovery following the Kobe earthquake is the first time, in Japan’s modern history, that a major rebuilding effort occurred during a time when there was not also strong national economic growth. In contrast, between 1945 and 1990, Japan enjoyed a high level of national economic growth which helped facilitate the recoveries following WWII and other large fires. In the first year after the Kobe earthquake, Japan’s national government invested more than US$ 80 billion in recovery. These funds went mainly towards the repair and reconstruction of infrastructure and public facilities. Now, looking back, we can also see that these investments also nearly crushed the local economy. Too much money flowed into the local economy over too short a period of time and it also did not have the “trickle-down” effect that might have been intended. To accomplish numerical targets for physical recovery, the national government awarded contracts to large companies from Osaka and Tokyo. But, these large out-of-town contractors also tended to have their own labor and supply chains already intact, and did not use local resources and labor, as might have been expected. Essentially, ten years of housing supply was completed in less than three years, which led to a significant local economic slump. Large amounts of public investment for recovery are not necessarily a panacea for local businesses, and local economic recovery, as shown in the following two examples from the Kobe earthquake. A significant national investment was made to rebuild the Port of Kobe to a higher seismic standard, but both its foreign export and import trade never recovered to pre-disaster levels. While the Kobe Port was out of business, both the Yokohama Port and the Osaka Port increased their business, even though many economists initially predicted that the Kaohsiung Port in Chinese Taipei or the Pusan Port in Korea would capture this business. Business stayed at all of these ports even after the reopening of the Kobe Port. Similarly, the Hanshin Railway was severely damaged and it took half a year to resume its operation, but it never regained its pre-disaster readership. In this case, two other local railway services, the JR and Hankyu lines, maintained their increased readership even after the Hanshin railway resumed operation. As illustrated by these examples, pre-disaster customers who relied on previous economic output could not necessarily afford to wait for local industries to recover and may have had to take their business elsewhere. Our research suggests that the significant recovery investment made by Japan’s national government may have been a disincentive for new economic development in the impacted area. Government may have been the only significant financial risk-taker in the impacted area during the national economic slow-down. But, its focus was on restoring what had been lost rather than promoting new or emerging economic development. Thus, there may have been a missed opportunity to provide incentives or put pressure on major businesses and industries to develop new businesses and attract new customers in return for the public investment. The significant recovery investment by Japan’s national government may have also created an over-reliance of individuals on public spending and government support. As indicated in Ms. Karatani’s paper, individual savings of Kobe’s residents has continued to rise since the earthquake and the number of individuals on social welfare has also decreased below pre-disaster levels. Based on our research on economic recovery from the Kobe earthquake, at least two lessons emerge: 1) Successful economic recovery requires coordination among all three recovery goals – Economic, Physical and Life Recovery, and 2) “Recovery indices” are needed to better chart recovery progress in real-time and help ensure that the recovery investments are being used effectively. Economic recovery as the prime goal of recovery Physical recovery, especially the restoration of infrastructure and public facilities, may be the most direct and socially accepted provision of outside financial assistance into an impacted area. However, lessons learned from the Kobe earthquake suggest that the sheer amount of such assistance may not be effective as it should be. Thus, as shown in Fig. 3, economic recovery should be the top priority goal for recovery among the three goals and serve as a guiding force for physical recovery and life recovery. Physical recovery can be a powerful facilitator of post-disaster economic development by upgrading social infrastructure and public facilities in compliance with economic recovery plans. In this way, it is possible to turn a disaster into an opportunity for future sustainable development. Life recovery may also be achieved with a healthy economic recovery that increases tax revenue in the impacted area. In order to achieve this coordination among all three recovery goals, municipalities in the impacted areas should have access to flexible forms of post-disaster financing. The community development block grant program that has been used after several large disasters in the United States, provide impacted municipalities with a more flexible form of funding and the ability to better determine what to do and when. The participation of key stakeholders is also an indispensable element of success that enables block grant programs to transform local needs into concrete businesses. In sum, an effective economic recovery combines good coordination of national support to restore infrastructure and public facilities and local initiatives that promote community recovery. Developing Recovery Indices Long-term recovery takes time. As Mr. Tatsuki’s paper explains, periodical social survey data indicates that it took ten years before the initial impacts of the Kobe earthquake were no longer affecting the well-being of disaster victims and the recovery was completed. In order to manage this long-term recovery process effectively, it is important to have some indices to visualize the recovery processes. In this issue, three papers by Mr. Takashima, Ms. Karatani, and Mr. Kimura define three different kinds of recovery indices that can be used to continually monitor the progress of the recovery. Mr. Takashima focuses on electric power consumption in the impacted area as an index for impact and recovery. Chronological change in electric power consumption can be obtained from the monthly reports of power company branches. Daily estimates can also be made by tracking changes in city lights using a satellite called DMSP. Changes in city lights can be a very useful recovery measure especially at the early stages since it can be updated daily for anywhere in the world. Ms. Karatani focuses on the chronological patterns of monthly macro-statistics that prefecture and city governments collect as part of their routine monitoring of services and operations. For researchers, it is extremely costly and virtually impossible to launch post-disaster projects that collect recovery data continuously for ten years. It is more practical for researchers to utilize data that is already being collected by local governments or other agencies and use this data to create disaster impact and recovery indices. Ms. Karatani found three basic patterns of disaster impact and recovery in the local government data that she studied: 1) Some activities increased soon after the disaster event and then slumped, such as housing construction; 2) Some activities reduced sharply for a period of time after the disaster and then rebounded to previous levels, such as grocery consumption; and 3) Some activities reduced sharply for a while and never returned to previous levels, such as the Kobe Port and Hanshin Railway. Mr. Kimura focuses on the psychology of disaster victims. He developed a “recovery and reconstruction calendar” that clarifies the process that disaster victims undergo in rebuilding their shattered lives. His work is based on the results of random surveys. Despite differences in disaster size and locality, survey data from the 1995 Kobe earthquake and the 2004 Niigata-ken Chuetsu earthquake indicate that the recovery and reconstruction calendar is highly reliable and stable in clarifying the recovery and reconstruction process. <strong>Fig. 3.</strong> Integrated plan of disaster recovery. 4. Life Recovery as the Ultimate Goal of Disaster Recovery Life recovery starts with the identification of the disaster victims. In Japan, local governments in the impacted area issue a “damage certificate” to disaster victims by household, recording the extent of each victim’s housing damage. After the Kobe earthquake, a total of 500,000 certificates were issued. These certificates, in turn, were used by both public and private organizations to determine victim’s eligibility for individual assistance programs. However, about 30% of those victims who received certificates after the Kobe earthquake were dissatisfied with the results of assessment. This caused long and severe disputes for more than three years. Based on the lessons learned from the Kobe earthquake, Mr. Horie’s paper presents (1) a standardized procedure for building damage assessment and (2) an inspector training system. This system has been adopted as the official building damage assessment system for issuing damage certificates to victims of the 2004 Niigata-ken Chuetsu earthquake, the 2007 Noto-Peninsula earthquake, and the 2007 Niigata-ken Chuetsu Oki earthquake. Personal and family recovery, which we term life recovery, was one of the explicit goals of the recovery plan from the Kobe earthquake, but it was unclear in both recovery theory and practice as to how this would be measured and accomplished. Now, after studying the recovery in Kobe and other regions, Ms. Tamura’s paper proposes that there are seven elements that define the meaning of life recovery for disaster victims. She recently tested this model in a workshop with Kobe disaster victims. The seven elements and victims’ rankings are shown in Fig. 4. Regaining housing and restoring social networks were, by far, the top recovery indicators for victims. Restoration of neighborhood character ranked third. Demographic shifts and redevelopment plans implemented following the Kobe earthquake forced significant neighborhood changes upon many victims. Next in line were: having a sense of being better prepared and reducing their vulnerability to future disasters; regaining their physical and mental health; and restoration of their income, job, and the economy. The provision of government assistance also provided victims with a sense of life recovery. Mr. Tatsuki’s paper summarizes the results of four random-sample surveys of residents within the most severely impacted areas of Hyogo Prefecture. These surveys were conducted biannually since 1999,. Based on the results of survey data from 1999, 2001, 2003, and 2005, it is our conclusion that life recovery took ten years for victims in the area impacted significantly by the Kobe earthquake. Fig. 5 shows that by comparing the two structural equation models of disaster recovery (from 2003 and 2005), damage caused by the Kobe earthquake was no longer a determinant of life recovery in the 2005 model. It was still one of the major determinants in the 2003 model as it was in 1999 and 2001. This is the first time in the history of disaster research that the entire recovery process has been scientifically described. It can be utilized as a resource and provide benchmarks for monitoring the recovery from future disasters. <strong>Fig. 4.</strong> Ethnographical meaning of “life recovery” obtained from the 5th year review of the Kobe earthquake by the City of Kobe. <strong>Fig. 5.</strong> Life recovery models of 2003 and 2005. 6. The Need for an Integrated Recovery Plan The recovery lessons from Kobe and other regions suggest that we need more integrated recovery plans that use physical recovery as a tool for economic recovery, which in turn helps disaster victims. Furthermore, we believe that economic recovery should be the top priority for recovery, and physical recovery should be regarded as a tool for stimulating economic recovery and upgrading social infrastructure (as shown in Fig. 6). With this approach, disaster recovery can help build the foundation for a long-lasting and sustainable community. Figure 6 proposes a more detailed model for a more holistic recovery process. The ultimate goal of any recovery process should be achieving life recovery for all disaster victims. We believe that to get there, both direct and indirect approaches must be taken. Direct approaches include: the provision of funds and goods for victims, for physical and mental health care, and for housing reconstruction. Indirect approaches for life recovery are those which facilitate economic recovery, which also has both direct and indirect approaches. Direct approaches to economic recovery include: subsidies, loans, and tax exemptions. Indirect approaches to economic recovery include, most significantly, the direct projects to restore infrastructure and public buildings. More subtle approaches include: setting new regulations or deregulations, providing technical support, and creating new businesses. A holistic recovery process needs to strategically combine all of these approaches, and there must be collaborative implementation by all the key stakeholders, including local governments, non-profit and non-governmental organizations (NPOs and NGOs), community-based organizations (CBOs), and the private sector. Therefore, community and stakeholder participation in the planning process is essential to achieve buy-in for the vision and desired outcomes of the recovery plan. Securing the required financial resources is also critical to successful implementation. In thinking of stakeholders, it is important to differentiate between supporting entities and operating agencies. Supporting entities are those organizations that supply the necessary funding for recovery. Both Japan’s national government and the federal government in the U.S. are the prime supporting entities in the recovery from the 1995 Kobe earthquake and the 2001 World Trade Center recovery. In Taiwan, the Buddhist organization and the national government of Taiwan were major supporting entities in the recovery from the 1999 Chi-Chi earthquake. Operating agencies are those organizations that implement various recovery measures. In Japan, local governments in the impacted area are operating agencies, while the national government is a supporting entity. In the United States, community development block grants provide an opportunity for many operating agencies to implement various recovery measures. As Mr. Mammen’ paper describes, many NPOs, NGOs, and/or CBOs in addition to local governments have had major roles in implementing various kinds programs funded by block grants as part of the World Trade Center recovery. No one, single organization can provide effective help for all kinds of disaster victims individually or collectively. The needs of disaster victims may be conflicting with each other because of their diversity. Their divergent needs can be successfully met by the diversity of operating agencies that have responsibility for implementing recovery measures. In a similar context, block grants made to individual households, such as microfinance, has been a vital recovery mechanism for victims in Thailand who suffered from the 2004 Sumatra earthquake and tsunami disaster. Both disaster victims and government officers at all levels strongly supported the microfinance so that disaster victims themselves would become operating agencies for recovery. Empowering individuals in sustainable life recovery is indeed the ultimate goal of recovery. <strong>Fig. 6.</strong> A holistic recovery policy model.

Abstract:

The term “coffee palace” was primarily used in Australia to describe the temperance hotels that were built in the last decades of the 19th century, although there are references to the term also being used to a lesser extent in the United Kingdom (Denby 174). Built in response to the worldwide temperance movement, which reached its pinnacle in the 1880s in Australia, coffee palaces were hotels that did not serve alcohol. This was a unique time in Australia’s architectural development as the economic boom fuelled by the gold rush in the 1850s, and the demand for ostentatious display that gathered momentum during the following years, afforded the use of richly ornamental High Victorian architecture and resulted in very majestic structures; hence the term “palace” (Freeland 121). The often multi-storied coffee palaces were found in every capital city as well as regional areas such as Geelong and Broken Hill, and locales as remote as Maria Island on the east coast of Tasmania. Presented as upholding family values and discouraging drunkenness, the coffee palaces were most popular in seaside resorts such as Barwon Heads in Victoria, where they catered to families. Coffee palaces were also constructed on a grand scale to provide accommodation for international and interstate visitors attending the international exhibitions held in Sydney (1879) and Melbourne (1880 and 1888). While the temperance movement lasted well over 100 years, the life of coffee palaces was relatively short-lived. Nevertheless, coffee palaces were very much part of Australia’s cultural landscape. In this article, I examine the rise and demise of coffee palaces associated with the temperance movement and argue that coffee palaces established in the name of abstinence were modelled on the coffee houses that spread throughout Europe and North America in the 17th and 18th centuries during the Enlightenment—a time when the human mind could be said to have been liberated from inebriation and the dogmatic state of ignorance. The Temperance Movement At a time when newspapers are full of lurid stories about binge-drinking and the alleged ill-effects of the liberalisation of licensing laws, as well as concerns over the growing trend of marketing easy-to-drink products (such as the so-called “alcopops”) to teenagers, it is difficult to think of a period when the total suppression of the alcohol trade was seriously debated in Australia. The cause of temperance has almost completely vanished from view, yet for well over a century—from 1830 to the outbreak of the Second World War—the control or even total abolition of the liquor trade was a major political issue—one that split the country, brought thousands onto the streets in demonstrations, and influenced the outcome of elections. Between 1911 and 1925 referenda to either limit or prohibit the sale of alcohol were held in most States. While moves to bring about abolition failed, Fitzgerald notes that almost one in three Australian voters expressed their support for prohibition of alcohol in their State (145). Today, the temperance movement’s platform has largely been forgotten, killed off by the practical example of the United States, where prohibition of the legal sale of alcohol served only to hand control of the liquor traffic to organised crime. Coffee Houses and the Enlightenment Although tea has long been considered the beverage of sobriety, it was coffee that came to be regarded as the very antithesis of alcohol. When the first coffee house opened in London in the early 1650s, customers were bewildered by this strange new drink from the Middle East—hot, bitter, and black as soot. But those who tried coffee were, reports Ellis, soon won over, and coffee houses were opened across London, Oxford, and Cambridge and, in the following decades, Europe and North America. Tea, equally exotic, entered the English market slightly later than coffee (in 1664), but was more expensive and remained a rarity long after coffee had become ubiquitous in London (Ellis 123-24). The impact of the introduction of coffee into Europe during the seventeenth century was particularly noticeable since the most common beverages of the time, even at breakfast, were weak “small beer” and wine. Both were safer to drink than water, which was liable to be contaminated. Coffee, like beer, was made using boiled water and, therefore, provided a new and safe alternative to alcoholic drinks. There was also the added benefit that those who drank coffee instead of alcohol began the day alert rather than mildly inebriated (Standage 135). It was also thought that coffee had a stimulating effect upon the “nervous system,” so much so that the French called coffee une boisson intellectuelle (an intellectual beverage), because of its stimulating effect on the brain (Muskett 71). In Oxford, the British called their coffee houses “penny universities,” a penny then being the price of a cup of coffee (Standage 158). Coffee houses were, moreover, more than places that sold coffee. Unlike other institutions of the period, rank and birth had no place (Ellis 59). The coffee house became the centre of urban life, creating a distinctive social culture by treating all customers as equals. Egalitarianism, however, did not extend to women—at least not in London. Around its egalitarian (but male) tables, merchants discussed and conducted business, writers and poets held discussions, scientists demonstrated experiments, and philosophers deliberated ideas and reforms. For the price of a cup (or “dish” as it was then known) of coffee, a man could read the latest pamphlets and newsletters, chat with other patrons, strike business deals, keep up with the latest political gossip, find out what other people thought of a new book, or take part in literary or philosophical discussions. Like today’s Internet, Twitter, and Facebook, Europe’s coffee houses functioned as an information network where ideas circulated and spread from coffee house to coffee house. In this way, drinking coffee in the coffee house became a metaphor for people getting together to share ideas in a sober environment, a concept that remains today. According to Standage, this information network fuelled the Enlightenment (133), prompting an explosion of creativity. Coffee houses provided an entirely new environment for political, financial, scientific, and literary change, as people gathered, discussed, and debated issues within their walls. Entrepreneurs and scientists teamed up to form companies to exploit new inventions and discoveries in manufacturing and mining, paving the way for the Industrial Revolution (Standage 163). The stock market and insurance companies also had their birth in the coffee house. As a result, coffee was seen to be the epitome of modernity and progress and, as such, was the ideal beverage for the Age of Reason. By the 19th century, however, the era of coffee houses had passed. Most of them had evolved into exclusive men’s clubs, each geared towards a certain segment of society. Tea was now more affordable and fashionable, and teahouses, which drew clientele from both sexes, began to grow in popularity. Tea, however, had always been Australia’s most popular non-alcoholic drink. Tea (and coffee) along with other alien plants had been part of the cargo unloaded onto Australian shores with the First Fleet in 1788. Coffee, mainly from Brazil and Jamaica, remained a constant import but was taxed more heavily than tea and was, therefore, more expensive. Furthermore, tea was much easier to make than coffee. To brew tea, all that is needed is to add boiling water, coffee, in contrast, required roasting, grinding and brewing. According to Symons, until the 1930s, Australians were the largest consumers of tea in the world (19). In spite of this, and as coffee, since its introduction into Europe, was regarded as the antidote to alcohol, the temperance movement established coffee palaces. In the early 1870s in Britain, the temperance movement had revived the coffee house to provide an alternative to the gin taverns that were so attractive to the working classes of the Industrial Age (Clarke 5). Unlike the earlier coffee house, this revived incarnation provided accommodation and was open to men, women and children. “Cheap and wholesome food,” was available as well as reading rooms supplied with newspapers and periodicals, and games and smoking rooms (Clarke 20). In Australia, coffee palaces did not seek the working classes, as clientele: at least in the cities they were largely for the nouveau riche. Coffee Palaces The discovery of gold in 1851 changed the direction of the Australian economy. An investment boom followed, with an influx of foreign funds and English banks lending freely to colonial speculators. By the 1880s, the manufacturing and construction sectors of the economy boomed and land prices were highly inflated. Governments shared in the wealth and ploughed money into urban infrastructure, particularly railways. Spurred on by these positive economic conditions and the newly extended inter-colonial rail network, international exhibitions were held in both Sydney and Melbourne. To celebrate modern technology and design in an industrial age, international exhibitions were phenomena that had spread throughout Europe and much of the world from the mid-19th century. According to Davison, exhibitions were “integral to the culture of nineteenth century industrialising societies” (158). In particular, these exhibitions provided the colonies with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world their economic power and achievements in the sciences, the arts and education, as well as to promote their commerce and industry. Massive purpose-built buildings were constructed to house the exhibition halls. In Sydney, the Garden Palace was erected in the Botanic Gardens for the 1879 Exhibition (it burnt down in 1882). In Melbourne, the Royal Exhibition Building, now a World Heritage site, was built in the Carlton Gardens for the 1880 Exhibition and extended for the 1888 Centennial Exhibition. Accommodation was required for the some one million interstate and international visitors who were to pass through the gates of the Garden Palace in Sydney. To meet this need, the temperance movement, keen to provide alternative accommodation to licensed hotels, backed the establishment of Sydney’s coffee palaces. The Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company was formed in 1878 to operate and manage a number of coffee palaces constructed during the 1870s. These were designed to compete with hotels by “offering all the ordinary advantages of those establishments without the allurements of the drink” (Murdoch). Coffee palaces were much more than ordinary hotels—they were often multi-purpose or mixed-use buildings that included a large number of rooms for accommodation as well as ballrooms and other leisure facilities to attract people away from pubs. As the Australian Town and Country Journal reveals, their services included the supply of affordable, wholesome food, either in the form of regular meals or occasional refreshments, cooked in kitchens fitted with the latest in culinary accoutrements. These “culinary temples” also provided smoking rooms, chess and billiard rooms, and rooms where people could read books, periodicals and all the local and national papers for free (121). Similar to the coffee houses of the Enlightenment, the coffee palaces brought businessmen, artists, writers, engineers, and scientists attending the exhibitions together to eat and drink (non-alcoholic), socialise and conduct business. The Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace located in York Street in Sydney produced a practical guide for potential investors and businessmen titled International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney. It included information on the location of government departments, educational institutions, hospitals, charitable organisations, and embassies, as well as a list of the tariffs on goods from food to opium (1–17). Women, particularly the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) were a formidable force in the temperance movement (intemperance was generally regarded as a male problem and, more specifically, a husband problem). Murdoch argues, however, that much of the success of the push to establish coffee palaces was due to male politicians with business interests, such as the one-time Victorian premiere James Munro. Considered a stern, moral church-going leader, Munro expanded the temperance movement into a fanatical force with extraordinary power, which is perhaps why the temperance movement had its greatest following in Victoria (Murdoch). Several prestigious hotels were constructed to provide accommodation for visitors to the international exhibitions in Melbourne. Munro was responsible for building many of the city’s coffee palaces, including the Victoria (1880) and the Federal Coffee Palace (1888) in Collins Street. After establishing the Grand Coffee Palace Company, Munro took over the Grand Hotel (now the Windsor) in 1886. Munro expanded the hotel to accommodate some of the two million visitors who were to attend the Centenary Exhibition, renamed it the Grand Coffee Palace, and ceremoniously burnt its liquor licence at the official opening (Murdoch). By 1888 there were more than 50 coffee palaces in the city of Melbourne alone and Munro held thousands of shares in coffee palaces, including those in Geelong and Broken Hill. With its opening planned to commemorate the centenary of the founding of Australia and the 1888 International Exhibition, the construction of the Federal Coffee Palace, one of the largest hotels in Australia, was perhaps the greatest monument to the temperance movement. Designed in the French Renaissance style, the façade was embellished with statues, griffins and Venus in a chariot drawn by four seahorses. The building was crowned with an iron-framed domed tower. New passenger elevators—first demonstrated at the Sydney Exhibition—allowed the building to soar to seven storeys. According to the Federal Coffee Palace Visitor’s Guide, which was presented to every visitor, there were three lifts for passengers and others for luggage. Bedrooms were located on the top five floors, while the stately ground and first floors contained majestic dining, lounge, sitting, smoking, writing, and billiard rooms. There were electric service bells, gaslights, and kitchens “fitted with the most approved inventions for aiding proficients [sic] in the culinary arts,” while the luxury brand Pears soap was used in the lavatories and bathrooms (16–17). In 1891, a spectacular financial crash brought the economic boom to an abrupt end. The British economy was in crisis and to meet the predicament, English banks withdrew their funds in Australia. There was a wholesale collapse of building companies, mortgage banks and other financial institutions during 1891 and 1892 and much of the banking system was halted during 1893 (Attard). Meanwhile, however, while the eastern States were in the economic doldrums, gold was discovered in 1892 at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie in Western Australia and, within two years, the west of the continent was transformed. As gold poured back to the capital city of Perth, the long dormant settlement hurriedly caught up and began to emulate the rest of Australia, including the construction of ornately detailed coffee palaces (Freeman 130). By 1904, Perth had 20 coffee palaces. When the No. 2 Coffee Palace opened in Pitt Street, Sydney, in 1880, the Australian Town and Country Journal reported that coffee palaces were “not only fashionable, but appear to have acquired a permanent footing in Sydney” (121). The coffee palace era, however, was relatively short-lived. Driven more by reformist and economic zeal than by good business sense, many were in financial trouble when the 1890’s Depression hit. Leading figures in the temperance movement were also involved in land speculation and building societies and when these schemes collapsed, many, including Munro, were financially ruined. Many of the palaces closed or were forced to apply for liquor licences in order to stay afloat. Others developed another life after the temperance movement’s influence waned and the coffee palace fad faded, and many were later demolished to make way for more modern buildings. The Federal was licensed in 1923 and traded as the Federal Hotel until its demolition in 1973. The Victoria, however, did not succumb to a liquor licence until 1967. The Sydney Coffee Palace in Woolloomooloo became the Sydney Eye Hospital and, more recently, smart apartments. Some fine examples still survive as reminders of Australia’s social and cultural heritage. The Windsor in Melbourne’s Spring Street and the Broken Hill Hotel, a massive three-story iconic pub in the outback now called simply “The Palace,” are some examples. Tea remained the beverage of choice in Australia until the 1950s when the lifting of government controls on the importation of coffee and the influence of American foodways coincided with the arrival of espresso-loving immigrants. As Australians were introduced to the espresso machine, the short black, the cappuccino, and the café latte and (reminiscent of the Enlightenment), the post-war malaise was shed in favour of the energy and vigour of modernist thought and creativity, fuelled in at least a small part by caffeine and the emergent café culture (Teffer). Although the temperance movement’s attempt to provide an alternative to the ubiquitous pubs failed, coffee has now outstripped the consumption of tea and today’s café culture ensures that wherever coffee is consumed, there is the possibility of a continuation of the Enlightenment’s lively discussions, exchange of news, and dissemination of ideas and information in a sober environment. References Attard, Bernard. “The Economic History of Australia from 1788: An Introduction.” EH.net Encyclopedia. 5 Feb. (2012) ‹http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/attard.australia›. Blainey, Anna. “The Prohibition and Total Abstinence Movement in Australia 1880–1910.” Food, Power and Community: Essays in the History of Food and Drink. Ed. Robert Dare. Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1999. 142–52. Boyce, Francis Bertie. “Shall I Vote for No License?” An address delivered at the Convention of the Parramatta Branch of New South Wales Alliance, 3 September 1906. 3rd ed. Parramatta: New South Wales Alliance, 1907. Clarke, James Freeman. Coffee Houses and Coffee Palaces in England. Boston: George H. Ellis, 1882. “Coffee Palace, No. 2.” Australian Town and Country Journal. 17 Jul. 1880: 121. Davison, Graeme. “Festivals of Nationhood: The International Exhibitions.” Australian Cultural History. Eds. S. L. Goldberg and F. B. Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989. 158–77. Denby, Elaine. Grand Hotels: Reality and Illusion. London: Reaktion Books, 2002. Ellis, Markman. The Coffee House: A Cultural History. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004. Federal Coffee Palace. The Federal Coffee Palace Visitors’ Guide to Melbourne, Its Suburbs, and Other Parts of the Colony of Victoria: Views of the Principal Public and Commercial Buildings in Melbourne, With a Bird’s Eye View of the City; and History of the Melbourne International Exhibition of 1880, etc. Melbourne: Federal Coffee House Company, 1888. Fitzgerald, Ross, and Trevor Jordan. Under the Influence: A History of Alcohol in Australia. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2009. Freeland, John. The Australian Pub. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1977. Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace. International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney, Restaurant and Temperance Hotel. Sydney: Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace, 1879. Mitchell, Ann M. “Munro, James (1832–1908).” Australian Dictionary of Biography. Canberra: National Centre of Biography, Australian National U, 2006-12. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/munro-james-4271/text6905›. Murdoch, Sally. “Coffee Palaces.” Encyclopaedia of Melbourne. Eds. Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.emelbourne.net.au/biogs/EM00371b.htm›. Muskett, Philip E. The Art of Living in Australia. New South Wales: Kangaroo Press, 1987. Standage, Tom. A History of the World in 6 Glasses. New York: Walker & Company, 2005. Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company Limited. Memorandum of Association of the Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company, Ltd. Sydney: Samuel Edward Lees, 1879. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic: A Gastronomic History of Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2007. Teffer, Nicola. Coffee Customs. Exhibition Catalogue. Sydney: Customs House, 2005.

Abstract:

In March 2007 C. James Prieur, CEO of insurance provider Conseco, was faced with a crisis. The front page of the New York Times featured a story on the grieving family of an elderly woman who had faithfully paid for her Conseco long-term care (LTC) policy, only to find that it would not pay her claims. Her family had to pay for her care (until her recent death), which unfortunately resulted in the loss of the family business. The family was now very publicly pursuing litigation. For a company that depended on thousands of employees, investors, and independent agents who sold the insurance plans, this reputational risk was a serious threat. On top of this immediate crisis, all signs in the industry were pointing to the fact that the LTC business itself was not viable, yet over the years Conseco had acquired a number of LTC insurance providers. Students are asked to analyze not only what Prieur’s priorities should be in addressing the immediate crisis but also the risks inherent in the LTC industry and how this might affect Conseco’s success as a business moving forwardAfter reading and analyzing the case, students will be able to: Analyze the risks in the long-term care insurance industry Distinguish the various types of risk that caused a company’s crisis and recognize the potential for contagion Brainstorm how the risks faced by Conseco could have been avoided or better contained Recommend the first steps C. James Prieur and the Conseco leadership team should take to rectify the New York Times article crisis

Abstract:

Abstract Step therapy, also termed fail-first policy, describes a practice of insurance and pharmacy benefit management companies denying reimbursem*nt for a specific treatment until after other treatments have first been found ineffective (i.e. failed). Laws to limit step therapy have been passed in 29 states of the United States. Using extrapolated data on fully insured employees, we find that except for New York and New Mexico, enacted State laws don't apply to even one-third of a state's population. Using the more robust Kaiser Family Foundation (KFF) data, which do not include fully insured employees, we find that only 2–10% of a state's population is covered. Advocating for these laws has been an expensive and time-consuming process, likely to become more so for the 21 states without such laws. The laws that have been enacted can be near impossible, to enforce, and loopholes exist. As a result, using KFF data, more than 90% of people in the United States with health insurance may still be unable to access the treatment chosen as most appropriate for them with their physician. Based on these data, we conclude federal step-therapy legislation is needed.

Abstract:

In 2007 Conseco's CEO, C. James Prieur, faced a complicated set of problems with his company's long-term care (LTC) insurance subsidiary, Conseco Senior Health Insurance (CSHI). CSHI faced the threat of congressional hearings and an investigation by the U.S. Government Accountability Office, triggered by an unflattering New York Times article alleging that CSHI had an unusually large number of customer complaints and was denying legitimate claims. This threat came in addition to broader systemic problems, including the fact that the entire LTC industry was barely profitable. What little profitability existed was dependent on the goodwill of state insurance regulators, to whom the industry was highly beholden for approvals of rate increases to keep it afloat. Furthermore, CSHI had unique strategic challenges that could not be ignored: First, the expense of administering CSHI's uniquely heterogeneous set of policies put it at a disadvantage relative to the rest of the industry and made rate increases especially necessary. Second, state regulators were negatively predisposed toward Conseco because of its notorious reputation and thus were often unwilling to grant rate increases. Finally, CSHI was dependent on capital infusions totaling more than $1 billion from its parent company, Conseco, for which Conseco had received no dividends in return. Faced with pressure from Conseco shareholders and the looming congressional investigations, what should Prieur do? Students will discuss the available options in the context of a long-term relationship between Conseco and state insurance regulators. Prieur's solution to this problem proved to be innovative for the industry and to have far-reaching consequences for CSHI's corporate structure.After reading and analyzing this case, students will be able to: evaluate the impact of a regulatory environment on business strategy; and assess the pros and cons of various market strategies as well as recommend important non-market strategies for a firm in crisis in a highly regulated industry.

Abstract:

This paper examines the financial reporting done by firms listed on the New York Stock Exchange in 1900 and the firm characteristics that determined what and how much firms would disclose. At this time, there were no federal disclosure mandates or stringent requirements imposed by the Exchange. Therefore, the reporting done by firms was largely voluntary and resulted in significant variation across companies and industries. I look at all 191 firms that listed stocks on the NYSE in this year and use data from Moody’s Manual of Industrial and Miscellaneous Securities and Poor’s Manual of the Railroads of the United States to determine the amount of financial disclosure. I find that more capital-intensive firms were more likely to report income statements and balance sheets and provided more volume of information. In addition, food, mining, and miscellaneous service firms disclosed the least. In addition, all else equal, the age of a company and offering preferred stock did not significantly increase its likelihood of reporting financial statements. Overall, the results indicate that even absent regulation, firms would voluntarily provide information but at varying degrees based on how much the company relies on outside investors and whether its industry is competitive. They also suggest that managers considered potential or explicit investor demand for financial information and responded to this demand.

Abstract:

By the time you read this, it will be wrong. Things seemed to be moving so fast in these first days after airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the Pennsylvania earth. Each certainty is as carelessly dropped as it was once carelessly assumed. The sounds of lower Manhattan that used to serve as white noise for residents—sirens, screeches, screams—are no longer signs without a referent. Instead, they make folks stare and stop, hurry and hustle, wondering whether the noises we know so well are in fact, this time, coefficients of a new reality. At the time of writing, the events themselves are also signs without referents—there has been no direct claim of responsibility, and little proof offered by accusers since the 11th. But it has been assumed that there is a link to US foreign policy, its military and economic presence in the Arab world, and opposition to it that seeks revenge. In the intervening weeks the US media and the war planners have supplied their own narrow frameworks, making New York’s “ground zero” into the starting point for a new escalation of global violence. We want to write here about the combination of sources and sensations that came that day, and the jumble of knowledges and emotions that filled our minds. Working late the night before, Toby was awoken in the morning by one of the planes right overhead. That happens sometimes. I have long expected a crash when I’ve heard the roar of jet engines so close—but I didn’t this time. Often when that sound hits me, I get up and go for a run down by the water, just near Wall Street. Something kept me back that day. Instead, I headed for my laptop. Because I cannot rely on local media to tell me very much about the role of the US in world affairs, I was reading the British newspaper The Guardian on-line when it flashed a two-line report about the planes. I looked up at the calendar above my desk to see whether it was April 1st. Truly. Then I got off-line and turned on the TV to watch CNN. That second, the phone rang. My quasi-ex-girlfriend I’m still in love with called from the mid-West. She was due to leave that day for the Bay Area. Was I alright? We spoke for a bit. She said my cell phone was out, and indeed it was for the remainder of the day. As I hung up from her, my friend Ana rang, tearful and concerned. Her husband, Patrick, had left an hour before for work in New Jersey, and it seemed like a dangerous separation. All separations were potentially fatal that day. You wanted to know where everyone was, every minute. She told me she had been trying to contact Palestinian friends who worked and attended school near the event—their ethnic, religious, and national backgrounds made for real poignancy, as we both thought of the prejudice they would (probably) face, regardless of the eventual who/what/when/where/how of these events. We agreed to meet at Bruno’s, a bakery on La Guardia Place. For some reason I really took my time, though, before getting to Ana. I shampooed and shaved under the shower. This was a horror, and I needed to look my best, even as men and women were losing and risking their lives. I can only interpret what I did as an attempt to impose normalcy and control on the situation, on my environment. When I finally made it down there, she’d located our friends. They were safe. We stood in the street and watched the Towers. Horrified by the sight of human beings tumbling to their deaths, we turned to buy a tea/coffee—again some ludicrous normalization—but were drawn back by chilling screams from the street. Racing outside, we saw the second Tower collapse, and clutched at each other. People were streaming towards us from further downtown. We decided to be with our Palestinian friends in their apartment. When we arrived, we learnt that Mark had been four minutes away from the WTC when the first plane hit. I tried to call my daughter in London and my father in Canberra, but to no avail. I rang the mid-West, and asked my maybe-former novia to call England and Australia to report in on me. Our friend Jenine got through to relatives on the West Bank. Israeli tanks had commenced a bombardment there, right after the planes had struck New York. Family members spoke to her from under the kitchen table, where they were taking refuge from the shelling of their house. Then we gave ourselves over to television, like so many others around the world, even though these events were happening only a mile away. We wanted to hear official word, but there was just a huge absence—Bush was busy learning to read in Florida, then leading from the front in Louisiana and Nebraska. As the day wore on, we split up and regrouped, meeting folks. One guy was in the subway when smoke filled the car. Noone could breathe properly, people were screaming, and his only thought was for his dog DeNiro back in Brooklyn. From the panic of the train, he managed to call his mom on a cell to ask her to feed “DeNiro” that night, because it looked like he wouldn’t get home. A pregnant woman feared for her unborn as she fled the blasts, pushing the stroller with her baby in it as she did so. Away from these heart-rending tales from strangers, there was the fear: good grief, what horrible price would the US Government extract for this, and who would be the overt and covert agents and targets of that suffering? What blood-lust would this generate? What would be the pattern of retaliation and counter-retaliation? What would become of civil rights and cultural inclusiveness? So a jumble of emotions came forward, I assume in all of us. Anger was not there for me, just intense sorrow, shock, and fear, and the desire for intimacy. Network television appeared to offer me that, but in an ultimately unsatisfactory way. For I think I saw the end-result of reality TV that day. I have since decided to call this ‘emotionalization’—network TV’s tendency to substitute analysis of US politics and economics with a stress on feelings. Of course, powerful emotions have been engaged by this horror, and there is value in addressing that fact and letting out the pain. I certainly needed to do so. But on that day and subsequent ones, I looked to the networks, traditional sources of current-affairs knowledge, for just that—informed, multi-perspectival journalism that would allow me to make sense of my feelings, and come to a just and reasoned decision about how the US should respond. I waited in vain. No such commentary came forward. Just a lot of asinine inquiries from reporters that were identical to those they pose to basketballers after a game: Question—‘How do you feel now?’ Answer—‘God was with me today.’ For the networks were insistent on asking everyone in sight how they felt about the end of las torres gemelas. In this case, we heard the feelings of survivors, firefighters, viewers, media mavens, Republican and Democrat hacks, and vacuous Beltway state-of-the-nation pundits. But learning of the military-political economy, global inequality, and ideologies and organizations that made for our grief and loss—for that, there was no space. TV had forgotten how to do it. My principal feeling soon became one of frustration. So I headed back to where I began the day—The Guardian web site, where I was given insightful analysis of the messy factors of history, religion, economics, and politics that had created this situation. As I dealt with the tragedy of folks whose lives had been so cruelly lost, I pondered what it would take for this to stop. Or whether this was just the beginning. I knew one thing—the answers wouldn’t come from mainstream US television, no matter how full of feelings it was. And that made Toby anxious. And afraid. He still is. And so the dreams come. In one, I am suddenly furloughed from my job with an orchestra, as audience numbers tumble. I make my evening-wear way to my locker along with the other players, emptying it of bubble gum and instrument. The next night, I see a gigantic, fifty-feet high wave heading for the city beach where I’ve come to swim. Somehow I am sheltered behind a huge wall, as all the people around me die. Dripping, I turn to find myself in a media-stereotype “crack house” of the early ’90s—desperate-looking black men, endless doorways, sudden police arrival, and my earnest search for a passport that will explain away my presence. I awake in horror, to the realization that the passport was already open and stamped—racialization at work for Toby, every day and in every way, as a white man in New York City. Ana’s husband, Patrick, was at work ten miles from Manhattan when “it” happened. In the hallway, I overheard some talk about two planes crashing, but went to teach anyway in my usual morning stupor. This was just the usual chatter of disaster junkies. I didn’t hear the words, “World Trade Center” until ten thirty, at the end of the class at the college I teach at in New Jersey, across the Hudson river. A friend and colleague walked in and told me the news of the attack, to which I replied “You must be f*cking joking.” He was a little offended. Students were milling haphazardly on the campus in the late summer weather, some looking panicked like me. My first thought was of some general failure of the air-traffic control system. There must be planes falling out of the sky all over the country. Then the height of the towers: how far towards our apartment in Greenwich Village would the towers fall? Neither of us worked in the financial district a mile downtown, but was Ana safe? Where on the college campus could I see what was happening? I recognized the same physical sensation I had felt the morning after Hurricane Andrew in Miami seeing at a distance the wreckage of our shattered apartment across a suburban golf course strewn with debris and flattened power lines. Now I was trapped in the suburbs again at an unbridgeable distance from my wife and friends who were witnessing the attacks first hand. Were they safe? What on earth was going on? This feeling of being cut off, my path to the familiar places of home blocked, remained for weeks my dominant experience of the disaster. In my office, phone calls to the city didn’t work. There were six voice-mail messages from my teenaged brother Alex in small-town England giving a running commentary on the attack and its aftermath that he was witnessing live on television while I dutifully taught my writing class. “Hello, Patrick, where are you? Oh my god, another plane just hit the towers. Where are you?” The web was choked: no access to newspapers online. Email worked, but no one was wasting time writing. My office window looked out over a soccer field to the still woodlands of western New Jersey: behind me to the east the disaster must be unfolding. Finally I found a website with a live stream from ABC television, which I watched flickering and stilted on the tiny screen. It had all already happened: both towers already collapsed, the Pentagon attacked, another plane shot down over Pennsylvania, unconfirmed reports said, there were other hijacked aircraft still out there unaccounted for. Manhattan was sealed off. George Washington Bridge, Lincoln and Holland tunnels, all the bridges and tunnels from New Jersey I used to mock shut down. Police actions sealed off the highways into “the city.” The city I liked to think of as the capital of the world was cut off completely from the outside, suddenly vulnerable and under siege. There was no way to get home. The phone rang abruptly and Alex, three thousand miles away, told me he had spoken to Ana earlier and she was safe. After a dozen tries, I managed to get through and spoke to her, learning that she and Toby had seen people jumping and then the second tower fall. Other friends had been even closer. Everyone was safe, we thought. I sat for another couple of hours in my office uselessly. The news was incoherent, stories contradictory, loops of the planes hitting the towers only just ready for recycling. The attacks were already being transformed into “the World Trade Center Disaster,” not yet the ahistorical singularity of the emergency “nine one one.” Stranded, I had to spend the night in New Jersey at my boss’s house, reminded again of the boundless generosity of Americans to relative strangers. In an effort to protect his young son from the as yet unfiltered images saturating cable and Internet, my friend’s TV set was turned off and we did our best to reassure. We listened surreptitiously to news bulletins on AM radio, hoping that the roads would open. Walking the dog with my friend’s wife and son we crossed a park on the ridge on which Upper Montclair sits. Ten miles away a huge column of smoke was rising from lower Manhattan, where the stunning absence of the towers was clearly visible. The summer evening was unnervingly still. We kicked a soccer ball around on the front lawn and a woman walked distracted by, shocked and pale up the tree-lined suburban street, suffering her own wordless trauma. I remembered that though most of my students were ordinary working people, Montclair is a well-off dormitory for the financial sector and high rises of Wall Street and Midtown. For the time being, this was a white-collar disaster. I slept a short night in my friend’s house, waking to hope I had dreamed it all, and took the commuter train in with shell-shocked bankers and corporate types. All men, all looking nervously across the river toward glimpses of the Manhattan skyline as the train neared Hoboken. “I can’t believe they’re making us go in,” one guy had repeated on the station platform. He had watched the attacks from his office in Midtown, “The whole thing.” Inside the train we all sat in silence. Up from the PATH train station on 9th street I came onto a carless 6th Avenue. At 14th street barricades now sealed off downtown from the rest of the world. I walked down the middle of the avenue to a newspaper stand; the Indian proprietor shrugged “No deliveries below 14th.” I had not realized that the closer to the disaster you came, the less information would be available. Except, I assumed, for the evidence of my senses. But at 8 am the Village was eerily still, few people about, nothing in the sky, including the twin towers. I walked to Houston Street, which was full of trucks and police vehicles. Tractor trailers sat carrying concrete barriers. Below Houston, each street into Soho was barricaded and manned by huddles of cops. I had walked effortlessly up into the “lockdown,” but this was the “frozen zone.” There was no going further south towards the towers. I walked the few blocks home, found my wife sleeping, and climbed into bed, still in my clothes from the day before. “Your heart is racing,” she said. I realized that I hadn’t known if I would get back, and now I never wanted to leave again; it was still only eight thirty am. Lying there, I felt the terrible wonder of a distant bystander for the first-hand witness. Ana’s face couldn’t tell me what she had seen. I felt I needed to know more, to see and understand. Even though I knew the effort was useless: I could never bridge that gap that had trapped me ten miles away, my back turned to the unfolding disaster. The television was useless: we don’t have cable, and the mast on top of the North Tower, which Ana had watched fall, had relayed all the network channels. I knew I had to go down and see the wreckage. Later I would realize how lucky I had been not to suffer from “disaster envy.” Unbelievably, in retrospect, I commuted into work the second day after the attack, dogged by the same unnerving sensation that I would not get back—to the wounded, humbled former center of the world. My students were uneasy, all talked out. I was a novelty, a New Yorker living in the Village a mile from the towers, but I was forty-eight hours late. Out of place in both places. I felt torn up, but not angry. Back in the city at night, people were eating and drinking with a vengeance, the air filled with acrid sicklysweet smoke from the burning wreckage. Eyes stang and nose ran with a bitter acrid taste. Who knows what we’re breathing in, we joked nervously. A friend’s wife had fallen out with him for refusing to wear a protective mask in the house. He shrugged a wordlessly reassuring smile. What could any of us do? I walked with Ana down to the top of West Broadway from where the towers had commanded the skyline over SoHo; downtown dense smoke blocked the view to the disaster. A crowd of onlookers pushed up against the barricades all day, some weeping, others gawping. A tall guy was filming the grieving faces with a video camera, which was somehow the worst thing of all, the first sign of the disaster tourism that was already mushrooming downtown. Across the street an Asian artist sat painting the street scene in streaky black and white; he had scrubbed out two white columns where the towers would have been. “That’s the first thing I’ve seen that’s made me feel any better,” Ana said. We thanked him, but he shrugged blankly, still in shock I supposed. On the Friday, the clampdown. I watched the Mayor and Police Chief hold a press conference in which they angrily told the stream of volunteers to “ground zero” that they weren’t needed. “We can handle this ourselves. We thank you. But we don’t need your help,” Commissioner Kerik said. After the free-for-all of the first couple of days, with its amazing spontaneities and common gestures of goodwill, the clampdown was going into effect. I decided to go down to Canal Street and see if it was true that no one was welcome anymore. So many paths through the city were blocked now. “Lock down, frozen zone, war zone, the site, combat zone, ground zero, state troopers, secured perimeter, national guard, humvees, family center”: a disturbing new vocabulary that seemed to stamp the logic of Giuliani’s sanitized and over-policed Manhattan onto the wounded hulk of the city. The Mayor had been magnificent in the heat of the crisis; Churchillian, many were saying—and indeed, Giuliani quickly appeared on the cover of Cigar Afficionado, complete with wing collar and the misquotation from Kipling, “Captain Courageous.” Churchill had not believed in peacetime politics either, and he never got over losing his empire. Now the regime of command and control over New York’s citizens and its economy was being stabilized and reimposed. The sealed-off, disfigured, and newly militarized spaces of the New York through which I have always loved to wander at all hours seemed to have been put beyond reach for the duration. And, in the new post-“9/11” post-history, the duration could last forever. The violence of the attacks seemed to have elicited a heavy-handed official reaction that sought to contain and constrict the best qualities of New York. I felt more anger at the clampdown than I did at the demolition of the towers. I knew this was unreasonable, but I feared the reaction, the spread of the racial harassment and racial profiling that I had already heard of from my students in New Jersey. This militarizing of the urban landscape seemed to negate the sprawling, freewheeling, boundless largesse and tolerance on which New York had complacently claimed a monopoly. For many the towers stood for that as well, not just as the monumental outposts of global finance that had been attacked. Could the American flag mean something different? For a few days, perhaps—on the helmets of firemen and construction workers. But not for long. On the Saturday, I found an unmanned barricade way east along Canal Street and rode my bike past throngs of Chinatown residents, by the Federal jail block where prisoners from the first World Trade Center bombing were still being held. I headed south and west towards Tribeca; below the barricades in the frozen zone, you could roam freely, the cops and soldiers assuming you belonged there. I felt uneasy, doubting my own motives for being there, feeling the blood drain from my head in the same numbing shock I’d felt every time I headed downtown towards the site. I looped towards Greenwich Avenue, passing an abandoned bank full of emergency supplies and boxes of protective masks. Crushed cars still smeared with pulverized concrete and encrusted with paperwork strewn by the blast sat on the street near the disabled telephone exchange. On one side of the avenue stood a horde of onlookers, on the other television crews, all looking two blocks south towards a colossal pile of twisted and smoking steel, seven stories high. We were told to stay off the street by long-suffering national guardsmen and women with southern accents, kids. Nothing happening, just the aftermath. The TV crews were interviewing worn-out, dust-covered volunteers and firemen who sat quietly leaning against the railings of a park filled with scraps of paper. Out on the West Side highway, a high-tech truck was offering free cellular phone calls. The six lanes by the river were full of construction machinery and military vehicles. Ambulances rolled slowly uptown, bodies inside? I locked my bike redundantly to a lamppost and crossed under the hostile gaze of plainclothes police to another media encampment. On the path by the river, two camera crews were complaining bitterly in the heat. “After five days of this I’ve had enough.” They weren’t talking about the trauma, bodies, or the wreckage, but censorship. “Any blue light special gets to roll right down there, but they see your press pass and it’s get outta here. I’ve had enough.” I fronted out the surly cops and ducked under the tape onto the path, walking onto a Pier on which we’d spent many lazy afternoons watching the river at sunset. Dust everywhere, police boats docked and waiting, a crane ominously dredging mud into a barge. I walked back past the camera operators onto the highway and walked up to an interview in process. Perfectly composed, a fire chief and his crew from some small town in upstate New York were politely declining to give details about what they’d seen at “ground zero.” The men’s faces were dust streaked, their eyes slightly dazed with the shock of a horror previously unimaginable to most Americans. They were here to help the best they could, now they’d done as much as anyone could. “It’s time for us to go home.” The chief was eloquent, almost rehearsed in his precision. It was like a Magnum press photo. But he was refusing to cooperate with the media’s obsessive emotionalism. I walked down the highway, joining construction workers, volunteers, police, and firemen in their hundreds at Chambers Street. No one paid me any attention; it was absurd. I joined several other watchers on the stairs by Stuyvesant High School, which was now the headquarters for the recovery crews. Just two or three blocks away, the huge jagged teeth of the towers’ beautiful tracery lurched out onto the highway above huge mounds of debris. The TV images of the shattered scene made sense as I placed them into what was left of a familiar Sunday afternoon geography of bike rides and walks by the river, picnics in the park lying on the grass and gazing up at the infinite solidity of the towers. Demolished. It was breathtaking. If “they” could do that, they could do anything. Across the street at tables military policeman were checking credentials of the milling volunteers and issuing the pink and orange tags that gave access to ground zero. Without warning, there was a sudden stampede running full pelt up from the disaster site, men and women in fatigues, burly construction workers, firemen in bunker gear. I ran a few yards then stopped. Other people milled around idly, ignoring the panic, smoking and talking in low voices. It was a mainly white, blue-collar scene. All these men wearing flags and carrying crowbars and flashlights. In their company, the intolerance and rage I associated with flags and construction sites was nowhere to be seen. They were dealing with a torn and twisted otherness that dwarfed machismo or bigotry. I talked to a moustachioed, pony-tailed construction worker who’d hitched a ride from the mid-west to “come and help out.” He was staying at the Y, he said, it was kind of rough. “Have you been down there?” he asked, pointing towards the wreckage. “You’re British, you weren’t in World War Two were you?” I replied in the negative. “It’s worse ’n that. I went down last night and you can’t imagine it. You don’t want to see it if you don’t have to.” Did I know any welcoming ladies? he asked. The Y was kind of tough. When I saw TV images of President Bush speaking to the recovery crews and steelworkers at “ground zero” a couple of days later, shouting through a bullhorn to chants of “USA, USA” I knew nothing had changed. New York’s suffering was subject to a second hijacking by the brokers of national unity. New York had never been America, and now its terrible human loss and its great humanity were redesignated in the name of the nation, of the coming war. The signs without a referent were being forcibly appropriated, locked into an impoverished patriotic framework, interpreted for “us” by a compliant media and an opportunistic regime eager to reign in civil liberties, to unloose its war machine and tighten its grip on the Muslim world. That day, drawn to the river again, I had watched F18 fighter jets flying patterns over Manhattan as Bush’s helicopters came in across the river. Otherwise empty of air traffic, “our” skies were being torn up by the military jets: it was somehow the worst sight yet, worse than the wreckage or the bands of disaster tourists on Canal Street, a sign of further violence yet to come. There was a carrier out there beyond New York harbor, there to protect us: the bruising, blustering city once open to all comers. That felt worst of all. In the intervening weeks, we have seen other, more unstable ways of interpreting the signs of September 11 and its aftermath. Many have circulated on the Internet, past the blockages and blockades placed on urban spaces and intellectual life. Karl-Heinz Stockhausen’s work was banished (at least temporarily) from the canon of avant-garde electronic music when he described the attack on las torres gemelas as akin to a work of art. If Jacques Derrida had described it as an act of deconstruction (turning technological modernity literally in on itself), or Jean Baudrillard had announced that the event was so thick with mediation it had not truly taken place, something similar would have happened to them (and still may). This is because, as Don DeLillo so eloquently put it in implicit reaction to the plaintive cry “Why do they hate us?”: “it is the power of American culture to penetrate every wall, home, life and mind”—whether via military action or cultural iconography. All these positions are correct, however grisly and annoying they may be. What GK Chesterton called the “flints and tiles” of nineteenth-century European urban existence were rent asunder like so many victims of high-altitude US bombing raids. As a First-World disaster, it became knowable as the first-ever US “ground zero” such precisely through the high premium immediately set on the lives of Manhattan residents and the rarefied discussion of how to commemorate the high-altitude towers. When, a few weeks later, an American Airlines plane crashed on take-off from Queens, that borough was left open to all comers. Manhattan was locked down, flown over by “friendly” bombers. In stark contrast to the open if desperate faces on the street of 11 September, people went about their business with heads bowed even lower than is customary. Contradictory deconstructions and valuations of Manhattan lives mean that September 11 will live in infamy and hyper-knowability. The vengeful United States government and population continue on their way. Local residents must ponder insurance claims, real-estate values, children’s terrors, and their own roles in something beyond their ken. New York had been forced beyond being the center of the financial world. It had become a military target, a place that was receiving as well as dispatching the slings and arrows of global fortune. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.1 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php>. Chicago Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby, "A Day That Will Live In … ?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 1 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Deer, Patrick and Miller, Toby. (2002) A Day That Will Live In … ?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(1). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0203/adaythat.php> ([your date of access]).

Abstract:

Abstract Background While Medicare is a federal health insurance program, managed Medicare limits access to healthcare services to networks within states or territories. However, if a natural disaster requires evacuation, displaced patients are at risk of losing coverage for their benefits. Previous literature has discussed the quality of managed Medicare plans within Puerto Rico but has not addressed the adequacy of this coverage if residents are displaced to the continental United States. We explore Hurricane Maria’s impact on a resident of Puerto Rico with chronic health problems, and the challenges he faces seeking healthcare in New York. Case presentation A 59-year-old male with a history of diabetes mellitus type II, coronary artery disease, peripheral vascular disease status post right foot amputation, and end-stage kidney disease on hemodialysis was admitted in October of 2017 for chest pain and swelling of legs for 5 days. The patient had missed his last three dialysis sessions after Hurricane Maria forced him to leave Puerto Rico. In examining this patient’s treatment, we observe the effect of Hurricane Maria on the medical management of Puerto Rican residents and identify challenges managed Medicare may pose to patients who cross state or territory lines. Conclusions We employ this patient’s narrative to frame a larger discussion of Puerto Rican managed Medicare and provide additional recommendations for healthcare providers. Moreover, we consider this case in the context of disaster-related continuity of care for patients with complex medical conditions or treatment regimens. To address the gaps in the care of these patients, this article proposes (1) developing system-based approaches for screening displaced patients, (2) increasing the awareness of Special Enrollment Periods related to Medicare among healthcare providers, and (3) creating policy solutions to assure access to care for patients with complex medical conditions.

Abstract:

Workplace wellness programs raise the question: Who owns the health and sickness of the employee? Once, they belonged to the person and his/her doctor, in a kind of binary health relationship. Now companies have made it a triangular relationship. But actually, it's rectangular - the government is also shaping this relationship by occupying a fourth corner. As Nikolas Rose (1989) points out in his exploration of the place of individual in the corporate state, history suggests that it might be the government whose corner is dominant. Rose notes that "Taylorism", the scientific pursuit of maximum efficiency of human labour which was fashionable early last century, is now seen not just as the creation of industrialists like Henry Ford. Much more broadly, it reflected a philosophy current in the western industrialised nations like the US, UK and Germany. Achieving optimum output from men and machines was "part of a wide family of political programmes that sought to use scientific knowledge to advance national efficiency through making the most productive use of material and human resources." Reflecting prevailing political climates, national governments had already begun to introduce legislation which regulated the relationship between capital and labour. Ostensibly, these laws were intended to protect the rights of workers, but Rose suggests that their ultimate motivation was to ensure the nation received social dividends from the labour market. That was then. Now, social dividends from employment may be different but governments are still pursuing them. It was a labour government in Australia in the 1980s which first required employees to fund their own aged pensions (by trading off pay increases for superannuation). In another manifestation of their worry about the costs of an ageing population, governments are now prodding workers to become their own health managers, through the agency of wellness programs at work. Wellness programs really began to flourish in the last 20 years, most visibly in the Unites States where pressure from the employee health insurance system and high participation targets set by the Federal Government have made them the rule. "As a result, work-site health promotion programs are becoming increasingly prevalent. In 1985, 65 percent of work sites with 50 or more employees offered at least one health promotion activity. The [Government's] Healthy People 2000 goals aim to increase this proportion to 85 percent and to increase employee participation in these programs." (Meurer et al. 1997, p. 384) In other countries, pressure from insurance/litigation may be weaker, but employers have increasingly seen workplaces as suitable locations for health campaigns targeted at their employees, and governments have become supportive of such programs because of the public health benefits and convenience. They might be viewed as privatised community health promotion. In Australasia: "The idea of using workplaces as sites to promote health is attractive from a public health point of view. It provides an opportunity for adults to gain access to health promotion initiatives and enables them to participate in programs planned according to their needs in a familiar physical and social setting. It also provides an opportunity for health promotion efforts to extend to the worker's home and involve his/her family." (Williams 1991, p. 490) From an employer's perspective, workers' sickness has always been a matter of interest because of the duty of care. In the distinctive social environment of work, their health has belonged at least partly to the company, but the wellness programs may be further stripping away the autonomy of health. Moral philosopher R S Downie and his co-writers (1990) believe that health promotion is not value-free. "It endeavours to persuade people to adopt certain lifestyles.") It attempts to transfer to the employees values held by the organisation, promoting a particular lifestyle - in this case, a healthy one. Participation in wellness programs provides benefits which flow in two directions. The company donates the resources which allow the employees to avoid sickness and to live healthier lives. The employees donate a longer and more productive working life to the company and society. In this way, these programs conform with the dominant current management philosophy describing the relationship between employee and employer. Just as Hirschhorn (1988) describes how workers won social freedoms in exchange for psychological "unfreedoms" (the work ethic) in the industrial revolution , so Rose describes how modern, caring management practice is all about "aligning the wishes, needs and aspirations of each individual who works for the organisation with the successful pursuit of its objectives". A win-win situation? In some organisations, some employees may not see it that way. The fact that wellness programs are declared "voluntary" may not necessarily rectify a perception of compulsion. Employees may believe that nothing is truly voluntary at work. With these concerns in mind, Stokols et al. (1995) advocate ethical guidelines to prevent job discrimination based on health status and related potential conflicts of interest. They say that the bottom-line benefits to management of health-promotion campaigns cannot legitimately include discriminating against employees who refuse to make healthy lifestyle choices. Discrimination might exist on another level. What is the company to make of workers who choose to continue an unhealthy lifestyle which may put them at greater risk of a succumbing to a health hazard at work? The most well-known of such consequences is the predisposition to bronchial illness caused by smoking. Of course, there are two sources of sickness at work; self-induced and work-induced. Smoking cigarettes may cause self-induced sickness. Mining asbestos may cause work-induced sickness. If it was once clear who was responsible for which sickness, the advent of workplace wellness programs has reduced the clarity. Such health promotion can make it seem that the employer has taken responsibility for both self-induced and work-induced sickness, or perhaps the worker has. Wellness programs are culturally ambiguous. Their very introduction signifies the employer's care for employees' health, but the function of the program is to teach the employees how to take responsibility for it. So Blewett and Shaw (1995) wonder whether health promotion programs change the balance of responsibility between employer and employee. The origin of this issue, they suggest, is in the World Health Organisation's 1986 Ottawa Charter for Health Promotion, which describes health promotion as "the process of enabling individuals and communities to increase control over the determinants of health and thereby improve their health." (cited in Blewett & Shaw 1995, p. 462) The writers argue that the health promotion rhetoric is increasingly focused on promoting 'self-responsibility' for health in the workplace, and the skills of health self-care. If governments value wellness programs, and business likes them, is the workplace a conducive cultural setting for wellness to be marketed? Do workplace health promotion programs obviate the well-documented communication barriers from which community programs suffer? It seems they might. "Worksites afford a high degree of leverage for influencing the health of the population," according to Stokols et al. (1995, p. 1136) "Leverage" is a reference to the big percentage of the population (the employed) they reach, as well as the power of persuasion in a workplace. The persuasion can derive from the corporate culture which employers strive to create in their organisations - a mono-culture whose values are aligned with those of all members. It can also derive from company rules - all members of the organisation, whether value-sharers or value-rejectors, are captured by the requirement to conform with wellness objectives. Thus, in western industrial democracies, where smoking is banned it is usually because they are places of work. It is necessary to ask the question: Do employees exposed to health promotion at work make good use of self-care skills. Williams (1991) notes that the uptake of health promotion campaigns, not at work but in the broad community, is greatest among those who least need the benefits - that is, it correlates with socio-economic status. Wellness programs in industrial settings provide opportunities for health promotion to reach lower-paid trades and "blue-collar" employees not well served by these community campaigns. However, poor health behaviours are based on life-long habits, usually reinforced by people's lifestyles, reference groups and family structure. These habits take time and persistence to counteract. It is only in the long term that participation gives employees positive benefits, and therefore positive reinforcement for their healthy efforts. Noblet and Murphy (1995, p. 18) report that "early workplace programs relied heavily on behaviour change techniques as their health promotion strategy." Therefore, many failed to produce lasting change because they did not take advantage of the complex social and cultural structure that exists within each workplace. The writers suggest that recently "activities have expanded beyond risk reduction strategies to a settings approach that addresses the social, organisational, environmental and cultural factors." (Noblet and Murphy 1995, p. 18) In conclusion, it is likely that the motivation for companies to run health promotion campaigns will increase, but wellness may be a concept which fits somewhat awkwardly in the employer-employee relationship. Perhaps care for employees is the factor which will bring outcomes beneficial to all. Farnell (1987) expresses such care this way: An organisation's health comprises three components, its financial health, its organisational health (openness, trust, morale, etc) and the personal health of its members. No employer should consider the organisation in good shape without addressing each component. References Blewett, V. and Shaw, A. "Health promotion, handle with care." Journal of Occupational Health and Safety Australia and New Zealand 11 (1995): 461-5. Downie, R., Fyfe, C. and Tannahill, A. Health Promotion - Models and Values, Oxford UP: Oxford,1990. Farnell, L."Corporate culture change - the healthy way." Journal of Occupational Health and Safety Australia and New Zealand 3 (1987): 46-52. Hirschhorn, L. The workplace within: psychodynamics of organizational life. Cambridge, Mass: M.I.T. Press,1988. Leigh, J. and Harrison, J. "Reduction of Ischaemic heart disease risk factors following direct probabilistic risk communication in the workplace.", Journal of Occupational Health and Safety Australia and New Zealand 7 (1991): 467-72. Meurer, L., Meurer, J. and Holloway, R. "New models of health care in the home and in the work site.", American Family Physician 56 (1997): 384-7. Noblet, A.J. and Murphy, C. "Adapting the Ottowa Charter for Health Promotion to the Workplace Setting." Health Promotion Journal of Australia 5 (1995): 18-22. Rose, N. Governing the soul: the shaping of the private self. London: Routledge, 1989. Stokols, D., Pelletier, K. and Fielding, J. "Integration of medical care and worksite health promotion.", Journal of the American Medical Association 273 (1995): 1136-42. Williams, P. 1991, "Planning factors contributing to on-going health promotion programs." Journal of Occupational Health and Safety Australia and New Zealand 7 (1991): 489-94.

Abstract:

BackgroundIn the centuries since Odysseus entrusted his son Telemachus to Athena, biographical, literary, and historical accounts have cemented the concept of mentorship into our collective consciousness. Early foundational research characterised mentors as individuals who help us transition through different phases of our lives. Chief among these phases is the progression from adolescence to adulthood, during which we “imagine exciting possibilities for [our lives] and [struggle] to attain the ‘I am’ feeling in this dreamed-of self and world” (Levinson 93). Previous research suggests that mentoring can positively impact a range of developmental outcomes including emotional/behavioural resiliency, academic attainment, career advancement, and organisational productivity (DuBois et al. 57-91; Eby et al. 441-76; Merriam 161-73). The growth of formal mentoring programs, such as Big Brothers-Big Sisters, has further strengthened our belief in the value of mentoring in personal, academic and career contexts (Eby et al. 441-76).In recent years, claims of mentorship uptake have become widespread, even ubiquitous, ranging from codified components of organisational mandates to casual bragging rights in coffee shop conversations (Eby et al. 441-76). Is this a sign that mentorship has become indispensable to personal and professional development, or is mentorship simply in vogue? In this paper, we examine uses of, and corresponding meanings attached to, mentorship. Specifically, we compare popular news portrayals of mentoring with meanings ascribed to mentoring relationships by academics who are part of formal mentoring programs.MethodsWe searched for articles published in the New York Times between July and December 2015. Search terms used included: mentor, mentors, mentoring or mentorship. This U.S. national newspaper was chosen for its broad focus, and large online readership. It is among the most widely read online newspapers worldwide (World Association of Newspapers and News Publishers). Our search generated 536 articles. We conducted a qualitative thematic contentan alysis to explore the nature, scope, and importance of mentorship, as depicted in these media accounts. We compared media themes identified through this analysis with those generated through in-depth interviews previously conducted with 23 academic faculty in mentoring programs at the University of Calgary (Canada). Data were extracted by two authors, and discrepancies in interpretation were resolved through discussion with a third author.The Many Faces of MentorshipIn both interviews and New York Times (NYT) accounts, mentorship is portrayed as part of the “fabric” of contemporary culture, and is often viewed as essential to career advancement. As one academic we interviewed commented: “You know the worst feeling in the world [as a new employee] is...to feel like you’re floundering and you don’t know where to turn.” In 322 NYT articles, mentorship was linked to professional successes across a variety of disciplines, with CEOs, and popular culture icons, such as rap artists and sports figures, citing mentorship as central to their achievements. Mentorship had a particularly strong presence in the arts (109 articles), sports (62 articles) business (57 articles), politics (36 articles), medicine (26 articles), and law (21 articles).In the NYT, mentorship was also a factor in student achievement and social justice issues including psychosocial and career support for refugees and youth from low socioeconomic backgrounds; counteracting youth radicalisation; and addressing gender inequality in the workplace. In short, mentorship appears to have been taken up as a panacea for a variety of social and economic ills.Mentor Identities and RolesWhile mentors in academia were supervisors or colleagues, NYT articles portrayed mentors more broadly, as family members, employers, friends and peers. Mentoring relationships typically begin with a connection which often manifests as shared experiences or goals (Merriam). One academic interviewee described mentorship in these terms: “There’s something there that you both really respect and value.” In many NYT accounts, the connection between mentors and mentees was similarly emphasized. As a professional athlete noted: “To me, it's not about collecting [mentors]...It's if the person means something to me...played some type of role in my life” (Shpigel SP.1).While most mentoring relationships develop organically, others are created through formal programs. In the NYT, 33 articles described formal programs to support career/skills development in the arts, business, and sports, and behaviour change in at-risk youth. Although many such programs relied on volunteers, we noted instances in professional sports and business where individuals were hired to provide mentorship. We also saw evidence to suggest that formal programs may be viewed as a quick fix, or palatable alternative, to more costly, or long-term organisational or societal change. For instance, one article on operational challenges at a law firm noted: “The firm's leadership...didn't want to be told that they needed to overhaul their entire organizational philosophy.... They wanted to be told that the firm's problem was work-family conflict for women, a narrative that would allow them to adopt a set of policies specifically aimed at helping women work part time, or be mentored” (Slaughter SR.1).Mutuality of the RelationshipEffective mentoring occurs when both mentors and mentees value these relationships. As one academic interviewee noted: “[My mentor] asked me for advice on certain things about where they’re going right career wise... I think that’s allowed us to have a stronger sort of mentoring relationship”. Some NYT portrayals of mentorship also suggested rich, reciprocal relationships. A dancer with a ballet company described her mentor:She doesn't talk at you. She talks with you. I've never thought about dancing as much as I've thought about it working with her. I feel like as a ballerina, you smile and nod and you take the beating. This is more collaborative. In school, I was always waiting to find a professor that I would bond with and who would mentor me. All I had to do was walk over to Barnard, get into the studio, and there she was. I found Twyla. Or she found me. (Kourlas AR.7)The mutuality of the mentorship evident in this dancer’s recollection is echoed in a NYT account of the role of fashion models in mentoring colleagues: “They were...mentors and connectors and facilitators, motivated...by the joy of discovering talent and creating beauty” (Trebay D.8). Yet in other media accounts, mentorship appeared unidirectional, almost one-dimensional: “Judge Forrest noted in court that he had been seen as a mentor for young people” (Moynihan A.21). Here, the focus seemed to be on the benefits, or status, accrued by the mentor. Importance of the RelationshipAcademic interviewees viewed mentors as sources of knowledge, guidance, feedback, and sponsorship. They believed mentorship had profoundly impacted their careers and that “finding a mentor can be one of the most important things” anyone could do. In the NYT portrayals, mentors were also recognized for the significant, often lasting, impact they had on the lives of their mentees. A choreographer said “the lessons she learned from her former mentor still inspire her — ‘he sits on my shoulder’” (Gold CT 11). A successful CEO of a software firm recollected how mentors enabled him to develop professional confidence: “They would have me facilitate meetings with clients early on in my career. It helped build up this reservoir of confidence” (Bryant, Candid Questions BU.2).Other accounts in academic interviews and NYT highlighted how defining moments in even short-term mentoring relationships can provoke fundamental and lasting changes in attitudes and behaviours. One interviewee who recently experienced a career change said she derived comfort from connecting with a mentor who had experienced a similar transition: “oh there’s somebody [who] talks my language...there is a place for me.” As a CEO in the NYT recalled: “An early mentor of mine said something to me when I was going to a new job: ‘Don't worry. It's just another dog and pony show.’ That really stayed with me” (Bryant, Devil’s Advocate BU.2). A writer quoted in a NYT article also recounted how a chance encounter with a mentor changed the course of his career: “She said... that my problem was not having career direction. ‘You should become a teacher,’ she said. It was an unusual thing to hear, since that subject had never come up in our conversations. But I was truly desperate, ready to hear something different...In an indirect way, my life had changed because of that drink (DeMarco ST.6).Mentorship was also celebrated in the NYT in the form of 116 obituary notices as a means of honouring and immortalising a life well lived. The mentoring role individuals had played in life was highlighted alongside those of child, parent, grandparent and spouse.Metaphor and ArchetypeMetaphors imbue language with imagery that evokes emotions, sensations, and memories in ways that other forms of speech or writing cannot, thus enabling us communicate complex ideas or beliefs. Academic interviewees invoked various metaphors to illustrate mentorship experiences. One interviewee spoke of the “blossoming” relationship while another commented on the power of the mentoring experience to “lift your world”. In the NYT we identified only one instance of the use of metaphor. A CEO of a non-profit organisation explained her mentoring philosophy as follows: “One of my mentors early on talked about the need for a leader to be a ‘certain trumpet’. It comes from Corinthians, and it's a very good visualization -- if the trumpet isn't clear, who's going to follow you?” (Bryant, Zigzag BU.2).By comparison, we noted numerous instances in the NYT wherein mentors were present as characters, or archetypes, in film, performing arts, and television. Archetypes exhibit attributes, or convey meanings, that are instinctively understood by those who share common cultural, societal, or racial experiences (Lane 232) For example, a NYT film review of The Assassin states that “the title character [is] trained in her deadly vocation by a fierce, soft-spoken mentor” (Scott C.4). Such characterisations rely on audiences’ understanding of the inherentfunction of the mentor role, and, like metaphors, can help to convey that which is compelling or complex.Intentionality and TrustIn interviews, academics spoke of the time and trust required to develop mentoring relationships. One noted “It may take a bit of an effort... You don’t get to know a person very well just meeting three times during the year”. Another spoke of trust and comfort as defining these relationships: “You just open up. You feel immediately comfortable”. We also found evidence of trust and intentionality in NYT accounts of these relationships. Mentees were often portrayed as seeking out and relying on mentorship. A junior teacher stated that “she would lean on mentors at her new school. You are not on that island all alone” (Rich A1). In contrast, there were few explicit accounts of intentionality and reflection on the part of a mentor. In one instance, a police officer who participated in a mentorship program for street kids mused “it's not about the talent. It was just about the interaction”. In another, an actor described her mentoring experiences as follows: “You have to know when to give advice and when to just be quiet and listen...no matter how much you tell someone how it goes, no one really wants to listen. Their dreams are much bigger than whatever fear or whatever obstacle you say may be in their path” (Syme C.5).Many NYT articles present career mentoring as a role that can be assumed by anyone with requisite knowledge or experience. Indeed, some accounts of mentorship arguably more closely resembled role model relationships, wherein individuals are admired, typically from afar, and emulated by those who aspire to similar accomplishments. Here, there was little, if any, apparent awareness of the complexity or potential impact of these relationships. Rather, we observed a casualness, an almost striking superficiality, in some NYT accounts of mentoring relationships. Examples ranged from references to “sartorial mentors” (Pappu D1) to a professional coach who shared: “After being told by a mentor that her scowl was ‘setting her back’ at work, [she] began taking pictures of her face so she could try to look more cheerful” (Bennett ST.1).Trust, an essential component of mentorship, can wither when mentors occupy dual roles, such as that of mentor and supervisor, or engage in mentoring as a means of furthering their own interests. While some academic interviewees were mentored by past and current supervisors, none reported any instance of role conflict. However in the NYT, we identified multiple instances where mentorship programs intentionally, or unintentionally, inspired divided loyalties. At one academic institution, peer mentors were “encouraged to befriend and offer mentorship to the students on their floors, yet were designated ‘mandatory reporters’ of any incident that may violate the school policy” (Rosman ST.1). In another media story, government employees in a phased-retirement program received monetary incentives to mentor colleagues: “Federal workers who take phased retirement work 20 hours a week and agree to mentor other workers. During that time, they receive half their pay and half their retirement annuity payout. When workers retire completely, their annuities will include an increase to account for the part-time service” (Hannon B.1). More extreme depictions of conflict of interest were evident in other NYT reports of mentors and mentees competing for job promotions, and mentees accusing mentors of sexual harassment and rape; such examples underscore potential for abuse of trust in these relationships.Discussion/ConclusionsOur exploration of mentorship in the NYT suggests mentorship is embedded in our culture, and is a means by which we develop competencies required to integrate into, and function within, society. Whereas, traditionally, mentorship was an informal relationship that developed over time, we now see a wider array of mentorship models, including formal career and youth programs aimed at increasing access to mentorship, and mentor-for-hire arrangements in business and professional sports. Such formal programs can offer redress to those who lack informal mentorship opportunities, and increased initiatives of this sort are welcome.Although standards of reporting in news media surely account for some of the lack of detail in many NYT reports of mentorship, such brevity may also suggest that, while mentoring continues to grow in popularity, we may have compromised substance for availability. Considerations of the training, time, attention, and trust required of these relationships may have been short-changed, and the tendency we observed in the NYT to conflate role modeling and mentorship may contribute to depictions of mentorship as a quick fix, or ‘mentorship light’. Although mentorship continues to be lauded as a means of promoting personal and professional development, not all mentoring may be of similar quality, and not everyone has comparable access to these relationships. While we continue to honour the promise of mentorship, as with all things worth having, effective mentorship requires effort. This effort comes in the form of preparation, commitment or intentionality, and the development of bonds of trust within these relationships. In short, overuse of, over-reference to, and misapplication of the mentorship label may serve to dilute the significance and meaning of these relationships. Further, we acknowledge a darker side to mentorship, with the potential for abuses of power.Although we have reservations regarding some trends towards the casual usage of the mentorship term, we are also heartened by the apparent scope and reach of these relationships. Numerous individuals continue to draw comfort from advice, sponsorship, motivation, support and validation that mentors provide. Indeed, for many, mentorship may represent an essential lifeline to navigating life’s many challenges. We, thus, conclude that mentorship, in its many forms, is here to stay.ReferencesBennett, Jessica. "Cursed with a Death Stare." New York Times (East Coast) 2 Aug. 2015, late ed.: ST.1.Bryant, Adam. "Designate a Devil's Advocate." New York Times (East Coast) 9 Aug. 2015, late ed.: BU.2.Bryant, Adam. "The Power of Candid Questions." New York Times (East Coast) 16 Aug. 2015, late ed.: BU. 2.Bryant, Adam. "Zigzag Your Way to the Top." New York Times (East Coast) 13 Sept. 2015, late ed.: BU.2.DeMarco, Peter. "One Life, Shaken and Stirred." New York Times (East Coast) 23 Aug. 2015, late ed.: ST.6.DuBois, David L., Nelson Portillo, Jean E. Rhodes, Nadia Silverhorn and Jeffery C. Valentine. "How Effective Are Mentoring Programs for Youth? A Systematic Assessment of the Evidence." Psychological Science in the Public Interest 12.2 (2011): 57-91.Eby, Lillian T., Tammy D. Allen, Brian J. Hoffman, Lisa E. Baranik, …, and Sarah C. Evans. "An Interdisciplinary Meta-analysis of the Potential Antecedents, Correlates, and Consequences of Protégé Perceptions of Mentoring." Psychological Bulletin 139.2 (2013): 441-76.Gold, Sarah. "Preserving a Master's Vision of Sugar Plums." New York Times (East Coast) 6 Dec. 2015, late ed.: CT 11.Hannon, Kerry. "Retiring, But Not All at Once." New York Times (East Coast) 22 Aug. 2015, late ed.: B.1.Kourlas, Gia. "Marathon of a Milestone Tour." New York Times Late Edition (East Coast) 6 Sept. 2015: AR.7.Lane, Lauriat. "The Literary Archetype: Some Reconsiderations." The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 13.2 (1954): 226-32.Levinson, Daniel. J. The Seasons of a Man's Life. New York: Ballantine, 1978.Merriam, Sharan. "Mentors and Protégés: A Critical Review of the Literature." Adult Education Quarterly 33.3 (1983): 161-73.Moynihan, Colin. "Man's Cooperation in Terrorist Cases Spares Him from Serving More Time in Prison." New York Times (East Coast) 24 Oct. 2015, late ed.: A.21.Pappu, Sridhar. "Tailored to the Spotlight." New York Times (East Coast) 27 Aug. 2015, late ed.: D1.Rich, Motoko. "Across Country, a Scramble Is On to Find Teachers." New York Times (East Coast) 10 Aug. 2015, late ed.: A1.Rosman, Katherine. "On the Campus Front Line." New York Times (East Coast) 27 Sept. 2015, late ed.: ST.1.Scott, AO. "The Delights to Be Found in a Deadly Vocation." New York Times (East Coast) 16 Oct. 2015, late ed.: C.4.Shpigel, Ben. "An Exchange of Respect in the Swapping of Jerseys." New York Times (East Coast) 18 Oct. 2015, late ed.: SP.1.Slaughter, Ann-Marie. "A Toxic Work World." New York Times (East Coast) 20 Sept. 2015, late ed.: SR.1.Syme, Rachel. "In TV, Finding a Creative Space with No Limitations." New York Times (East Coast) 26 Aug. 2015, late ed.: C.5.Trebay, Guy. "Remembering a Time When Fashion Shows Were Fun." New York Times (East Coast) 10 Sept. 2015, late ed.: D.8.World Association of Newspapers and News Publishers. World Press Trends Report. Paris: WAN-IFRA, 2015.

Abstract:

I first came across etoy in Linz, Austria in 1995. They turned up at Ars Electronica with their shaved heads, in their matching orange bomber jackets. They were not invited. The next year they would not have to crash the party. In 1996 they were awarded Arts Electronica’s prestigious Golden Nica for web art, and were on their way to fame and bitterness – the just rewards for their art of self-regard. As founding member Agent.ZAI says: “All of us were extremely greedy – for excitement, for drugs, for success.” (Wishart & Boschler: 16) The etoy story starts on the fringes of the squatters’ movement in Zurich. Disenchanted with the hard left rhetorics that permeate the movement in the 1980s, a small group look for another way of existing within a commodified world, without the fantasy of an ‘outside’ from which to critique it. What Antonio Negri and friends call the ‘real subsumption’ of life under the rule of commodification is something etoy grasps intuitively. The group would draw on a number of sources: David Bowie, the Sex Pistols, the Manchester rave scene, European Amiga art, rumors of the historic avant gardes from Dada to Fluxus. They came together in 1994, at a meeting in the Swiss resort town of Weggis on Lake Lucerne. While the staging of the founding meeting looks like a rerun of the origins of the Situationist International, the wording of the invitation might suggest the founding of a pop music boy band: “fun, money and the new world?” One of the – many – stories about the origins of the name Dada has it being chosen at random from a bilingual dictionary. The name etoy, in an update on that procedure, was spat out by a computer program designed to make four letter words at random. Ironically, both Dada and etoy, so casually chosen, would inspire furious struggles over the ownership of these chancey 4-bit words. The group decided to make money by servicing the growing rave scene. Being based in Vienna and Zurich, the group needed a way to communicate, and chose to use the internet. This was a far from obvious thing to do in 1994. Connections were slow and unreliable. Sometimes it was easier to tape a hard drive full of clubland graphics to the underside of a seat on the express train from Zurich to Vienna and simply email instructions to meet the train and retrieve it. The web was a primitive instrument in 1995 when etoy built its first website. They launched it with a party called etoy.FASTLANE, an optimistic title when the web was anything but. Coco, a transsexual model and tabloid sensation, sang a Japanese song while suspended in the air. She brought media interest, and was anointed etoy’s lifestyle angel. As Wishart and Bochsler write, “it was as if the Seven Dwarfs had discovered their Snow White.” (Wishart & Boschler: 33) The launch didn’t lead to much in the way of a music deal or television exposure. The old media were not so keen to validate the etoy dream of lifting themselves into fame and fortune by their bootstraps. And so etoy decided to be stars of the new media. The slogan was suitably revised: “etoy: the pop star is the pilot is the coder is the designer is the architect is the manager is the system is etoy.” (Wishart & Boschler: 34) The etoy boys were more than net.artists, they were artists of the brand. The brand was achieving a new prominence in the mid-90s. (Klein: 35) This was a time when capitalism was hollowing itself out in the overdeveloped world, shedding parts of its manufacturing base. Control of the circuits of commodification would rest less on the ownership of the means of production and more on maintaining a monopoly on the flows of information. The leading edge of the ruling class was becoming self-consciously vectoral. It controlled the flow of information about what to produce – the details of design, the underlying patents. It controlled the flows of information about what is produced – the brands and logos, the slogans and images. The capitalist class is supplanted by a vectoral class, controlling the commodity circuit through the vectors of information. (Wark) The genius of etoy was to grasp the aesthetic dimension of this new stage of commodification. The etoy boys styled themselves not so much as a parody of corporate branding and management groupthink, but as logical extension of it. They adopted matching uniforms and called themselves agents. In the dada-punk-hiphop tradition, they launched themselves on the world as brand new, self-created, self-named subjects: Agents Zai, Brainhard, Gramazio, Kubli, Esposto, Udatny and Goldstein. The etoy.com website was registered in 1995 with Network Solutions for a $100 fee. The homepage for this etoy.TANKSYSTEM was designed like a flow chart. As Gramazio says: “We wanted to create an environment with surreal content, to build a parallel world and put the content of this world into tanks.” (Wishart & Boschler: 51) One tank was a cybermotel, with Coco the first guest. Another tank showed you your IP number, with a big-brother eye looking on. A supermarket tank offered sunglasses and laughing gas for sale, but which may or may not be delivered. The underground tank included hardcore photos of a sensationalist kind. A picture of the Federal Building in Oklamoma City after the bombing was captioned in deadpan post-situ style “such work needs a lot of training.” (Wishart & Boschler: 52) The etoy agents were by now thoroughly invested in the etoy brand and the constellation of images they had built around it, on their website. Their slogan became “etoy: leaving reality behind.” (Wishart & Boschler: 53) They were not the first artists fascinated by commodification. It was Warhol who said “good art is good business.”(Warhol ) But etoy reversed the equation: good business is good art. And good business, in this vectoral age, is in its most desirable form an essentially conceptual matter of creating a brand at the center of a constellation of signifiers. Late in 1995, etoy held another group meeting, at the Zurich youth center Dynamo. The problem was that while they had build a hardcore website, nobody was visiting it. Agents Gooldstein and Udatny thought that there might be a way of using the new search engines to steer visitors to the site. Zai and Brainhard helped secure a place at the Vienna Academy of Applied Arts where Udatny could use the computer lab to implement this idea. Udatny’s first step was to create a program that would go out and gather email addresses from the web. These addresses would form the lists for the early examples of art-spam that etoy would perpetrate. Udatny’s second idea was a bit more interesting. He worked out how to get the etoy.TANKSYSTEM page listed in search engines. Most search engines ranked pages by the frequency of the search term in the pages it had indexed, so etoy.TANKSYSTEM would contain pages of selected keywords. p*rn sites were also discovering this method of creating free publicity. The difference was that etoy chose a very carefully curated list of 350 search terms, including: art, bondage, cyberspace, Doom, Elvis, Fidel, genx, heroin, internet, jungle and Kant. Users of search engines who searched for these terms would find dummy pages listed prominently in their search results that directed them, unsuspectingly, to etoy.com. They called this project Digital Hijack. To give the project a slightly political aura, the pages the user was directed to contained an appeal for the release of convicted hacker Kevin Mitnick. This was the project that won them a Golden Nica statuette at Ars Electronica in 1996, which Gramazio allegedly lost the same night playing roulette. It would also, briefly, require that they explain themselves to the police. Digital Hijack also led to the first splits in the group, under the intense pressure of organizing it on a notionally collective basis, but with the zealous Agent Zai acting as de facto leader. When Udatny was expelled, Zai and Brainhard even repossessed his Toshiba laptop, bought with etoy funds. As Udatny recalls, “It was the lowest point in my life ever. There was nothing left; I could not rely on etoy any more. I did not even have clothes, apart from the etoy uniform.” (Wishart & Boschler: 104) Here the etoy story repeats a common theme from the history of the avant gardes as forms of collective subjectivity. After Digital Hijack, etoy went into a bit of a slump. It’s something of a problem for a group so dependent on recognition from the other of the media, that without a buzz around them, etoy would tend to collapse in on itself like a fading supernova. Zai spend the early part of 1997 working up a series of management documents, in which he appeared as the group’s managing director. Zai employed the current management theory rhetoric of employee ‘empowerment’ while centralizing control. Like any other corporate-Trotskyite, his line was that “We have to get used to reworking the company structure constantly.” (Wishart & Boschler: 132) The plan was for each member of etoy to register the etoy trademark in a different territory, linking identity to information via ownership. As Zai wrote “If another company uses our name in a grand way, I’ll probably shoot myself. And that would not be cool.” (Wishart & Boschler:: 132) As it turned out, another company was interested – the company that would become eToys.com. Zai received an email offering “a reasonable sum” for the etoy.com domain name. Zai was not amused. “Damned Americans, they think they can take our hunting grounds for a handful of glass pearls….”. (Wishart & Boschler: 133) On an invitation from Suzy Meszoly of C3, the etoy boys traveled to Budapest to work on “protected by etoy”, a work exploring internet security. They spent most of their time – and C3’s grant money – producing a glossy corporate brochure. The folder sported a blurb from Bjork: “etoy: immature priests from another world” – which was of course completely fabricated. When Artothek, the official art collection of the Austrian Chancellor, approached etoy wanting to buy work, the group had to confront the problem of how to actually turn their brand into a product. The idea was always that the brand was the product, but this doesn’t quite resolve the question of how to produce the kind of unique artifacts that the art world requires. Certainly the old Conceptual Art strategy of selling ‘documentation’ would not do. The solution was as brilliant as it was simple – to sell etoy shares. The ‘works’ would be ‘share certificates’ – unique objects, whose only value, on the face of it, would be that they referred back to the value of the brand. The inspiration, according to Wishart & Boschsler, was David Bowie, ‘the man who sold the world’, who had announced the first rock and roll bond on the London financial markets, backed by future earnings of his back catalogue and publishing rights. Gramazio would end up presenting Chancellor Viktor Klima with the first ‘shares’ at a press conference. “It was a great start for the project”, he said, “A real hack.” (Wishart & Boschler: 142) For this vectoral age, etoy would create the perfect vectoral art. Zai and Brainhard took off next for Pasadena, where they got the idea of reverse-engineering the online etoy.TANKSYSTEM by building an actual tank in an orange shipping container, which would become etoy.TANK 17. This premiered at the San Francisco gallery Blasthaus in June 1998. Instant stars in the small world of San Francisco art, the group began once again to disintegrate. Brainhard and Esposito resigned. Back in Europe in late 1998, Zai was preparing to graduate from the Vienna Academy of Applied Arts. His final project would recapitulate the life and death of etoy. It would exist from here on only as an online archive, a digital mausoleum. As Kubli says “there was no possibility to earn our living with etoy.” (Wishart & Boschler: 192) Zai emailed eToys.com and asked them if them if they would like to place a banner ad on etoy.com, to redirect any errant web traffic. Lawyers for eToys.com offered etoy $30,000 for the etoy.com domain name, which the remaining members of etoy – Zai, Gramazio, Kubli – refused. The offer went up to $100,000, which they also refused. Through their lawyer Peter Wild they demanded $750,000. In September 1999, while etoy were making a business presentation as their contribution to Ars Electronica, eToys.com lodged a complaint against etoy in the Los Angeles Superior Court. The company hired Bruce Wessel, of the heavyweight LA law firm Irell & Manella, who specialized in trademark, copyright and other intellectual property litigation. The complaint Wessel drafted alleged that etoy had infringed and diluted the eToys trademark, were practicing unfair competition and had committed “intentional interference with prospective economic damage.” (Wishart & Boschler: 199) Wessel demanded an injunction that would oblige etoy to cease using its trademark and take down its etoy.com website. The complaint also sought to prevent etoy from selling shares, and demanded punitive damages. Displaying the aggressive lawyering for which he was so handsomely paid, Wessel invoked the California Unfair Competition Act, which was meant to protect citizens from fraudulent business scams. Meant as a piece of consumer protection legislation, its sweeping scope made it available for inventive suits such as Wessel’s against etoy. Wessel was able to use pretty much everything from the archive etoy built against it. As Wishart and Bochsler write, “The court papers were like a delicately curated catalogue of its practices.” (Wishart & Boschler: 199) And indeed, legal documents in copyright and trademark cases may be the most perfect literature of the vectoral age. The Unfair Competition claim was probably aimed at getting the suit heard in a Californian rather than a Federal court in which intellectual property issues were less frequently litigated. The central aim of the eToys suit was the trademark infringement, but on that head their claims were not all that strong. According to the 1946 Lanham Act, similar trademarks do not infringe upon each other if there they are for different kinds of business or in different geographical areas. The Act also says that the right to own a trademark depends on its use. So while etoy had not registered their trademark and eToys had, etoy were actually up and running before eToys, and could base their trademark claim on this fact. The eToys case rested on a somewhat selective reading of the facts. Wessel claimed that etoy was not using its trademark in the US when eToys was registered in 1997. Wessel did not dispute the fact that etoy existed in Europe prior to that time. He asserted that owning the etoy.com domain name was not sufficient to establish a right to the trademark. If the intention of the suit was to bully etoy into giving in, it had quite the opposite effect. It pissed them off. “They felt again like the teenage punks they had once been”, as Wishart & Bochsler put it. Their art imploded in on itself for lack of attention, but called upon by another, it flourished. Wessel and eToys.com unintentionally triggered a dialectic that worked in quite the opposite way to what they intended. The more pressure they put on etoy, the more valued – and valuable – they felt etoy to be. Conceptual business, like conceptual art, is about nothing but the management of signs within the constraints of given institutional forms of market. That this conflict was about nothing made it a conflict about everything. It was a perfectly vectoral struggle. Zai and Gramazio flew to the US to fire up enthusiasm for their cause. They asked Wolfgang Staehle of The Thing to register the domain toywar.com, as a space for anti-eToys activities at some remove from etoy.com, and as a safe haven should eToys prevail with their injunction in having etoy.com taken down. The etoy defense was handled by Marcia Ballard in New York and Robert Freimuth in Los Angeles. In their defense, they argued that etoy had existed since 1994, had registered its globally accessible domain in 1995, and won an international art prize in 1996. To counter a claim by eToys that they had a prior trademark claim because they had bought a trademark from another company that went back to 1990, Ballard and Freimuth argued that this particular trademark only applied to the importation of toys from the previous owner’s New York base and thus had no relevance. They capped their argument by charging that eToys had not shown that its customers were really confused by the existence of etoy. With Christmas looming, eToys wanted a quick settlement, so they offered Zurich-based etoy lawyer Peter Wild $160,000 in shares and cash for the etoy domain. Kubli was prepared to negotiate, but Zai and Gramazio wanted to gamble – and raise the stakes. As Zai recalls: “We did not want to be just the victims; that would have been cheap. We wanted to be giants too.” (Wishart & Boschler: 207) They refused the offer. The case was heard in November 1999 before Judge Rafeedie in the Federal Court. Freimuth, for etoy, argued that federal Court was the right place for what was essentially a trademark matter. Robert Kleiger, for eToys, countered that it should stay where it was because of the claims under the California Unfair Competition act. Judge Rafeedie took little time in agreeing with the eToys lawyer. Wessel’s strategy paid off and eToys won the first skirmish. The first round of a quite different kind of conflict opened when etoy sent out their first ‘toywar’ mass mailing, drawing the attention of the net.art, activism and theory crowd to these events. This drew a report from Felix Stalder in Telepolis: “Fences are going up everywhere, molding what once seemed infinite space into an overcrowded and tightly controlled strip mall.” (Stalder ) The positive feedback from the net only emboldened etoy. For the Los Angeles court, lawyers for etoy filed papers arguing that the sale of ‘shares’ in etoy was not really a stock offering. “The etoy.com website is not about commerce per se, it is about artist and social protest”, they argued. (Wishart & Boschler: 209) They were obliged, in other words, to assert a difference that the art itself had intended to blur in order to escape eToy’s claims under the Unfair Competition Act. Moreover, etoy argued that there was no evidence of a victim. Nobody was claiming to have been fooled by etoy into buying something under false pretences. Ironically enough, art would turn out in hindsight to be a more straightforward transaction here, involving less simulation or dissimulation, than investing in a dot.com. Perhaps we have reached the age when art makes more, not less, claim than business to the rhetorical figure of ‘reality’. Having defended what appeared to be the vulnerable point under the Unfair Competition law, etoy went on the attack. It was the failure of eToys to do a proper search for other trademarks that created the problem in the first place. Meanwhile, in Federal Court, lawyers for etoy launched a counter-suit that reversed the claims against them made by eToys on the trademark question. While the suits and counter suits flew, eToys.com upped their offer to settle to a package of cash and shares worth $400,000. This rather puzzled the etoy lawyers. Those choosing to sue don’t usually try at the same time to settle. Lawyer Peter Wild advised his clients to take the money, but the parallel tactics of eToys.com only encouraged them to dig in their heels. “We felt that this was a tremendous final project for etoy”, says Gramazio. As Zai says, “eToys was our ideal enemy – we were its worst enemy.” (Wishart & Boschler: 210) Zai reported the offer to the net in another mass mail. Most people advised them to take the money, including Doug Rushkoff and Heath Bunting. Paul Garrin counseled fighting on. The etoy agents offered to settle for $750,000. The case came to court in late November 1999 before Judge Shook. The Judge accepted the plausibility of the eToys version of the facts on the trademark issue, which included the purchase of a registered trademark from another company that went back to 1990. He issued an injunction on their behalf, and added in his statement that he was worried about “the great danger of children being exposed to profane and hardcore p*rnographic issues on the computer.” (Wishart & Boschler: 222) The injunction was all eToys needed to get Network Solutions to shut down the etoy.com domain. Zai sent out a press release in early December, which percolated through Slashdot, rhizome, nettime (Staehle) and many other networks, and catalyzed the net community into action. A debate of sorts started on investor websites such as fool.com. The eToys stock price started to slide, and etoy ‘warriors’ felt free to take the credit for it. The story made the New York Times on 9th December, Washington Post on the 10th, Wired News on the 11th. Network Solutions finally removed the etoy.com domain on the 10th December. Zai responded with a press release: “this is robbery of digital territory, American imperialism, corporate destruction and bulldozing in the way of the 19th century.” (Wishart & Boschler: 237) RTMark set up a campaign fund for toywar, managed by Survival Research Laboratories’ Mark Pauline. The RTMark press release promised a “new internet ‘game’ designed to destroy eToys.com.” (Wishart & Boschler: 239) The RTMark press release grabbed the attention of the Associated Press newswire. The eToys.com share price actually rose on December 13th. Goldman Sachs’ e-commerce analyst Anthony Noto argued that the previous declines in the Etoys share price made it a good buy. Goldman Sachs was the lead underwriter of the eToys IPO. Noto’s writings may have been nothing more than the usual ‘IPOetry’ of the time, but the crash of the internet bubble was some months away yet. The RTMark campaign was called ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’. It used the Floodnet technique that Ricardo Dominguez used in support of the Zapatistas. As Dominguez said, “this hysterical power-play perfectly demonstrates the intensions of the new net elite; to turn the World Wide Web into their own private home-shopping network.” (Wishart & Boschler: 242) The Floodnet attack may have slowed the eToys.com server down a bit, but it was robust and didn’t crash. Ironically, it ran on open source software. Dominguez claims that the ‘Twelve Days’ campaign, which relied on individuals manually launching Floodnet from their own computers, was not designed to destroy the eToys site, but to make a protest felt. “We had a single-bullet script that could have taken down eToys – a tactical nuke, if you will. But we felt this script did not represent the presence of a global group of people gathered to bear witness to a wrong.” (Wishart & Boschler: 245) While the eToys engineers did what they could to keep the site going, eToys also approached universities and businesses whose systems were being used to host Floodnet attacks. The Thing, which hosted Dominguez’s eToys Floodnet site was taken offline by The Thing’s ISP, Verio. After taking down the Floodnet scripts, The Thing was back up, restoring service to the 200 odd websites that The Thing hosted besides the offending Floodnet site. About 200 people gathered on December 20th at a demonstration against eToys outside the Museum of Modern Art. Among the crowd were Santas bearing signs that said ‘Coal for eToys’. The rally, inside the Museum, was led by the Reverend Billy of the Church of Stop Shopping: “We are drowning in a sea of identical details”, he said. (Wishart & Boschler: 249-250) Meanwhile etoy worked on the Toywar Platform, an online agitpop theater spectacle, in which participants could act as soldiers in the toywar. This would take some time to complete – ironically the dispute threatened to end before this last etoy artwork was ready, giving etoy further incentives to keep the dispute alive. The etoy agents had a new lawyer, Chris Truax, who was attracted to the case by the publicity it was generating. Through Truax, etoy offered to sell the etoy domain and trademark for $3.7 million. This may sound like an insane sum, but to put it in perspective, the business.com site changed hands for $7.5 million around this time. On December 29th, Wessel signaled that eToys was prepared to compromise. The problem was, the Toywar Platform was not quite ready, so etoy did what it could to drag out the negotiations. The site went live just before the scheduled court hearings, January 10th 2000. “TOYWAR.com is a place where all servers and all involved people melt and build a living system. In our eyes it is the best way to express and document what’s going on at the moment: people start to about new ways to fight for their ideas, their lifestyle, contemporary culture and power relations.” (Wishart & Boschler: 263) Meanwhile, in a California courtroom, Truax demanded that Network Solutions restore the etoy domain, that eToys pay the etoy legal expenses, and that the case be dropped without prejudice. No settlement was reached. Negotiations dragged on for another two weeks, with the etoy agents’ attention somewhat divided between two horizons – art and law. The dispute was settled on 25th January. Both parties dismissed their complaints without prejudice. The eToys company would pay the etoy artists $40,000 for legal costs, and contact Network Solutions to reinstate the etoy domain. “It was a pleasure doing business with one of the biggest e-commerce giants in the world” ran the etoy press release. (Wishart & Boschler: 265) That would make a charming end to the story. But what goes around comes around. Brainhard, still pissed off with Zai after leaving the group in San Francisco, filed for the etoy trademark in Austria. After that the internal etoy wranglings just gets boring. But it was fun while it lasted. What etoy grasped intuitively was the nexus between the internet as a cultural space and the transformation of the commodity economy in a yet-more abstract direction – its becoming-vectoral. They zeroed in on the heart of the new era of conceptual business – the brand. As Wittgenstein says of language, what gives words meaning is other words, so too for brands. What gives brands meaning is other brands. There is a syntax for brands as there is for words. What etoy discovered is how to insert a new brand into that syntax. The place of eToys as a brand depended on their business competition with other brands – with Toys ‘R’ Us, for example. For etoy, the syntax they discovered for relating their brand to another one was a legal opposition. What made etoy interesting was their lack of moral posturing. Their abandonment of leftist rhetorics opened them up to exploring the territory where media and business meet, but it also made them vulnerable to being consumed by the very dialectic that created the possibility of staging etoy in the first place. By abandoning obsolete political strategies, they discovered a media tactic, which collapsed for want of a new strategy, for the new vectoral terrain on which we find ourselves. Works Cited Negri, Antonio. Time for Revolution. Continuum, London, 2003. Warhol, Andy. From A to B and Back Again. Picador, New York, 1984. Stalder, Felix. ‘Fences in Cyberspace: Recent events in the battle over domain names’. 19 Jun 2003. <http://felix.openflows.org/html/fences.php>. Wark, McKenzie. ‘A Hacker Manifesto [version 4.0]’ 19 Jun 2003. http://subsol.c3.hu/subsol_2/contributors0/warktext.html. Klein, Naomi. No Logo. Harper Collins, London, 2000. Wishart, Adam & Regula Bochsler. Leaving Reality Behind: etoy vs eToys.com & Other Battles to Control Cyberspace Ecco Books, 2003. Staehle, Wolfgang. ‘<nettime> etoy.com shut down by US court.’ 19 Jun 2003. http://amsterdam.nettime.org/Lists-Archives/nettime-l-9912/msg00005.html Links http://amsterdam.nettime.org/Lists-Archives/nettime-l-9912/msg00005.htm http://felix.openflows.org/html/fences.html http://subsol.c3.hu/subsol_2/contributors0/warktext.html Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Wark, McKenzie. "Toywars" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/02-toywars.php>. APA Style Wark, M. (2003, Jun 19). Toywars. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/02-toywars.php>

Abstract:

As a scholarly discourse, transmedia storytelling relies heavily on conservative constructions of authorship that laud corporate architects and patriarchs such as George Lucas and J.J. Abrams as exemplars of “the creator.” This piece argues that transmedia theory works to construct patriarchal ideals of individual authorship to the detriment of alternative conceptions of transmediality, storyworlds, and authorship. The genesis for this piece was our struggle to find a transmedia storyworld that we were both familiar with, that also qualifies as “legitimate” transmedia in the eyes of our prospective scholarly readers. After trying to wrangle our various interests, fandoms, and areas of expertise into harmony, we realized we were exerting more effort in this process of validating stories as transmedia than actually examining how stories spread across various platforms, how they make meanings, and what kinds of pleasures they offer audiences. Authorship is a definitive criterion of transmedia storytelling theory; it is also an academic red herring. We were initially interested in investigating the possible overdeterminations between the healthcare industry and Breaking Bad (2008-2013). The series revolves around a high school chemistry teacher who launches a successful meth empire as a way to pay for his cancer treatments that a dysfunctional US healthcare industry refuses to fund. We wondered if the success of the series and the timely debates on healthcare raised in its reception prompted any PR response from or discussion among US health insurers. However, our concern was that this dynamic among medical and media industries would not qualify as transmedia because these exchanges were not authored by Vince Gilligan or any of the credited creators of Breaking Bad. Yet, why shouldn’t such interfaces between the “real world” and media fiction count as part of the transmedia story that is Breaking Bad? Most stories are, in some shape or form, transmedia stories at this stage, and transmedia theory acknowledges there is a long history to this kind of practice (Freeman). Let’s dispense with restrictive definitions of transmediality and turn attention to how storytelling behaves in a digital era, that is, the processes of creating, disseminating and amending stories across many different media, the meanings and forms such media and communications produce, and the pleasures they offer audiences.Can we think about how health insurance companies responded to Breaking Bad in terms of transmedia storytelling? Defining Transmedia Storytelling via AuthorshipThe scholarly concern with defining transmedia storytelling via a strong focus on authorship has traced slight distinctions between seriality, franchising, adaptation and transmedia storytelling (Jenkins, “Transmedia Storytelling;” Johnson, “Media Franchising”). However, the theoretical discourse on authorship itself and these discussions of the tensions between forms are underwritten by a gendered bias. Indeed, the very concept of transmediality may be a gendered backlash against the rising prominence of seriality as a historically feminised mode of storytelling, associated with television and serial novels.Even with the move towards traditionally lowbrow, feminized forms of trans-serial narrative, the majority of academic and popular criticism of transmedia storytelling reproduces and reinstates narratives of male-centred, individual authorship that are historically descended from theorizations of the auteur. Auteur theory, which is still considered a legitimate analytical framework today, emerged in postwar theorizations of Hollywood film by French critics, most prominently in the journal Cahiers du Cinema, and at the nascence of film theory as a field (Cook). Auteur theory surfaced as a way to conceptualise aesthetic variation and value within the Fordist model of the Hollywood studio system (Cook). Directors were identified as the ultimate author or “creative source” if a film sufficiently fitted a paradigm of consistent “vision” across their oeuvre, and they were thus seen as artists challenging the commercialism of the studio system (Cook). In this way, classical auteur theory draws a dichotomy between art and authorship on one side and commerce and corporations on the other, strongly valorising the former for its existence within an industrial context dominated by the latter. In recent decades, auteurist notions have spread from film scholarship to pervade popular discourses of media authorship. Even though transmedia production inherently disrupts notions of authorship by diffusing the act of creation over many different media platforms and texts, much of the scholarship disproportionately chooses to vex over authorship in a manner reminiscent of classical auteur theory.In scholarly terms, a chief distinction between serial storytelling and transmedia storytelling lies in how authorship is constructed in relation to the text: serial storytelling has long been understood as relying on distributed authorship (Hilmes), but transmedia storytelling reveres the individual mastermind, or the master architect who plans and disseminates the storyworld across platforms. Henry Jenkins’ definition of transmedia storytelling is multifaceted and includes, “the systematic dispersal of multiple textual elements across many channels, which reflects the synergies of media conglomeration, based on complex story-worlds, and coordinated authorial design of integrated elements” (Jenkins, “Transmedia Storytelling”). Jenkins is perhaps the most pivotal figure in developing transmedia studies in the humanities to date and a key reference point for most scholars working in this subfield.A key limitation of Jenkins’ definition of transmedia storytelling is its emphasis on authorship, which persists in wider scholarship on transmedia storytelling. Jenkins focuses on the nature of authorship as a key characteristic of transmedia productions that distinguishes them from other kinds of intertextual and serial stories:Because transmedia storytelling requires a high degree of coordination across the different media sectors, it has so far worked best either in independent projects where the same artist shapes the story across all of the media involved or in projects where strong collaboration (or co-creation) is encouraged across the different divisions of the same company. (Jenkins, “Transmedia Storytelling”)Since the texts under discussion are commonly large in their scale, budget, and the number of people employed, it is reductive to credit particular individuals for this work and implicitly dismiss the authorial contributions of many others. Elaborating on the foundation set by Jenkins, Matthew Freeman uses Foucauldian concepts to describe two “author-functions” focused on the role of an author in defining the transmedia text itself and in marketing it (Freeman 36-38). Scott, Evans, Hills, and Hadas similarly view authorial branding as a symbolic industrial strategy significant to transmedia storytelling. Interestingly, M.J. Clarke identifies the ways transmedia television texts invite audiences to imagine a central mastermind, but also thwart and defer this impulse. Ultimately, Freeman argues that identifiable and consistent authorship is a defining characteristic of transmedia storytelling (Freeman 37), and Suzanne Scott argues that transmedia storytelling has “intensified the author’s function” from previous eras (47).Industry definitions of transmediality similarly position authorship as central to transmedia storytelling, and Jenkins’ definition has also been widely mobilised in industry discussions (Jenkins, “Transmedia” 202). This is unsurprising, because defining authorial roles has significant monetary value in terms of remuneration and copyright. In speaking to the Producers Guild of America, Jeff Gomez enumerated eight defining characteristics of transmedia production, the very first of which is, “Content is originated by one or a very few visionaries” (PGA Blog). Gomez’s talk was part of an industry-driven bid to have “Transmedia Producer” recognised by the trade associations as a legitimate and significant role; Gomez was successful and is now recognised as a transmedia producer. Nevertheless, his talk of “visionaries” not only situates authorship as central to transmedia production, but constructs authorship in very conservative, almost hagiographical terms. Indeed, Leora Hadas analyses the function of Joss Whedon’s authorship of Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D (2013-) as a branding mechanism and argues that authors are becoming increasingly visible brands associated with transmedia stories.Such a discourse of authorship constructs individual figures as artists and masterminds, in an idealised manner that has been strongly critiqued in the wake of poststructuralism. It even recalls tired scholarly endeavours of divining authorial intention. Unsurprisingly, the figures valorised for their transmedia authorship are predominantly men; the scholarly emphasis on authorship thus reinforces the biases of media industries. Further, it idolises these figures at the expense of unacknowledged and under-celebrated female writers, directors and producers, as well as those creative workers labouring “below the line” in areas like production design, art direction, and special effects. Far from critiquing the biases of industry, academic discourse legitimises and lauds them.We hope that scholarship on transmedia storytelling might instead work to open up discourses of creation, production, authorship, and collaboration. For a story to qualify as transmedia is it even necessary to have an identifiable author? Transmedia texts and storyworlds can be genuinely collaborative or authorless creations, in which the harmony of various creators’ intentions may be unnecessary or even undesirable. Further, industry and academics alike often overlook examples of transmedia storytelling that might be considered “lowbrow.” For example, transmedia definitions should include Antonella the Uncensored Reviewer, a relatively small-scale, forty-something, plus size, YouTube channel producer whose persona is dispersed across multiple formats including beauty product reviews, letter writing, as well as interactive sex advice live casts. What happens when we blur the categories of author, celebrity, brand, and narrative in scholarship? We argue that these roles are substantially blurred in media industries in which authors like J.J. Abrams share the limelight with their stars as well as their corporate affiliations, and all “brands” are sutured to the storyworld text. These various actors all shape and are shaped by the narrative worlds they produce in an author-storyworld nexus, in which authorship includes all people working to produce the storyworld as well as the corporation funding it. Authorship never exists inside the limits of a single, male mind. Rather it is a field of relations among various players and stakeholders. While there is value in delineating between these roles for purposes of analysis and scholarly discussion, we should acknowledge that in the media industry, the roles of various stakeholders are increasingly porous.The current academic discourse of transmedia storytelling reconstructs old social biases and hierarchies in contexts where they might be most vulnerable to breakdown. Scott argues that,despite their potential to demystify and democratize authorship between producers and consumers, transmedia stories tend to reinforce boundaries between ‘official’ and ‘unauthorized’ forms of narrative expansion through the construction of a single author/textual authority figure. (44)Significantly, we suggest that it is the theorisation of transmedia storytelling that reinforces (or in fact constructs anew) an idealised author figure.The gendered dimension of the scholarly distinction between serialised (or trans-serial) and transmedial storytelling builds on a long history in the arts and the academy alike. In fact, an important precursor of transmedia narratives is the serialized novel of the Victorian era. The literature of Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot and Harriet Beecher Stowe was published in serial form and among the most widely read of the Victorian era in Western culture (Easley; Flint 21; Hilmes). Yet, these novels are rarely given proportional credit in what is popularly taught as the Western literary canon. The serial storytelling endemic to television as a medium has similarly been historically dismissed and marginalized as lowbrow and feminine (at least until the recent emergence of notions of the industrial role of the “showrunner” and the critical concept of “quality television”). Joanne Morreale outlines how trans-serial television examples, like The Dick Van Dyke Show, which spread their storyworlds across a number of different television programs, offer important precursors to today’s transmedia franchises (Morreale). In television’s nascent years, the anthology plays of the 1940s and 50s, which were discrete, unconnected hour-length stories, were heralded as cutting-edge, artistic and highbrow while serial narrative forms like the soap opera were denigrated (Boddy 80-92). Crucially, these anthology plays were largely created by and aimed at males, whereas soap operas were often created by and targeted to female audiences. The gendered terms in which various genres and modes of storytelling are discussed have implications for the value assigned to them in criticism, scholarship and culture more broadly (Hilmes; Kuhn; Johnson, “Devaluing”). Transmedia theory, as a scholarly discourse, betrays similarly gendered leanings as early television criticism, in valorising forms of transmedia narration that favour a single, male-bodied, and all-powerful author or corporation, such as George Lucas, Jim Henson or Marvel Comics.George Lucas is often depicted in scholarly and popular discourses as a headstrong transmedia auteur, as in the South Park episode ‘The China Problem’ (2008)A Circle of Men: Fans, Creators, Stories and TheoristsInterestingly, scholarly discourse on transmedia even betrays these gendered biases when exploring the engagement and activity of audiences in relation to transmedia texts. Despite the definitional emphasis on authorship, fan cultures have been a substantial topic of investigation in scholarly studies of transmedia storytelling, with many scholars elevating fans to the status of author, exploring the apparent blurring of these boundaries, and recasting the terms of these relationships (Scott; Dena; Pearson; Stein). Most notably, substantial scholarly attention has traced how transmedia texts cultivate a masculinized, “nerdy” fan culture that identifies with the male-bodied, all-powerful author or corporation (Brooker, Star Wars, Using; Jenkins, Convergence). Whether idealising the role of the creators or audiences, transmedia theory reinforces gendered hierarchies. Star Wars (1977-) is a pivotal corporate transmedia franchise that significantly shaped the convergent trajectory of media industries in the 20th century. As such it is also an anchor point for transmedia scholarship, much of which lauds and legitimates the creative work of fans. However, in focusing so heavily on the macho power struggle between George Lucas and Star Wars fans for authorial control over the storyworld, scholarship unwittingly reinstates Lucas’s status as sole creator rather than treating Star Wars’ authorship as inherently diffuse and porous.Recent fan activity surrounding animated adult science-fiction sitcom Rick and Morty (2013-) further demonstrates the macho culture of transmedia fandom in practice and its fascination with male authors. The animated series follows the intergalactic misadventures of a scientific genius and his grandson. Inspired by a seemingly inconsequential joke on the show, some of its fans began to fetishize a particular, limited-edition fast food sauce. When McDonalds, the actual owner of that sauce, cashed in by promoting the return of its Szechuan Sauce, a macho culture within the show’s fandom reached its zenith in the forms of hostile behaviour at McDonalds restaurants and online (Alexander and Kuchera). Rick and Morty fandom also built a misogynist reputation for its angry responses to the show’s efforts to hire a writer’s room that gave equal representation to women. Rick and Morty trolls doggedly harassed a few of the show’s female writers through 2017 and went so far as to post their private information online (Barsanti). Such gender politics of fan cultures have been the subject of much scholarly attention (Johnson, “Fan-tagonism”), not least in the many conversations hosted on Jenkins’ blog. Gendered performances and readings of fan activity are instrumental in defining and legitimating some texts as transmedia and some creators as masterminds, not only within fandoms but also in the scholarly discourse.When McDonalds promoted the return of their Szechuan Sauce, in response to its mention in the story world of animated sci-fi sitcom Rick and Morty, they contributed to transmedia storytelling.Both Rick and Morty and Star Wars are examples of how masculinist fan cultures, stubborn allegiances to male authorship, and definitions of transmedia converge both in academia and popular culture. While Rick and Morty is, in reality, partly female-authored, much of its media image is still anchored to its two male “creators,” Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon. Particularly in the context of #MeToo feminism, one wonders how much female authorship has been elided from existing storyworlds and, furthermore, what alternative examples of transmedia narration are exempt from current definitions of transmediality.The individual creator is a social construction of scholarship and popular discourse. This imaginary creator bears little relation to the conditions of creation and production of transmedia storyworlds, which are almost always team written and collectively authored. Further, the focus on writing itself elides the significant contributions of many creators such as those in production design (Bevan). Beyond that, what creative credit do focus groups deserve in shaping transmedia stories and their multi-layered, multi-platformed reaches? Is authorship, or even credit, really the concept we, as scholars, want to invest in when studying these forms of narration and mediation?At more symbolic levels, the seemingly exhaustless popular and scholarly appetite for male-bodied authorship persists within storyworlds themselves. The transmedia examples popularly and academically heralded as “seminal” centre on patrimony, patrilineage, and inheritance (i.e. Star Wars [1977-] and The Lord of the Rings [1937-]). Of course, Harry Potter (2001-2009) is an outlier as the celebrification of J.K. Rowling provides a strong example of credited female authorship. However, this example plays out many of the same issues, albeit the franchise is attached to a woman, in that it precludes many of the other creative minds who have helped shape Harry Potter’s world. How many more billions of dollars need we invest in men writing about the mysteries of how other men spread their genetic material across fictional universes? Moreover, transmedia studies remains dominated by academic men geeking out about how fan men geek out about how male creators write about mostly male characters in stories about … men. There are other stories waiting to be told and studied through the practices and theories of transmedia. These stories might be gender-inclusive and collective in ways that challenge traditional notions of authorship, control, rights, origin, and property.Obsession with male authorship, control, rights, origin, paternity and property is recognisible in scholarship on transmedia storytelling, and also symbolically in many of the most heralded examples of transmedia storytelling, such as the Star Wars saga.Prompting Broader DiscussionThis piece urges the development of broader understandings of transmedia storytelling. A range of media scholarship has already begun this work. Jonathan Gray’s book on paratexts offers an important pathway for such scholarship by legitimating ancillary texts, like posters and trailers, that uniquely straddle promotional and feature content platforms (Gray). A wave of scholars productively explores transmedia storytelling with a focus on storyworlds (Scolari; Harvey), often through the lens of narratology (Ryan; Ryan and Thon). Scolari, Bertetti, and Freeman have drawn together a media archaeological approach and a focus on transmedia characters in an innovative way. We hope to see greater proliferation of focuses and perspectives for the study of transmedia storytelling, including investigations that connect fictional and non-fictional worlds and stories, and a more inclusive variety of life experiences.Conversely, new scholarship on media authorship provides fresh directions, models, methods, and concepts for examining the complexity and messiness of this topic. A growing body of scholarship on the functions of media branding is also productive for reconceptualising notions of authorship in transmedia storytelling (Bourdaa; Dehry Kurtz and Bourdaa). Most notably, A Companion to Media Authorship edited by Gray and Derek Johnson productively interrogates relationships between creative processes, collaborative practices, production cultures, industrial structures, legal frameworks, and theoretical approaches around media authorship. Its case studies begin the work of reimagining of the role of authorship in transmedia, and pave the way for further developments (Burnett; Gordon; Hilmes; Stein). In particular, Matt Hills’s case study of how “counter-authorship” was negotiated on Torchwood (2006-2011) opens up new ways of thinking about multiple authorship and the variety of experiences, contributions, credits, and relationships this encompasses. Johnson’s Media Franchising addresses authorship in a complex way through a focus on social interactions, without making it a defining feature of the form; it would be significant to see a similar scholarly treatment of transmedia. At the very least, scholarly attention might turn its focus away from the very patriarchal activity of discussing definitions among a coterie and, instead, study the process of spreadability of male-centred transmedia storyworlds (Jenkins, Ford, and Green). Given that transmedia is not historically unique to the digital age, scholars might instead study how spreadability changes with the emergence of digitality and convergence, rather than pontificating on definitions of adaptation versus transmedia and cinema versus media.We urge transmedia scholars to distance their work from the malignant gender politics endemic to the media industries and particularly global Hollywood. The confluence of gendered agendas in both academia and media industries works to reinforce patriarchal hierarchies. The humanities should offer independent analysis and critique of how media industries and products function, and should highlight opportunities for conceiving of, creating, and treating such media practices and texts in new ways. As such, it is problematic that discourses on transmedia commonly neglect the distinction between what defines transmediality and what constitutes good examples of transmedia. This blurs the boundaries between description and prescription, taxonomy and hierarchy, analysis and evaluation, and definition and taste. Such discourses blinker us to what we might consider to be transmedia, but also to what examples of “good” transmedia storytelling might look like.Transmedia theory focuses disproportionately on authorship. This restricts a comprehensive understanding of transmedia storytelling, limits the lenses we bring to it, obstructs the ways we evaluate transmedia stories, and impedes how we imagine the possibilities for both media and storytelling. Stories have always been transmedial. What changes with the inception of transmedia theory is that men can claim credit for the stories and for all the work that many people do across various sectors and industries. It is questionable whether authorship is important to transmedia, in which creation is most often collective, loosely planned (at best) and diffused across many people, skill sets, and sectors. While Jenkins’s work has been pivotal in the development of transmedia theory, this is a ripe moment for the diversification of theoretical paradigms for understanding stories in the digital era.ReferencesAlexander, Julia, and Ben Kuchera. “How a Rick and Morty Joke Led to a McDonald’s Szechuan Sauce Controversy.” Polygon 4 Apr. 2017. <https://www.polygon.com/2017/10/12/16464374/rick-and-morty-mcdonalds-szechuan-sauce>.Aristotle. Aristotle's Poetics. New York: Hill and Wang, 1961. Barsanti, Sami. “Dan Harmon Is Pissed at Rick and Morty Fans Harassing Female Writers.” The AV Club 21 Sep. 2017. <https://www.avclub.com/dan-harmon-is-pissed-at-rick-and-morty-fans-for-harassi-1818628816>.Bevan, Alex. “Nostalgia for Pre-Digital Media in Mad Men.” Television & New Media 14.6 (2013): 546-559.Boddy, William. Fifties Television: The Industry and Its Critics. Chicago: U of Illinois P, 1993.Bourdaa, Mélanie. “This Is Not Marketing. 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Abstract:

For those seeking a diversion from the drudgery of work there are a number of websites offering to take you away. Consider the case of wasteaminute.com. On the site there is everything from flash video games, soft-core p*rnography and animated nudity, to puzzles and parlour games like poker. In addition, the site offers links to video clips grouped in categories such as “funny,” “accidents,” or “strange.” With its bright yellow bubble letters and elementary design, wasteaminute will never win any Webby awards. It is also unlikely to be part of a lucrative initial public offering for its owner, a web marketing company based in Lexington, Kentucky. The internet ratings company Alexa gives wasteaminute a ranking of 5,880,401 when it comes to the most popular sites online over the last three months, quite some way behind sites like Wikipedia, Facebook, and Windows Live.Wasteaminute is not unique. There exists a group of websites, a micro-genre of sorts, that go out of their way to offer momentary escape from the more serious work at hand, with a similar menu of offerings. These include sites with names such as ishouldbeworking.com, i-am-bored.com, boredatwork.com, and drivenbyboredom.com. These web destinations represent only the most overtly named time-wasting opportunities. Video sharing sites like YouTube or France’s DailyMotion, personalised home pages like iGoogle, and the range of applications available on mobile devices offer similar opportunities for escape. Wasteaminute inspired me to think about the relationship between digital media technologies and waste. In one sense, the site’s offerings remind us of the Internet’s capacity to re-purpose old media forms from earlier phases in the digital revolution, like the retro video game PacMan, or from aspects of print culture, like crosswords (Bolter and Grusin; Straw). For my purposes, though, wasteaminute permits the opportunity to meditate, albeit briefly, on the ways media facilitate wasting time at work, particularly for those working in white- and no-collar work environments. In contemporary work environments work activity and wasteful activity exist on the same platform. With a click of a mouse or a keyboard shortcut, work and diversion can be easily interchanged on the screen, an experience of computing I know intimately from first-hand experience. The blurring of lines between work and waste has accompanied the extension of the ‘working day,’ a concept once tethered to the standardised work-week associated with modernity. Now people working in a range of professions take work out of the office and find themselves working in cafes, on public transportation, and at times once reserved for leisure, like weekends (Basso). In response to the indeterminate nature of when and where we are at work, the mainstream media routinely report about the wasteful use of computer technology for non-work purposes. Stories such as a recent one in the Washington Post which claimed that increased employee use of social media sites like Facebook and Twitter led to decreased productivity at work have become quite common in traditional media outlets (Casciato). Media technologies have always offered the prospect of making office work more efficient or the means for management to exercise control over employees. However, those same technologies have also served as the platforms on which one can engage in dilatory acts, stealing time from behind the boss’s back. I suggest stealing time at work may well be a “tactic,” in the sense used by Michel de Certeau, as a means to resist the rules and regulations that structure work and the working life. However, I also consider it to be a tactic in a different sense: websites and other digital applications offer users the means to take time back, in the form of ‘quick hits,’ providing immediate visual or narrative pleasures, or through interfaces which make the time-wasting look like work (Wagman). Reading sites like wasteaminute as examples of ‘office entertainment,’ reminds us of the importance of workers as audiences for web content. An analysis of a few case studies also reveals how the forms of address of these sites themselves recognise and capitalise on an understanding of the rhythms of the working day, as well as those elements of contemporary office culture characterised by interruption, monotony and surveillance. Work, Media, Waste A mass of literature documents the transformations of work brought on by industrialisation and urbanisation. A recent biography of Franz Kafka outlines the rigors imposed upon the writer while working as an insurance agent: his first contract stipulated that “no employee has the right to keep any objects other than those belonging to the office under lock in the desk and files assigned for its use” (Murray 66). Siegfried Kracauer’s collection of writings on salaried workers in Germany in the 1930s argues that mass entertainment offers distractions that inhibit social change. Such restrictions and inducements are exemplary of the attempts to make work succumb to managerial regimes which are intended to maximise productivity and minimise waste, and to establish a division between ‘company time’ and ‘free time’. One does not have to be an industrial sociologist to know the efforts of Frederick W. Taylor, and the disciplines of “scientific management” in the early twentieth century which were based on the idea of making work more efficient, or of the workplace sociology scholarship from the 1950s that drew attention to the ways that office work can be monotonous or de-personalising (Friedmann; Mills; Whyte). Historian JoAnne Yates has documented the ways those transformations, and what she calls an accompanying “philosophy of system and efficiency,” have been made possible through information and communication technologies, from the typewriter to carbon paper (107). Yates evokes the work of James Carey in identifying these developments, for example, the locating of workers in orderly locations such as offices, as spatial in nature. The changing meaning of work, particularly white-collar or bureaucratic labour in an age of precarious employment and neo-liberal economic regimes, and aggressive administrative “auditing technologies,” has subjected employees to more strenuous regimes of surveillance to ensure employee compliance and to protect against waste of company resources (Power). As Andrew Ross notes, after a deep period of self-criticism over the drudgery of work in North American settings in the 1960s, the subsequent years saw a re-thinking of the meaning of work, one that gradually traded greater work flexibility and self-management for more assertive forms of workplace control (9). As Ross notes, this too has changed, an after-effect of “the shareholder revolution,” which forced companies to deliver short-term profitability to its investors at any social cost. With so much at stake, Ross explains, the freedom of employees assumed a lower priority within corporate cultures, and “the introduction of information technologies in the workplace of the new capitalism resulted in the intensified surveillance of employees” (12). Others, like Dale Bradley, have drawn attention to the ways that the design of the office itself has always concerned itself with the bureaucratic and disciplinary control of bodies in space (77). The move away from physical workspaces such as ‘the pen’ to the cubicle and now from the cubicle to the virtual office is for Bradley a move from “construction” to “connection.” This spatial shift in the way in which control over employees is exercised is symbolic of the liquid forms in which bodies are now “integrated with flows of money, culture, knowledge, and power” in the post-industrial global economies of the twenty-first century. As Christena Nippert-Eng points out, receiving office space was seen as a marker of trust, since it provided employees with a sense of privacy to carry out affairs—both of a professional or of a personal matter—out of earshot of others. Privacy means a lot of things, she points out, including “a relative lack of accountability for our immediate whereabouts and actions” (163). Yet those same modalities of control which characterise communication technologies in workspaces may also serve as the platforms for people to waste time while working. In other words, wasteful practices utilize the same technology that is used to regulate and manage time spent in the workplace. The telephone has permitted efficient communication between units in an office building or between the office and outside, but ‘personal business’ can also be conducted on the same line. Radio stations offer ‘easy listening’ formats, providing unobtrusive music so as not to disturb work settings. However, they can easily be tuned to other stations for breaking news, live sports events, or other matters having to do with the outside world. Photocopiers and fax machines facilitate the reproduction and dissemination of communication regardless of whether it is it work or non-work related. The same, of course, is true for computerised applications. Companies may encourage their employees to use Facebook or Twitter to reach out to potential clients or customers, but those same applications may be used for personal social networking as well. Since the activities of work and play can now be found on the same platform, employers routinely remind their employees that their surfing activities, along with their e-mails and company documents, will be recorded on the company server, itself subject to auditing and review whenever the company sees fit. Employees must be careful to practice image management, in order to ensure that contradictory evidence does not appear online when they call in sick to the office. Over time the dynamics of e-mail and Internet etiquette have changed in response to such developments. Those most aware of the distractive and professionally destructive features of downloading a funny or comedic e-mail attachment have come to adopt the acronym “NSFW” (Not Safe for Work). Even those of us who don’t worry about those things are well aware that the cache and “history” function of web browsers threaten to reveal the extent to which our time online is spent in unproductive ways. Many companies and public institutions, for example libraries, have taken things one step further by filtering out access to websites that may be peripheral to the primary work at hand.At the same time contemporary workplace settings have sought to mix both work and play, or better yet to use play in the service of work, to make “work” more enjoyable for its workers. Professional development seminars, team-building exercises, company softball games, or group outings are examples intended to build morale and loyalty to the company among workers. Some companies offer their employees access to gyms, to game rooms, and to big screen TVs, in return for long and arduous—indeed, punishing—hours of time at the office (Dyer-Witheford and Sherman; Ross). In this manner, acts of not working are reconfigured as a form of work, or at least as a productive experience for the company at large. Such perks are offered with an assumption of personal self-discipline, a feature of what Nippert-Eng characterises as the “discretionary workplace” (154). Of course, this also comes with an expectation that workers will stay close to the office, and to their work. As Sarah Sharma recently argued in this journal, such thinking is part of the way that late capitalism constructs “innovative ways to control people’s time and regulate their movement in space.” At the same time, however, there are plenty of moments of gentle resistance, in which the same machines of control and depersonalisation can be customised, and where individual expressions find their own platforms. A photo essay by Anna McCarthy in the Journal of Visual Culture records the inspirational messages and other personalised objects with which workers adorn their computers and work stations. McCarthy’s photographs represent the way people express themselves in relation to their work, making it a “place where workplace politics and power relations play out, often quite visibly” (McCarthy 214). Screen SecretsIf McCarthy’s photo essay illustrates the overt ways in which people bring personal expression or gentle resistance to anodyne workplaces, there are also a series of other ‘screen acts’ that create opportunities to waste time in ways that are disguised as work. During the Olympics and US college basketball playoffs, both American broadcast networks CBS and NBC offered a “boss button,” a graphic link that a user could immediately click “if the boss was coming by” that transformed the screen to something was associated with the culture of work, such as a spreadsheet. Other purveyors of networked time-wasting make use of the spreadsheet to mask distraction. The website cantyouseeimbored turns a spreadsheet into a game of “Breakout!” while other sites, like Spreadtweet, convert your Twitter updates into the form of a spreadsheet. Such boss buttons and screen interfaces that mimic work are the presentday avatars of the “panic button,” a graphic image found at the bottom of websites back in the days of Web 1.0. A click of the panic button transported users away from an offending website and towards something more legitimate, like Yahoo! Even if it is unlikely that boss keys actually convince one’s superiors that one is really working—clicking to a spreadsheet only makes sense for a worker who might be expected to be working on those kinds of documents—they are an index of how notions of personal space and privacy play out in the digitalised workplace. David Kiely, an employee at an Australian investment bank, experienced this first hand when he opened an e-mail attachment sent to him by his co-workers featuring a scantily-clad model (Cuneo and Barrett). Unfortunately for Kiely, at the time he opened the attachment his computer screen was visible in the background of a network television interview with another of the bank’s employees. Kiely’s inauspicious click (which made his the subject of an investigation by his employees) continues to circulate on the Internet, and it spawned a number of articles highlighting the precarious nature of work in a digitalised environment where what might seem to be private can suddenly become very public, and thus able to be disseminated without restraint. At the same time, the public appetite for Kiely’s story indicates that not working at work, and using the Internet to do it, represents a mode of media consumption that is familiar to many of us, even if it is only the servers on the company computer that can account for how much time we spend doing it. Community attitudes towards time spent unproductively online reminds us that waste carries with it a range of negative signifiers. We talk about wasting time in terms of theft, “stealing time,” or even more dramatically as “killing time.” The popular construction of television as the “boob tube” distinguishes it from more ‘productive’ activities, like spending time with family, or exercise, or involvement in one’s community. The message is simple: life is too short to be “wasted” on such ephemera. If this kind of language is less familiar in the digital age, the discourse of ‘distraction’ is more prevalent. 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