My first semester at the University of Texas at Austin, I enrolled in a required macroeconomics course. I had been told that it was an easy 'A'. I was ambivalent about those courses that others promised were GPA inflator subjects. I needed the grades, but I also felt that I was wasting my money having to take classes that really taught me nothing. The guy I sat next to in that class, James, became my roommate during the ensuing semester. He wanted to split costs on an apartment, and so did I. It made economic sense to each of us. So, I figure that is something that I got out of the macroeconomics course.
James was a native Texan, born in Austin but raised in Houston. He had been a middle linebacker for his high school football team. Even though he was a little bit on the scrawny side, I never doubted his story. James could be a madman at times, passionate on a few things, focused and unwaveringly opinionated on others. In any debate, he had a wild look in his eye, something that might frighten the faint at heart causing them to relent in their arguments until James left the room. To me, his look was that of a religious zealot or perhaps a mass murderer. Yes, the more I think about it, Charles Manson has the same look. Unlike Manson, James was generally harmless.
Anyway, our friendship began in that macroeconomics course. He and I used to take turns asking questions of the professor. The point was to present some broad topic with a general inquiry for which there was either no real answer or a sort of answer that lent itself to the professor's propensity to pontificate. James told me the guy could be manipulated. "Ask him something fringe or controversial, and he will waste all the class time trying to explain something that he has no clue about."
James would do homework for his other classes while the professor rambled on about nothing important or even remotely relevant. It was only toward the end of the class that the professor would reel in his far-flung conclusions, tracking back on to subject just before the bell rang.
Sometimes I did other things in that class, especially when I had an impending exam. But usually I listened and tried to figure out what the professor was talking about. It occurred to me that he actually was basically still on subject until, at times, he fancifully flew off onto this or that tangent, digressing upon this or that almost unrelated subtopic. I determined he really was attempting to answer the question that was posed. When I mentioned this to James, he scoffed. He reasserted what was his fervent belief: "The man is an imbecile. He got his credentials by accident or through mail order. Anyway, he's an economist. Economists are like the world's biggest bullshit artists."
Emperors and kings of old used to have court astrologers to advise them as to the proper courses for their decisions. In modern times, where money matters most and all money is based on a fiduciary system, the shaman of preference is an economist whose job is to spread out the tarot cards, read the tea leaves, check the bumps on back of the First Lady's head, count the number of times that the Presidential pooch had to go outdoors for a tinkle during the course of a day and then explain the mysterious forces of the world's economy. James was correct about one thing, regardless the source of the bullshit, bullshit is still and always will be bullshit!
The macroeconomics professor had no idea how to answer some, if not most, of the questions that James and I were asking him. Yet, he tackled the challenge with as much hubris and vigor as any so called 'expert' would. As I observed what he was doing and listened to what he was saying, he perhaps had numbed my mind to the point that he eventually started making sense. Alternatively, he had perhaps stumbled, stammered and him-hawed but only to a point. Then suddenly, it was as if a light had illuminated from the heavens above, and shone down, penetrating the roof and several floors of the business building to light his way out of his self-excavated pit. Immediately, he became succinct and purposeful. The transition was astonishing to behold.
There was no word that I knew of that could encompass that entire process I observed, so I made up one. It was obvious to me that in the course of his trying to answer a question he was beginning to understand something even while he was explaining it, hence the term 'undersplaining'.
James was a native Texan, born in Austin but raised in Houston. He had been a middle linebacker for his high school football team. Even though he was a little bit on the scrawny side, I never doubted his story. James could be a madman at times, passionate on a few things, focused and unwaveringly opinionated on others. In any debate, he had a wild look in his eye, something that might frighten the faint at heart causing them to relent in their arguments until James left the room. To me, his look was that of a religious zealot or perhaps a mass murderer. Yes, the more I think about it, Charles Manson has the same look. Unlike Manson, James was generally harmless.
Anyway, our friendship began in that macroeconomics course. He and I used to take turns asking questions of the professor. The point was to present some broad topic with a general inquiry for which there was either no real answer or a sort of answer that lent itself to the professor's propensity to pontificate. James told me the guy could be manipulated. "Ask him something fringe or controversial, and he will waste all the class time trying to explain something that he has no clue about."
James would do homework for his other classes while the professor rambled on about nothing important or even remotely relevant. It was only toward the end of the class that the professor would reel in his far-flung conclusions, tracking back on to subject just before the bell rang.
Sometimes I did other things in that class, especially when I had an impending exam. But usually I listened and tried to figure out what the professor was talking about. It occurred to me that he actually was basically still on subject until, at times, he fancifully flew off onto this or that tangent, digressing upon this or that almost unrelated subtopic. I determined he really was attempting to answer the question that was posed. When I mentioned this to James, he scoffed. He reasserted what was his fervent belief: "The man is an imbecile. He got his credentials by accident or through mail order. Anyway, he's an economist. Economists are like the world's biggest bullshit artists."
Emperors and kings of old used to have court astrologers to advise them as to the proper courses for their decisions. In modern times, where money matters most and all money is based on a fiduciary system, the shaman of preference is an economist whose job is to spread out the tarot cards, read the tea leaves, check the bumps on back of the First Lady's head, count the number of times that the Presidential pooch had to go outdoors for a tinkle during the course of a day and then explain the mysterious forces of the world's economy. James was correct about one thing, regardless the source of the bullshit, bullshit is still and always will be bullshit!
The macroeconomics professor had no idea how to answer some, if not most, of the questions that James and I were asking him. Yet, he tackled the challenge with as much hubris and vigor as any so called 'expert' would. As I observed what he was doing and listened to what he was saying, he perhaps had numbed my mind to the point that he eventually started making sense. Alternatively, he had perhaps stumbled, stammered and him-hawed but only to a point. Then suddenly, it was as if a light had illuminated from the heavens above, and shone down, penetrating the roof and several floors of the business building to light his way out of his self-excavated pit. Immediately, he became succinct and purposeful. The transition was astonishing to behold.
There was no word that I knew of that could encompass that entire process I observed, so I made up one. It was obvious to me that in the course of his trying to answer a question he was beginning to understand something even while he was explaining it, hence the term 'undersplaining'.
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