If the first indications are correct (as of right now, 4:05, five minutes after the polls have closed in Paris and Lyons, the last holdouts), the European constitution referendum has failed dramatically in France.

People who know me might be surprised to hear that I think the European constitution not that bad a thing, really. Europe does need new rules to govern itself. Many of them are in the document. Certainly, there are horrible problems with the deal, but those are implicit in European politics rather than the constitution itself.

But I'm very pleased that the constitution seems to have failed in France (and presumably, now, Europe-wide, since the vote appears quite clear, and not susceptible to revote). Why? Simply because I distrust very much the people most involved with its drafting. Throughout the process of Europeanization, leaders like Valerie Giscard D'Estaing have painted themselves expressly as the new Jeffersons and Madisons of world history. They imagine that two hundred years from now, they'll be on coins and statutes. What they didn't seem to realize, however, is that Americans forged a country first, and then a constitution. And when they did finally write that constitution, decades after living together in peace, a decade after they fought a war united, the Founders wrote a relatively simple, understandable document - and then descended into public life to defend and explain what they had done. In Europe, there's no country. The constitution itself is hundreds of pages long, and susceptible only to legal analysis. And the leadership did nothing but tell the citizenry that they had to approve the treaty, because the changes were needed, and were relatively trivial anyway. Chirac wasn't even going to call a referendum, until pressured into doing so, and the "no" forces were a motley crew of extreme socialists, and nationalists, and other malcontents - none of the major parties thought it their duty to challenge the document.

French citizens apparently wanted their public figures to do a slightly better, more respectful job. Let's watch the aftermath.

I've finally gotten around to read the highly touted Freakonomics, by Steven Levitt & Stephen Dubner. It certainly is interesting - I recommend it highly for people interested in law and economics.

The book is sparkles with tidbits. Levitt's proof of cheating in Sumo, for example, is startling, if unsurprising. But what really struck me was what Levitt says about the effect of names on success, and their importance as signalling tools. My family's experience is a real case in point.

My mother's side is franco-phile, Syrian Armenian. My mom is named Marie, my grandmother Claire. My uncles are Gary and Simon. There's a Claude, and a Michel - a Lillian, George, and Annie. The names up and down the list are all similar in style - nothing very Armenian. Lots of things very French. My grandfather's name, Chukri, sounds Armenian- unless you know Arabic, at which point you realize it's a nickname he adopted when he opened his body shop.

My dad's side of the family, however, is Armenian nationalist Lebanese. And the names? My dad's Hovsep. There are multiple Manouks, Vatches, and Vartans. I've run into a Boghos, and a Khosrov. My late Uncle was Mihran. There's a Verjouhi and a Vartanoush. My dad claims he knows a Zarmantoukht in Canada somewhere, but I don't believe him.

So what's my name? Well, my parents were still living in Syria when I was born, and they got into a fight as to whether to go the Armenian way, or to plump for Europe. Raffi was the great compromise. Not only is it the classic name of Armenian strivers where I'm from (and, of course, Levitt points out that names don't have any impact on results), but it's also the easiest Armenian name I can think of to pronounce - so much so that that irritating children's singer has adopted it alone, like Cher. Raffi is one of the checkpoints between free-flowing Armenian nationalism and assimilatory progress. I've turned out rather in that mold - disdainful of armenian patriotism but perfectly happy with my ethnic identity. After all, I like our food.

I was visiting a young family last week in Washington, and met a four year old child who seemed to be called Nshdegh. His little friends had given up, and dubbed him Nash instead. I can't help thinking that such a name must be a handicap of sorts - that naming your child something almost completely unpronounceable and lacking vowels in America might do something to his psyche. But if Levitt's right, the name itself doesn't matter, but tells us something about his parents. And after thinking about it for a moment more, I suspect Levitt's right in the end.

Some nontrivial portion of my past year has been spent avoiding Baltimore-- coming up with beach plans instead of a Baltimore vacation, and cajoling a friend of Crescat into picking medical school at Yale over Baltimore's Johns Hopkins.

This will stop today. I am off to Baltimore with co-blogger Amanda and ex-classmate/ex-roommate Kathleen to Patapsco Valley for the day. The rest is silence and cobloggers.