Kingdom of Information

Refutation of "How Obama Thinks" by D'souza

2010-09-16T14:48:00.000-07:00

The story of why I can not and will not support the Tea Party.

A friend of mine sent me this today:

http://www.forbes.com/forbes/2010/0927/politics-socialism-capitalism-private-enterprises-obama-business-problem_print.html

He sent it as an "example" of how the Tea Party thinks. Articles like this make me a bit rancorous, so I wrote the following analyrant (analysis/rant).

You know, the interesting thing is that this article is exactly the sort of thing that makes me so against the Tea Party.

First, it makes factually FALSE points.

For example: "Obama underwrites offshore drilling" was published in 2009, and was REFUTED in 2009: https://pod51000.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=91272bdb25314301a2fb37d7aaeb8ac1&URL=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.snopes.com%2Fpolitics%2Fgasoline%2Fbraziloil.asp

Wall Street Journal, btw, is very conservative-biased, so be careful with them (they do have some good stuff, but also, as you can see, they do tend to be all to happy to publish badly researched stuff, if it aligns with the political bent). Interestingly, notice that Forbes and WSJ, the two magazines/journals mentioned so far, are supported by the finance sector - which is many of the rich today. This should set off your warning lights.

And that's the first fact he cites!

Another one: "releasing Megrahi on 'compassionate grounds' was acceptable..."

https://pod51000.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=91272bdb25314301a2fb37d7aaeb8ac1&URL=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.bbc.co.uk%2Fnews%2Fuk-scotland-10769210

The letter actually said: "The US is not prepared to support Megrahi's release on compassionate release or bail.
"Nevertheless if Scottish authorities come to the conclusion that Megrahi must be released from Scottish custody, the US position is that conditional release on compassionate grounds would be a far preferable alternative to prisoner transfer, which we strongly oppose."
This doesn't say it's acceptable, just that it's better than the alternative. Furthermore, this comes at the end of a long discussion between the US and Scottish governments on the issue. To say picking things out of context the way D'Souza did is exactly what's wrong and horrible about our media today.

These two things ALONE are enough for me to not support this article, and the dozens of other examples of Tea Party rhetoric that follow the same lines are enough that I can never support them - no matter what I feel about their policy suggestions. Any group that is so flippant with TRUTH and with TRUSTWORTHINESS and RESEARCH cannot be supported, because to do so is to undermine the TRUSTWORTHINESS of one's own cause, and trust is the only grounds on which one can make meaningful progress.

Beyond even this, where D'Souza does not tell lies (he may not know they are lies, but repeating lies is bad enough for a writer) he MISSES THE POINT.

His line about "the top 10% pays 70% of the taxes." I would say why not - the top %10 earns a tremendous amount of the income (40%) - and they have been more blessed by the opportunities available in this country - and percentage-wise, they pay far less of their income to live than the bottom 40% - which, by the way, I'm apparently part of (though just barely) - and which I can say, from experience, does not pay "close to nothing" compared to our income. We pay close to nothing compared to the top 10% - but that's because, compared to the top %10, we MAKE NEXT TO NOTHING.

Beyond that, why does taxing the wealthy make Obama "anti-business"? Aren't businesses helped by infrastructure? Would McDonalds (not that I support them) have started without the government building highways? Starbucks? Wal-Mart? Without taxing the wealthy to pay for government research, we wouldn't have the Internet. We probably wouldn't have Boeing - at least not as it is today.

Another point where D'Souza misses the point, and makes a factual error:

"Obama's foreign policy is no less strange. He supports a $100 million mosque scheduled to be built near the site where terrorists in the name of Islam brought down the World Trade Center. Obama's rationale, that 'our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakable,' seems utterly irrelevant to the issue of why the proposed Cordoba House should be constructed at Ground Zero."

FOREIGN POLICY!? This is not foreign policy! This is domestic policy! To call this foreign policy is paramount to calling Muslims un-American, and saying that Islamic buildings can never be domestic, they are always foreign.

When reading that, I did happen across the line "to be built near the site..." and I thought "good" he's not saying it's "on the sight"; then he said, "constructed at Ground Zero." You know what? You want to support editorial honesty? Call it "Ground Two". It's two blocks away from Ground Zero, so that makes sense to me. Let's call it "Ground Two".

And then he doesn't go at all into the "issue" of why the proposed house should not be constructed at "Ground Two".

So let's take another: I haven't even fact-checked this, but apparently Bolden said that the "primary mission" of the space agency would be to improve relations with the Muslim world. Okay, I somewhat doubt primary mission, even if those were the words used (which I don't know) means what you think is means. But let's take that at face value. What did Obama actually say "find a way to reach out to the Muslim world... to help them feel good about their historic contribution to science and math and engineering." Well... why not? We have here a people who preserved the writings of Aristotle, who ran perhaps one of the greatest information societies the world has ever seen, and who had a hand in inventing the math that has allowed us to do all the things we've done, and they are now under the oppression of an anti-intellectual interpretation of their religion - and what better way to bring them back into some agreement with the west than asking them to join in a great venture, begun by the west, but with roots reaching back into their own culture and history, which may now save them from further violence and stupidity.

And this is the elemental point which leads into refuting the chain of conspiracy that D'Souza launches into. I won't get into all the links he makes - I have neither the time nor the interest to refute or reinterpret them. Even if they are true, they make little difference to the conclusion, so let us jump there.
D'Souza's conclusion:
"Colonialism today is a dead issue.... China, India, Chile and Indonesia have solved the problem of backwardness; they are exploiting their labor advantage..."

And here's the kicker:

"If America is going to remain on top..."

D'Souza cares about Colonialism! He just doesn't call it that. He considers it competition. He wants to remain on top - not to maintain a lifestyle, not to encourage wealth, not to participate in future, he wants to remain on top. He sees America's right position as being above other nations. Is colonialism, at root, anything else?

Beyond that, he says, "No one cares about [colonialism] except the man in the White House. That's where he's wrong. I care about colonialism. I care about it a great deal. With hundreds of my country's military bases overseas, I don't see how I can not. Having talked to Chinese people, and heard their concerns about America invading their country, I care about it a great deal - because I don't want them to think we'd do something we wouldn't. Because having lived in Israel, and talked to Muslims there about colonialism, I care about colonialism. Because I believe we are abusing the willingness of Chinese workers to be abused, I care about colonialism.

More than that - and, I hope, like Obama, I want to do something different.

I want to encourage others. I don't believe we will remain "on top" by competing in the traditional sense. I believe we can remain on top by careful, intelligent participation. By lending money to other countries that are interested in buying oil drilling equipment from our country. By inviting a people of a great intellect and intellectual history to turn that weight away from wrath and fear, and towards a great human project. Will there be competition? Sure. But I think competition is a given. It'll happen no matter what we do. What we need is participation. Participation, from the lowest wage earner to the most exalted of businessmen, participation from developing, developed, and post-developed countries. Participation from the government and from Business.

And what do we need if we want participation?

We need trust.

And that's why I can't support the Tea Party.

Peter Wallis

P.S. We could discuss this more, but honestly, you need to develop your own, for lack of a better term, "shit detector" - as Hemingway said:

"The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer's radar and all great writers have had it."
Do your own research. When an article like this makes factual claims, investigate the first few of them. I don't have time or interest enough in politics to do that for you. I have other things to do, other things to fix. I have my own participation in this, and unfortunately, I must compete against some cruel and foolish men of great power - and some unfortunately mislead men of kindness and equally great power. I don't write any of this in support of Obama or anyone else for that matter, but merely to say why I don't support the Tea Party, its agenda, or, I suppose, the agenda of nationalistic capitalism- called by a better term, colonialism reborn.

If you agree with this, and want more trustworthyness, you know what, feel free to create one of those email-forwards out of it. Lord knows we need some better material out there.The story of why I can not and will not support the Tea Party.

A friend of mine sent me this today:

http://www.forbes.com/forbes/2010/0927/politics-socialism-capitalism-private-enterprises-obama-business-problem_print.html

He sent it as an "example" of how the Tea Party thinks. Articles like this make me a bit rancorous, so I wrote the following analyrant (analysis/rant).

You know, the interesting thing is that this article is exactly the sort of thing that makes me so against the Tea Party.

First, it makes factually FALSE points.

For example: "Obama underwrites offshore drilling" was published in 2009, and was REFUTED in 2009: https://pod51000.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=91272bdb25314301a2fb37d7aaeb8ac1&URL=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.snopes.com%2Fpolitics%2Fgasoline%2Fbraziloil.asp

Wall Street Journal, btw, is very conservative-biased, so be careful with them (they do have some good stuff, but also, as you can see, they do tend to be all to happy to publish badly researched stuff, if it aligns with the political bent). Interestingly, notice that Forbes and WSJ, the two magazines/journals mentioned so far, are supported by the finance sector - which is many of the rich today. This should set off your warning lights.

And that's the first fact he cites!

Another one: "releasing Megrahi on 'compassionate grounds' was acceptable..."

https://pod51000.outlook.com/owa/redir.aspx?C=91272bdb25314301a2fb37d7aaeb8ac1&URL=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.bbc.co.uk%2Fnews%2Fuk-scotland-10769210

The letter actually said: "The US is not prepared to support Megrahi's release on compassionate release or bail.
"Nevertheless if Scottish authorities come to the conclusion that Megrahi must be released from Scottish custody, the US position is that conditional release on compassionate grounds would be a far preferable alternative to prisoner transfer, which we strongly oppose."
This doesn't say it's acceptable, just that it's better than the alternative. Furthermore, this comes at the end of a long discussion between the US and Scottish governments on the issue. To say picking things out of context the way D'Souza did is exactly what's wrong and horrible about our media today.

These two things ALONE are enough for me to not support this article, and the dozens of other examples of Tea Party rhetoric that follow the same lines are enough that I can never support them - no matter what I feel about their policy suggestions. Any group that is so flippant with TRUTH and with TRUSTWORTHINESS and RESEARCH cannot be supported, because to do so is to undermine the TRUSTWORTHINESS of one's own cause, and trust is the only grounds on which one can make meaningful progress.

Beyond even this, where D'Souza does not tell lies (he may not know they are lies, but repeating lies is bad enough for a writer) he MISSES THE POINT.

His line about "the top 10% pays 70% of the taxes." I would say why not - the top %10 earns a tremendous amount of the income (40%) - and they have been more blessed by the opportunities available in this country - and percentage-wise, they pay far less of their income to live than the bottom 40% - which, by the way, I'm apparently part of (though just barely) - and which I can say, from experience, does not pay "close to nothing" compared to our income. We pay close to nothing compared to the top 10% - but that's because, compared to the top %10, we MAKE NEXT TO NOTHING.

Beyond that, why does taxing the wealthy make Obama "anti-business"? Aren't businesses helped by infrastructure? Would McDonalds (not that I support them) have started without the government building highways? Starbucks? Wal-Mart? Without taxing the wealthy to pay for government research, we wouldn't have the Internet. We probably wouldn't have Boeing - at least not as it is today.

Another point where D'Souza misses the point, and makes a factual error:

"Obama's foreign policy is no less strange. He supports a $100 million mosque scheduled to be built near the site where terrorists in the name of Islam brought down the World Trade Center. Obama's rationale, that 'our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakable,' seems utterly irrelevant to the issue of why the proposed Cordoba House should be constructed at Ground Zero."

FOREIGN POLICY!? This is not foreign policy! This is domestic policy! To call this foreign policy is paramount to calling Muslims un-American, and saying that Islamic buildings can never be domestic, they are always foreign.

When reading that, I did happen across the line "to be built near the site..." and I thought "good" he's not saying it's "on the sight"; then he said, "constructed at Ground Zero." You know what? You want to support editorial honesty? Call it "Ground Two". It's two blocks away from Ground Zero, so that makes sense to me. Let's call it "Ground Two".

And then he doesn't go at all into the "issue" of why the proposed house should not be constructed at "Ground Two".

So let's take another: I haven't even fact-checked this, but apparently Bolden said that the "primary mission" of the space agency would be to improve relations with the Muslim world. Okay, I somewhat doubt primary mission, even if those were the words used (which I don't know) means what you think is means. But let's take that at face value. What did Obama actually say "find a way to reach out to the Muslim world... to help them feel good about their historic contribution to science and math and engineering." Well... why not? We have here a people who preserved the writings of Aristotle, who ran perhaps one of the greatest information societies the world has ever seen, and who had a hand in inventing the math that has allowed us to do all the things we've done, and they are now under the oppression of an anti-intellectual interpretation of their religion - and what better way to bring them back into some agreement with the west than asking them to join in a great venture, begun by the west, but with roots reaching back into their own culture and history, which may now save them from further violence and stupidity.

And this is the elemental point which leads into refuting the chain of conspiracy that D'Souza launches into. I won't get into all the links he makes - I have neither the time nor the interest to refute or reinterpret them. Even if they are true, they make little difference to the conclusion, so let us jump there.
D'Souza's conclusion:
"Colonialism today is a dead issue.... China, India, Chile and Indonesia have solved the problem of backwardness; they are exploiting their labor advantage..."

And here's the kicker:

"If America is going to remain on top..."

D'Souza cares about Colonialism! He just doesn't call it that. He considers it competition. He wants to remain on top - not to maintain a lifestyle, not to encourage wealth, not to participate in future, he wants to remain on top. He sees America's right position as being above other nations. Is colonialism, at root, anything else?

Beyond that, he says, "No one cares about [colonialism] except the man in the White House. That's where he's wrong. I care about colonialism. I care about it a great deal. With hundreds of my country's military bases overseas, I don't see how I can not. Having talked to Chinese people, and heard their concerns about America invading their country, I care about it a great deal - because I don't want them to think we'd do something we wouldn't. Because having lived in Israel, and talked to Muslims there about colonialism, I care about colonialism. Because I believe we are abusing the willingness of Chinese workers to be abused, I care about colonialism.

More than that - and, I hope, like Obama, I want to do something different.

I want to encourage others. I don't believe we will remain "on top" by competing in the traditional sense. I believe we can remain on top by careful, intelligent participation. By lending money to other countries that are interested in buying oil drilling equipment from our country. By inviting a people of a great intellect and intellectual history to turn that weight away from wrath and fear, and towards a great human project. Will there be competition? Sure. But I think competition is a given. It'll happen no matter what we do. What we need is participation. Participation, from the lowest wage earner to the most exalted of businessmen, participation from developing, developed, and post-developed countries. Participation from the government and from Business.

And what do we need if we want participation?

We need trust.

And that's why I can't support the Tea Party.

Peter Wallis

P.S. We could discuss this more, but honestly, you need to develop your own, for lack of a better term, "shit detector" - as Hemingway said:

"The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer's radar and all great writers have had it."
Do your own research. When an article like this makes factual claims, investigate the first few of them. I don't have time or interest enough in politics to do that for you. I have other things to do, other things to fix. I have my own participation in this, and unfortunately, I must compete against some cruel and foolish men of great power - and some unfortunately mislead men of kindness and equally great power. I don't write any of this in support of Obama or anyone else for that matter, but merely to say why I don't support the Tea Party, its agenda, or, I suppose, the agenda of nationalistic capitalism- called by a better term, colonialism reborn.

If you agree with this, and want more trustworthyness, you know what, feel free to create one of those email-forwards out of it. Lord knows we need some better material out there.

Some Chesterton research

2010-07-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

Take note, lit-heads! A tale of paraphrase masquerading as quotation on the high seas of popular debate! Startling discoveries! A cunning plan!

A friend posted the following on my facebook wall:
Do you know where this comes from in Chesterton's writing?

"A society that claims to be civilized and yet allows the sex instinct free-play is inoculating itself with a virus of corruption which sooner or later will destroy it. It is only a question of time"

Which prompted this response:
Now this is such an interesting case, I think I'll make a blog post of it (partially because I hope my method of literary detection might come in handy for others).

As soon as I read the quote, I suspected it was a paraphrase, and not a quote at all. Chesterton is known for his aphorisms, but this is too brief, and frankly too shallow. Beyond that, even in his day "it is only a question of time" must have seemed like one of those tired young phrases trying to seem like an old phrase, something Chesterton would have avoided.

Yet, Chesterton had an enormous output, so it's inevitable that he didn't always rise to his standards. So I began my search.

I found that the paraphrase comes from this article: http://www.mercatornet.com/articles/view/sexual_insanity/

"As G.K. Chesterton wrote a century ago: A society that claims to be civilized and yet allows the sex instinct free-play is inoculating itself with a virus of corruption which sooner or later will destroy it. It is only a question of time. He is worth quoting at length:

What had happened to the human imagination, as a whole,"...

Ah-ha! It does seem like a paraphrase in the first case, and a quote in the second. Let us use (and here's the really useful bit) Google Books "inauthor" search.

http://www.google.com/search?tbs=bks:1&tbo=1&q=%22it+is+only+a+matter+of+time%22+inauthor:G.K.+inauthor:Chesterton&btnG=Search+Books

Absolutely nothing there for "it is only a question of time." in all of GK Chesterton's works. How vindicated I feel by modern technology!

Let us try the second section.

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&tbo=1&tbs=bks:1&q=%22What+had+happened+to+the+human+imagination%22+inauthor:G.K.+inauthor:Chesterton&btnG=Search&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&oq=&gs_rfai=

And there it is a quote. "What had happened to the human imagination" immediately gets us Chesterton's biography of St. Francis of Assisi, in both collected and uncollected form. If you read the full quote, below, you will see how much more specific and deep the analysis is - though it is saying "essentially" the same thing it says it both with more care and with more understanding, and makes an argument rather than just a statement.

"What had happened to the human imagination, as a whole, was that the whole world was coloured by dangerous and rapidly deteriorating passions; by natural passions becoming unnatural passions. Thus the effect of treating sex as only one innocent natural thing was that every other innocent natural thing became soaked and sodden with sex. For sex cannot be admitted to a mere equality among elementary emotions or experiences like eating and sleeping. The moment sex ceases to be a servant it becomes a tyrant. There is something dangerous and disproportionate in its place in human nature, for whatever reason; and it does really need a special purification and dedication. The modern talk about sex being free like any other sense, about the body being beautiful like any tree or flower, is either a description of the Garden of Eden or a piece of thoroughly bad psychology, of which the world grew weary two thousand years ago."

I suspect many others have the same feeling of suspicion when they read quotes that seem too convenient, and I hope this record of my own suspicions and investigations has proved helpful.

Now go search inauthor:Tocqueville for "America is great because she is good" and see where that gets you.

Worth seeing: This.

2009-12-20T23:17:00.000-08:00

Talk about your Baudrilliardian conceptions of reality.

Probably my new favorite video on the internet. Philosphically interesting (for the reality-layerings) visually complex and interesting, strangely rhythmic.

Enjoy!

Something to look forward to

2009-12-07T19:17:00.000-08:00

I've often thought that getting old is underrated.

It's a vicious cycle - people think getting old makes one boring, so they don't prepare for it, so when they are old they are boring.

Me? I think one of the things to look forward to when I get old is looking even more badass.

As evidence, I submit this photo shoot from empire magazine.

Who would you rather have holding that gun on you? Edward the emopire, or Clint Eastwood?

I'd be more scared of Morgan Freeman holding that axe than Christian Bale.

Mel Gibson looks crazier now than he did when he played Wallace.

Also, for anyone interested in older people being badass, I suggest the film "Bad Day at Black Rock"

Guidelines for any writer

2009-11-02T12:30:00.000-08:00

So, I was reading a story sent to me by a friend, in strange horizons magazine. Browsing for a place to submit my own fiction to the fairly impressive magazine, I happened across this list, and thought that you might want to pass it to your friends who think they can write stories, and/or use it for your own reference:

http://www.strangehorizons.com/guidelines/fiction-common.shtml

Enjoy!

World Cinema and Framing Narrative

2009-09-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

Toward a Neuroscientific Literary Criticism

I have always felt somewhat ill at ease with the films of Joel and Ethan Cohen. While they have been lauded with accolades from literally every court, I have found myself, with a few friends, consistently feeling that their movies ring false. While there were always elements I recognized as false in their scripts, these elements never did fully explained the way their films unnerved me. It was only recently, as their short “World Cinema” (available here) made its rounds of the internet, that I came to realize one of the major failings of their storytelling.
(begin traditional plot rehash, skip this part if you’ve seen it)
In World Cinema we are presented, at first, with two men, standing in a small theater, in what could really be anytown, USA. The two men are the classic dichotomy of America – one, the intellectual, the anglophile, the goateed, the small man, who is showing only two films in what is probably his theater, both in a foreign language, and both on the, well, artistic side of film making, shall we say. The other man, standing across the counter, is the classic American cowboy. Tan straw cowboy hat, plaid cowboy shirt, mustache, the works. We are obviously witnessing the meeting of two stereotypes.
After some deliberation and descriptions, the “cowboy” chooses Climates, the complex, difficult Hungarian film, presented in Turkic. When the cowboy emerges from the theater, he surprises the audience by leaving a message with the person at the desk (our short man has left) to tell the original man that he really enjoyed Climates. The “cowboy” comments that “there’s a hell of a lot of truth in that movie, in my opinion.”
(end traditional plot rehash, pick up here.)
On the surface level, the characters play out well – as wary of each other as they should be, their language and knowledge appropriate to their situations. The point that rings false is the cowboy’s acceptance of Climates. Now, of course, one could critique my criticism at this point by saying that it only rings false to me because I have my own expectations which I approach the people with – that I am too easily drawn into stereotypes. Yet, there is a good, academic reason for my finding this falsehood. To put a lot of deep, complex academic work simply: Neuroscience has discovered that we interpret our experiences, especially our experiences of art, through formerly constructed framing narratives. In short, then, the cowboy would not have the framing structure present to recognize and accept the truth in Climates. In essence, the cowboy has lived out the enlightenment, rationalist thinking George Lakoff tells of, as the attitude, “if we present the truth, people will think themselves to the right conclusion.”
Now, could this simply be a surprising cowboy? Could he have been pondering these things in his inevitable pickup? Could his latent sexual desire for the short man have opened his framing? It is possible, certainly, but let us now think of the Cohen brother’s films as a whole. Each of them seems to have the same basic elements on some level – someone lacking the framing narrative necessary to deal with some philosophical issue enters into that issue experientially, and emerges with a changed perspective, with no clear change of the framing narrative. This is most clearly present in No Country for Old Men where the “Old Man” makes his clear, even philosophical change despite the fact that his framing clearly has no way of assimilating these philosophical thoughts.
Perhaps I am tainted by the time I spent living in Montana. It is true that there are some people who do have more beneath their surfaces than meets the eye. These people, however, seem all too common to me in Cohen brothers films. I have the feeling the Cohen brothers write about these people without ever having really met them, and I likewise have the feeling that, someday, when the two haves of this country meet, their bitter battle will only be exacerbated by a misunderstanding on the “intellectual” side of the ability and the conditions of the change of the other party. To some extent, this is already happening, and my own framing makes me quite likely to grow tired of it.

Thoughts on two films

2009-07-09T00:16:00.001-07:00

Excuse the long absence - other projects have taken much of my time. Hopefully, I will be able to link to them here sometime...

In any case, I just finished watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - I watched Slumdog Millionaire a couple weeks ago (for the record, I very much preferred Button, for reasons I will not go into now).

What I did want to mention, though, is the interesting theme of time - and film - running backwards in both, and the opposite way in which this motif is handled by the movies - in one, it is the successful private reversal of past pain, gained at the end of a long journey, the other is the hope for a reversal of a very public and shared pain, at the beginning of the film's journey, and treated with a very public reverence.

It is a curious exercise to relate these moments, and why we are drawn to them in film - perhaps they are simply an expression of our hopes for a more innocent time, or for the work of mercy, forgiveness, and an ultimate redemption. Perhaps they are a misunderstanding of redemption, which must come, rather than against time, through time - which reminds me of something in Eliot's Four Quartets. It does seem, whatever the case, that two major movies coming out with such scenes in the same year may be a little more than coincidence.

In any case, I hope this has given you food for thought.

Common Discourse

2009-04-02T16:18:00.000-07:00

"Life is a dreary monotonous scheme
I do not enjoy it except when I dream."

My wife said that to me the other day. She is not a professional or, really, an amatuer poet. It reinforces to me the joys that can often be found in common discourse. I suppose I should call it normal talking.

Notes on Learning, part 6 (beta version ./appendix -[burst])

2009-03-26T16:32:00.000-07:00

As an appendix (there's a lovely English metaphorical word) to yesterday's post, I present a couple of the synonyms I'm studying now:

Who needs two words for:

Oneself: can be Jibun or Watashi

to close: Shimeru (to close a book) Tojiru (to close a door) and no, they don't include the idea of "door" or "book" you just have to use the different ones in different contexts.

Rice: Kome is raw, uncooked rice. Gohan is cooked rice, or, by extension, a meal.

I love you, Japan, but seriously, WTF?

Notes on Learning, part 5 (beta version .0001)

2009-03-24T14:25:00.000-07:00

I've read several places (most notably in the wonderful "Book of Common Ignorance") that the longer a language is around, the more it looses grammatical complexity and gains vocabulary size and density.

One good measure of this is the number and complexity of synonyms, since many of our words focus around the same thoughts (side-note, if any of you tell me the popular lie about certain Eskimos having many words for snow, I'll hit you over the head with a dictionary).

Japanese is a good example, it's been around a long, long time, and I wouldn't say it's a grammatically complex language at all, however, its vocabulary is pretty big, and it has lots and lots of synonyms, enough to garner its own wiki, here: Japanese Synonym Wiki

Some shining examples include:

The fact that there is actually a specific word (maitsuda) that one would only use to verbally tell an uncle something is not good, and this is only one note of aggravation in a symphony. Self-disappointed missing out gets its own word, as in "I slept late and missed out on ______" as does a word (haibaku) specifically for loosing a game or war.

other good examples from the website:

Many words for annoying.

Many words for investigating.

I am also fascinated by the fact that "image" has several different words, moving image (reflection, mirror, tv screen,cartoon), still image (picture), painted still image, and a sculpture. This would make art criticism rather interesting in some ways, and could make parts of the philosophy of semiotics very different. Please note that these aren't just equivalent to our words "painting" and "drawing" as these refer specifically to their operation as images, not just as their presence as works of art.

Also interesting from this philosophical perspective is a difference of borders.

Notes on learning, part 4 (1001 apologies, or not)

2009-03-24T14:20:00.000-07:00

Yea, so coming up with insightful, non-generalized, researched things to say about a whole language is difficult. Who knew?

For those of you politically minded...

2009-03-23T09:31:00.000-07:00

Through my subscription to the often enjoyable very short list service (veryshortlist.com) I found http://www.nixontapes.org/ this morning. It's certainly an interesting resource for those of us that like to peek behind the curtain of political history, and see just how political our history is.

One particular moment of note, for example, is a tape of Nixon, Kissinger and Reagan. The highlight of the tape is really the awkwardness that comes of Regan inquiring into the Vietnam war, but listening to them plan the shipyards in San Diego smells highly of guilt by association, and makes one suspect that the true evil of pork-barrel projects is the way they serve the ends of whoever is in power.

Video Game Gets Banking License! Eruptions in the Blogosphere!

2009-03-21T12:12:00.001-07:00

Some are frightened, some are angry. Some, like me, are just amused.

BBC story here

Thinking about the Auto Companies

2009-03-20T09:23:00.001-07:00

It seems like every time I turn around someone is saying that the problem with car companies is that they haven't been building cars people want to buy. Has it occurred to anyone that they're maybe just pumping out too many cars - that we may have reached and even exceeded the saturation point. I speak as someone who lives near LA, doesn't have a car, and doesn't want to have a car. If I had my way, I'd never own a car. If I was wealthy enough, I might, however, buy into a car pool, because cars can be a lot of fun, but not every day, and not the sort you (probably) drive to work.

Notes on Learning, part 3 (beta version .0101)

2009-03-19T11:06:00.002-07:00

A less happy thought on Japanese:

What mad, topsy-turvy people come up with three different systems of writing, and then use them all? For that matter, what sort of mad exclusivists create a whole system of writing just for foreign words - who needs to know every time they use a foreign word in writing? At that, why do that when so much of their "original" language is "borrowed" from Chinese to begin with?

I like learning Japanese, but honestly...

Notes on Learning, part 2 (beta version .011)

2009-03-19T11:06:00.001-07:00

The Japanese word for "good" or "pleasure" is literally just "ii."

This reminds me of the Kiki and Bouba experiements, and makes me think about the possibilities of vocal representation and automatic exclamation at the roots of language.

Notes on Learning, part 1 (beta version .001)

2009-03-19T10:57:00.000-07:00

Okay, to try to give this dying blog a shot of whatever it is they give those people who are dying with a whimper, I'm going to try out a new series. As some of you may know I've been working on learning Japanese. Sometimes, learning Japanese allows some interesting insights into a completely foreign culture and language, some wonderful, some strangely familiar, and some incredibly distant. A friend suggested I write about them. So, without further ado, two ponderings on learning Japanese for today follow above, and hopefully, there are more to come.

Thoughts on Lars and the Real Girl

2009-02-17T15:58:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, the uncanny valley is more like the uncanny catacombs.

Sometimes we forget that mountaintops with snow, and sun, and vast backgrounds can be uncanny too.

Red, color perception, and amorism: a random thought

2009-01-10T14:46:00.000-08:00

It is said that red is an aphrodisiac.

It is rarely observed that a fat woman in red rarely is.

Odysseus at the dentist: A freeform outline

2009-01-06T09:37:00.000-08:00

I went to the dentist this morning. It wasn't a terrible visit, but it did put certain things to mind about heroism and bravery. I wanted to get these thoughts down before they were lost in the muddle that is a modern life. Hopefully, they will be refined later, and possibly even submitted, in refined form, to Literary Latte, but I wanted to invite any comments now, and get something out, so that there is record of the growth of the essay.

Odysseus never went to the Dentist
Meditations from the Chair
1. Odysseus never went to the Dentist. It is certain he faced horrors, but never the horrors which the modern man is forced to daily face, the horrors of science, the horrors of authority, the horrors of art, and the horrors of time. Odysseus never suffered quietly the million small indignities forced upon the modern, so called, man.
2. Odysseus never went to the dentist. He never felt the splatter of paste with a badly imitated grape flavor upon his gums. He never submitted himself to the teachings of the school of dentists. It is odd to me, perhaps, that we suffer dentists – that we have so long suffered dentists, and react so strongly against other teachings of so-called science. There are studies, even, some might say, scientific studies, which would indicate that dentists are unnecessary to those who live properly, but we suffer their prices, indignities, and pains – demonstratible and obvious pains – pains with which no one could argue – yet will not suffer the distant and uncertain mythos of evolution, and argue against by saying it drives the young to atheism and adultery, and yet, still, we will not consider that more teenagers may have been driven to atheism and even adultery by the dentist than ever by the teacher.
3. Odyesseus never trusted himself into the hands of a remote and uncertain science, merely to maintain what his culture called a normal life. Each of these modern indignities has its twin in other fields. From what we can tell, there never was much distant from Odysseus’ life – his religion was a close one, even a local one, and he never seems to have worshiped another land’s god through a strange expert priest or pastor. What Gods he did worship were close and local, or he was passing through their lands and seas. In each of these cases, too, he did not worship them so much as they touched him, and he was not interested so much in learning the particulars of their theology as how to play their game, or at least to survive. He did not worship Gods who had made some questionable sacrifice two thousand years ago. From what we can know too, Odysseus’ science was not far from his life, nor were his authorities, nor even the makers of his cheese. He probably made his cheese himself more than once or twice, and when his cheese was made ill, he could likely reach out and touch the one who made it. He could likely reach out and kill the one who made it, if he so desired. When his cheese was expensive, he could ask why, and when it was delicious, he could praise the cheesemaker to his face.
4. We must also remember that Odysseus was born into power, as were so many of the heroes of Western literature. They were not set apart by their skill, at least, if they were, that was a post-mortem evaluation. Let us not forget that while the vast majorities of humanities have toiled away quietly, their leaders have waged wars, upon which they had a part in deciding. Today, the modern man, as he is pictured here, toils away under the authority of powers he does not understand, and over which he has the minimal amount of control afforded by democracy, even by republic. Distance has something to do with this too – the closeness of the cheesemaker, along with Odysseus’ priority of birth, allowed him to move against the cheesemaker. The closeness of the God even allowed Odysseus to strike out against him, if he so choose.
5. You will rarely hear, I think, a lit-head admit that the heroes of literature are indeed, in Churchill’s phrase, “not only distant, but prosaic;” Though the sentiment is respected from one so eminent as that great speaker and leader of men, speaking at so momentous a time, it is so often despised reflected, in even truer form, in the mouths of the teenagers who can barely tell you what they mean, but who have no interest in reading the Odyssey. They complain that these things share no relationship to modern life, and I think they are quite right. The courage Odysseus had is quite a different sort than the modern man must have. I am not attempting to argue against any of the distances we face today – save this one. In some cases, the distances must be argued against, in some cases defended. In some cases they are incredibly good, in some cases, terribly dangerous. There can be arguments for each. But it seems to me, perhaps our most strange distance today is our distance from our heroes. Odysseus never was told by his culture that his heroes were, or should be, men who lived in strange histories and myths so distant from him. His literature was often songs of his friends. Even Hamlet, who displays some of the suffering of indignities, some of the arrogance, the academia, and the impotence of the modern man, was still born into power, and could still compare himself, however sadly, to Hercules. But now that comparison is meaningless to most who can read – it is not that either falls short, it is that the comparison is so distant, and so different. We are, no doubt, in need of heroes today, of examples every day, and we cannot afford to continue to produce and revere heroes with whom we share so little relationship, be they Odysseus, Arthur, Hamlet, or any one of the myriad of action heroes who, while closer, face adrenaline we do not in our moments most needful of heroism. The dentists’ chair does not allow for adrenaline. The absence of God does not allow for action. We are in desperate need of heroes who live modern life, and do so with modern heroism, facing the distances of science, of power, of art, and of time, with dignity, with creativity, and with good will. Come to think of it, we need Chaplin. His little tramp is often exactly the man who I speak of, and who we need to replicate again.

Review: The Dark Knight

2008-12-30T18:35:00.001-08:00

Okay, so I just saw the Dark Knight, for the first time. I didn't see it in theaters for a number of reasons, and I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad I didn't give in to the hype, I'm glad I stood by my now-more-solid-than-ever convictions that it wouldn't be the end of the world if I didn't see this movie in theaters, despite what certain friends said. Partially because very few movies are that important – and the ones that are are very, very, very rarely accorded all this hype.
A few disclaimers before I launch my all-out assault. I did not like Batman Begins. Though I have a tremendous respect for Christopher Nolan, that was by no means his best work – ever, at all, in any way. That film had a number of problems which inform my problems with this film, both in character and action. Fortunately, a number of them are repaired in this film, unfortunately, many others are not, and some are compounded. Let me also say, as the harshest critic of this film I know, that even I have to admit Heath Leger's performance was impressive – perhaps even astounding. I have long approached Joker with a very different mental picture. Despite this, Leger remains relentlessly convincing. My inability to critique his performance is quite honestly, a vague annoyance to me, as I would have loved to, given all the hyperbole gushed in that area. Still, I find it delightfully ironic that the one character in the movie who doubts human nature most is the only one that seems able to restore my faith in the human ability to act. This also leads into the fact that in many respects, the best parts of this movie were the parts that were not the way I pictured they should be, but which still remained convincing – still seemed to get at the heart of this story, still seemed to exploit all the rich emotional, psychological, and philosophical material with which any such story is imbued, though it is so rarely exploited. Though I was over all expectedly disappointed with the Dark Knight, it did some things right – and it had what every movie of its kind should have – an excellent beginning and ending. It was almost a full hour into the movie before I began to notice the edges fraying, which is far longer than many other movies last for me.
The edges, however, did fray, and then they began to run out as fast as that beautiful little thread from the back of Joker's coat in the opening. And so, without further ado, the angry, grouchy part of the review where I tell you what I thought was wrong with the movie, and challenge you with Arizona stone eyes to have any explanation which would make it all right. I warn you, I'm a little angry. I'm partially angry because parts of the movie were so damnably good, and so convincing, and I wanted to like it, I really did, at times. I wanted to believe someone out there could give me a convincing, alternative version of a Batman story, and still let me believe in it. So, yes, I will be passionate. I hope it entertains - and please do take it as entertainment – don't be upset that I didn't like your favorite movie.
First, and most important (the rest are really just physical incontinuities – yes that was an intentional pun on incontinence -, this first issue is psychological, and therefore far more important to the story and the characters). Okay. Let's set this straight. Bruce Wayne is not a struggle! Batman does not want to be Bruce Wayne! He does not want a normal life! Get it right! Bruce Wayne died (spiritually) the night of his parent's murder, and he has been OBSESSED ever since with “justice” or “vengeance” depending upon which side of the law you sit on, and which label you prefer. Yes, he will not kill, but that is Batman – that is because of his parent's death – that is not Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne is as much of a front as Clark Kent is – even more so, in fact, because in some sense, Superman does seem to want to be Clark Kent – he does seem to at times envy the normal man, though even he knows he can never be one. Batman however, not only knows he could never be one, he does not want to be one. What is ironic about this is that in creating this “conflicted” Bruce Wayne/Batman, the screenwriters actually shot themselves in the foot because in the scene DIRECTLY AFTER he's saying he can not risk the lives of “innocent people” Batman is risking their lives by blowing up cars, plowing through a mall in a supercar (shooting in its windows with no way of seeing what's beyond) and generally being an innocent-life-risking bastard. The Dark Knight cleared this up for me. I always knew there was something wrong with portrayals of Batman in which he wants to be a normal man, but this film, like Batman Begins, reveals to me negatively where these sad attempts at character conflict spring from. Batman can not be an ordinary man – a man does not put on a bat suit and nightly risk his life just because he is rich, or even because his parents were killed – many people have to suffered that, and not been so afflicted. What is unique about Batman is that he is so struck by it, so psychologically changed, or even damaged, that he must take up this mantle himself, alone, and to do that leaves no room for hopes of a normal life, and to see that tangential, sappy hope levered into so many superhero plots annoys me. Superheroes are superheroes because something hugely unique happened – this is inescapable – they are born of alien intervention, strange experiments, or, in this case, and really only in this case, the death of loved ones. It is one of the most beautiful ironies of Batman that he who begins most human becomes, through a human action, the least human-like superhero of them all, and that is so much the foundation of his strange comparisons with his villains, especially Joker. So much for the psychological.
Now, to the other legion of swarming annoying little mosquito problems. In no particular order., beginning with something I am unsure of, but which still bugs me. Most of the time, from what I know, when facial trauma of Dent's degree is suffered, facial reconstructive surgery is undertaken as soon after the event as possible – so probably when he would be unconscious – to save further damage to the muscles, skin, etc. The longer they wait, the more scar tissue develops, the harder it is to deal with. Not a big deal, but annoying nonetheless. Like I said, mosquitos. A bigger problem (okay, this is more like a mosquito the size of an elephant) is how the heck did Joker get out of the interrogation room – sure, he's got glass to the guy's neck, but the room can only be opened FROM THE OUTSIDE, that is the POINT of a secure interrogation room. The writers even make this obvious earlier. Why the guy was in there in the first place is a whole other question. What took Batman so stoinking long in coming to rescue Harvey Dent from Joker's assaults? There's just long enough that the Joker can succeed in so much of his plan, and just short enough that Batman couldn't have come from his penthouse. Brilliant. Speaking of the penthouse, how is it that the penthouse which was, may I remind you, successfully breached by so few as five gangsters during a wine and dine fundraiser, when one would think security would be tight, why is this penthouse suddenly the safest place in the city? Why does Harvey Dent not bleeding insist on this being true, especially given that he himself was endangered there not three nights ago? Furthermore, since when is a cheap RPG (and trust me, the Joker had only a cheap RPG) enough to punch a hole in the new and improved Batmobile? And not only punch a hole, but put the thing completely out of service? An upgraded Hummer easily survives an RPG, and it is built by the lowest bidder, not by the personal servants of a multi-billionaire who cares about nothing more than his personal safety during his midnight vigilantianism. I would scour Batman Begins for film of it surviving worse, but, alas, I have neither the time nor inclination – and to those who would say “well, all it had to do was take out the tires” Watch the film! The tires are fine! The system says “massive damage” or some crump like that, and the tires aren't even deflated!
Okay, on to Batman's personal physical problems – he survives a fall from a penthouse onto a car, is landed on by a girl (who, by the way, seems entirely too uninjured – I was so glad she died) and still has breath to chat her up in a growly, breathy he-man tone, and then, woopiddy do, he's knocked out of commission for a number of seconds by a slowed crash, tires beneath him, into a yielding semi, a crash he never should have been in, because the batbike could obviously stop faster than that – he didn't have to lay it down to turn around, and besides, it was built to be able to go sideways if it needed to. Are we not paying attention to what happened when we said cut five minutes ago? The fall at the end is even better – he falls a maximum of three stories – MAXIMUM, probably less (after that wonderful “oh look, fingers loosing grip, at least he saved the kid” shot) and he's out of it enough to still be lying there, and then to be limping, when Gordon comes down, all because he didn't have anything as soft and yielding as a CAR to break his fall.
Right, onto problems with the villains and their plots. First off, wonderful job on the face for Harvey Dent – nice makeup. The voice, however, sounds EXACTLY like it did before. Let me remind you of a little anatomy – the sound of a voice is projected and formed partially by the movement of the cheek and lips. Hold onto your cheek – just hold onto it from the outside, and pull it for a second, and then try to talk – sounds different, doesn't it? And Harvey Dent, with half his face, lips, cheek, you name it, gone, sounds exactly the same. How could they miss that – making a multiple quatillion dollar movie, with so many other great, wonderfully done details, and no one says – wait a second, that doesn't sound right. Hold on just one gold picking, lambbasting, carrot and celery minute. Let's at least get this freakishly obvious piece of sound engineering right. Okay, enough of that one. What of the Joker? How does he get into the Hospital? They have cops crawling all over, and there he is, the nurses' uniform fools them? Besides that, they're evacuating, and no one takes the trouble to actually look around for the bombs? What? Gotham has no bomb squad? They don't check Harvey Dent's room? He's not even prepped to go in the evac? Furthermore, TV SHOWS SCREEN CALLS! Yet there's Joker, on the TV, at a dial's command, right away. There are hundreds of people watching that show, (if you don't remember, I'm talking about the part where Mr. Accountant (because we've never seen an evil accountant before) says he's going to betray Batman's identity) trying to call in, it's obviously almost the only thing on TV, and he gets right on? Hunh. On to the ferrys- it's the army, and they don't think to check the engine rooms before they leave AT ALL? On top of that, since when do they evacuate prisoners because of a terror threat? Okay, so I believe it could happen in a system as messed up as ours, but really, doesn't it seem just a little bit levered in, so that the movie isn't quite so dark, and so that a few people who believe in the goodness of the ordinary man, not to mention the goodness of the tattooed and physically disabled, but frighteningly strong prisoner? The worst part is there are more convincing ways of talking about the “goodness of man” there are better arguments, and there could have been better scenes, but that seemed far too much like a cop-out. And the guy (the non-criminal) who offers to do it, then can't? Entirely unconvincing, if you want my opinion, though I'm sure you must be sick of that by now. Okay, more stuff, they wouldn't let that prisoner get that close, bye the way, anyway, the “hostage” clowns could have LAID DOWN (they're hospital patients, and they don't think of this? They must have been wanting to lie down!) I know, maybe not earlier, but at least when the swat teams burst in? That's a more minor point, and I could have let them get away with it, but no, not when they're messing up like this. Even worse- perhaps the worst of all these is the interrogation room with the Joker in it - and on top of that, why didn't the cops take his makeup off? You know the first thing they'd want to do – the first step in interrogation – would easily be to deprive him of his face – to wash it off, which could have been so good, because his face could have been almost creepier without the makeup, but no, they didn't think of that, because they get paid obscene amounts of money to make mistakes.
Okay, all that said, like I said, there were parts I really liked. There were bits and pieces I thought fantastic. I wanted to love the movie – which in itself is impressive, because usually I love to hate hyped action flicks, especially ones about superheroes. I love that Batman predicted- absolutely predicted Lucius' behavior about the sonar – and I love that he thought of it, that was really, really good. The ending was great – Gordon's conclusion that Batman has to be chased is right on the money of the character and tone of the movie. If the whole movie could have been like parts of the movie, I would have been so happy, really, I would have. But it wasn't. And I'm not. So consider yourself warned, if you ask me about this movie, if you try to tell me it was oh so good, if you try to convince me that I'm wrong, I'll go down fighting. Not that it isn't possible for me to be convinced – you've seen my weapons, now, you'd better have answers if you're going to try to tell me I should like it anyway, you'd better have your own.
All this to say – the Dark Knight is not a bad movie. It is much better than the majority of movies of its type – but there are movies of another type, and it is to movies of the greater type that I often hear Dark Knight compared – but those movies are made more carefully, and with a greater thought for continuity, and it is annoying to me that these films are not recognized for being great in how they are great. If there were that recognition, maybe both action movies and the “dramatic” movies could begin to care about everything, because it is only in caring about everything – caring that every little bit of the movie is at least interesting, or helpful, or meaningful, caring that every bit works – that any movie can be, in my book, truly great, and that is why not caring enough about the details – every type of detail – is the great sin of so many works of so-called art, be they films or books or poetry or paintings or music or anything else. Oh, and if you agree with me, and want to pass along your ideas without doing your own writing, please do pass on this link to anyone else, I won't complain about free publicity.

P.S. I would be remiss if I did not thank a friend for loaning the movie to me – his action was very gracious, despite my not liking the movie.

Postcards from a time-traveling punk bunny: an opportunity for collaboration

2008-12-28T02:47:00.000-08:00

So, I was lying in bed tonight, and I had an idea...
Well, that's not quite true. I was helping a friend move today, and I happened across a little orange book "The Book of Bunny Suicides" it proclaimed, in large and cheerful font. What a fortuitous meeting, I thought, just my sort of dark humor. So I read, and was inspired. (here's the amazon page, if anyone is interested: http://www.amazon.com/Book-Bunny-Suicides-Andy-Riley/dp/0452285186/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1230461339&sr=8-1)

So, tonight, I was pondering a few of my favorite illustrations (a bunny peppering the eye of Sauron, a bunny V-signing in a row of Nazi troops.) and pondering just how for-crying-out-loud-a-zucchini-in-a-zebra lucky that Andy Riley is, sitting around, getting paid for those odd thoughts. And I had an idea. Surely there must be room in this market for two darkly humorous bunny people.

And so, a dream was born. Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the inclination for drawing my idea out, so, for an artist who is interested enough to collaborate, I'll split any profit 50-50. My idea is of a new world's hero, suitable for internet distribution and newspaper syndication alike (and God knows we need some better comics in the paper) My idea is simply this:

Postcards from a time-traveling punk bunny. A series of brief, sometimes one-image comics, of a raffish bunny causing trouble in different time periods, for example:

Bunny posed to strike the nose off the Sphynx
Bunny riding the head of a stampede through a McDonalds
Bunny giving Hitler the finger.
Bunny giving (insert political figure here) the finger.
Bunny rubbing himself with rosemary and garlic in front of Ghandi

We could, of course, include a number of story-telling multiple-frame comics, for example:

Bunny gets in remote-conrol plane, remote in hand. Bunny flies. Bunny waves at astonished Wright brothers, trying to get their plane off the ground.

We could also include stories from bunny's normal life:

Background noise: Brapp brapp brapp! Bunny's wife: Pesky kids on motorbikes. (next frame) Bunny: Don't worry, I installed a raised speedbump. Wife has quizzical look. (next phrase) Wife opens window, sees kid on motorbike headed toward speed bump, which is literally raised by poles at either end - to about neck level.

So, that's the idea. Any interested illustrators, please contact me: rascalyboy [at] gmail [dot] com. Inclusion of work samples, or possible mock-ups, especially of bunny-face expressions would be greatly appreciated.

To do more research on: Hope it dies with the downturn: Too many titles.

2008-12-22T14:16:00.000-08:00

Leveraged Buy Outs, or LBO's, are something I really wish I could investigate further, especially in the form of "Juicing the Returns". Unfortunately, my personal interests, lack of resources, and lack of funding, all point to me continuing to skip across the waters of interest, wishing someone would fund an extensive search of the milky depths.
To my mind, there are few things more worth researching. I first came across Leveraged Buy Outs in the book "Ahead of the Curve" by Philip Delves Broughton, a memoir of two years at Harvard Business School. In his chapter "Extreme Leverage" Broughton describes the process by which an investor will buy out a company using borrowed money, (essentially, the lenders buy the business with then take out loans on the companies' assets in order to pay himself, attempt to load the business with as much debt as possible, until the company strips down to the bare butt naked thread of its operating expenses. At this point, the company is offered up to the public market as new and efficient, and will commonly sell back for a lot more than it originally was purchased for - sometimes three times as much.
The short term profits, and the attraction for investors, are obvious. What raises a harrowing hall of alarm bells in my mind is the simple question of sustainability - can a company that is so laden with debt, and made so "efficient" actually survive beyond that initial year of plenty - even more so, even if the company does survive, will the slightest hiccup (like a recession) send it spiraling into bankruptcy quicker than cockroaches leave a lit room?
What makes these questions all the more interesting is that there does seem to be some form of this sort of lending/buying before every major recession in our nation's history - a "debt" bubble is certainly one of the operative interpretations of the situation in 1929, the 1970's stagflation era, and Black Monday of 1987. Interestingly, leveraged buy outs "began" in the 1950's, became more and more popular through the 1960's, and disappeared in the 70's. They reappeared in the 80's, were implicated in the junk bond crashes, and went underground for a while. Perhaps the best illustration of this recurrence today is this chart, apparently from the Bank of England.

So, what do I want done? Well, first off, I'm not at all sure this is a culprit. More research needs to be done - specifically into the performance of the companies of which we speak. Even if a solid link can be made between bad performance and leveraged buy outs, and even if this link extends to the depressions and fallbacks however, I would not say the proper solution - at least the proper long-term solution, is to make some government rules about how much can be done. Rather, the solution must be to advance the learning and expected learning of investors - who must learn not to invest in such companies, companies that have been loaded with leveraged buy outs in their past. If this can be accomplished, leveraged buyouts will disappear simply because no one will buy them back, and the possible profits will be nil.

Further resources:
http://shareholdersunite.com/2008/09/08/asset-deflation-spirals-through-de-levering/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leveraged_buyout
http://seekingalpha.com/article/110306-overly-leveraged-private-equity-deals-deepen-recession
http://ukhousebubble.blogspot.com/2008/10/so-farewell-leveraged-buy-out-loans.html
http://eh.net/Clio/ASSAPapers/Parker.pdf

Literature and History in Japan

2008-12-20T20:59:00.001-08:00

Along with attempting to organize my writing projects, in order to prioritize them, I'm going to go ahead and start writing. Right now, my essay is one about Literature and History in Japan, specifically the influence and representation of the end of WWII, and of the Meiji restoration.

For now, it'll focus more on the whole atomic issue, as that's what I've seen more of.

When finished, hopefully it'll get itself submitted to a few essay contests to line my resume.

The first paragraph runs:

Some things are only visible through distance, and some things only in mirrors. Distance, both chronologically, and spatially, has functioned as both a gear and metaphor of clarity in literature, and mirrors, even in Shakespeare, are a way of more clearly seeing our selves – of seeing ourselves differently. Sometimes, too, as we view from afar the literature of distant cultures, we may see things they themselves have no access to. Sometimes, even, we may have the privelege of seeing, in these cultures, a mirror of ourselves, either of those things we are grown too attached to, or of those things we have not, and may want to acquire.

I'm not sure how comfortable I am with the generalizations.

Is it bad?

2008-12-16T17:04:00.001-08:00

Is it bad that I like a world in which thrown shoes can make it to top news?

I think the surreality of it hasn't even entirely hit me yet.

Two thoughts for today: Dialectic

2008-12-15T17:14:00.000-08:00

I know people who fight against thesis, and I certainly know people who will fight against an antithesis, but does anyone (or can anyone) fight against a synthesis? If they can, is it really a synthesis? (my tendency would be to say their first argument is that it isn't)

Is there really any thesis that isn't a synthesis, and an antithesis? Ditto for the others?

My next project

2008-12-15T17:12:00.001-08:00

Okay, so I've been thinking about my writing. I think the first thing I need to do is actually organize a list of projects I'd like to work on, before I get started on one or two...

Help wanted: solving a puzzle

2008-12-15T14:09:00.000-08:00

So, a very evil librarian friend of mine posited a puzzle to me. Apparently, the title of a "classic" or "good" book (possibly modern?) is encoded in:

"2 (33-97)"

I have constructed a table of possible pieces of the solution, available here:

http://spreadsheets.google.com/ccc?key=pWzUpNqryfmDEDZ1GYyG5Ww

It's messy, but it's a start. Go ahead and edit it, add something, make a suggestion (you should probably do that in the comments) and best (here comes the self-promotion) spread the puzzle around. It'd be fun to see how many people get in on solving it (and it means less work for me, ha-ha!)... if you're interested, and have time.

Update: Here is the whole list, to give one an idea of the sort of solution one might want to look for: (thanks to Janet Tillman)

Here’s something to stretch the imagination and keep the ole’ grey cells from becoming soft. Enjoy!

Benevolent Moves Real Fast

1. Bye bye three minus one two limbs
2. Chronological condition that belongs to purity
3. Butcher home half of ten
4. Young raisins associated with anger
5. Pumpernickel outside Johnny Bench
6. Double murder one heckling fowl
7. Fajita wrap not sharp
8. What you hang pictures on and where lions live
9. David’s son squared
10. Felony without impunity
11. Tossed yesterday da seeing tumbler
12. Blades
13. Hubris as well as bias
14. Recline feminine Mr. un Mr. Curfman
15. Hare Race
16. Astounded purchase mirth
17. Sob the dear land
18. Ass after terre a drink with jam and bread
19. The returning to consciousness
20. Red missive
21. Male child gets up too
22. The dissatisfaction that belongs to us owns the coldest season
23. 2(33-97)
24. Consumes Fires plus Foliage

P.S. Benevolent Moves Real Fast translates to Good Books (as in “He really books”). This will help you understand the spirit of the game. One of them is Leaves of Grass and another one is Walden. They are all classic books, some might even call great books. Please let me know if you solve 2(33-97).

Paying attention producers?/ What Quantum of Solace should have been./The greatest Bond cliffhanger ever.

2008-12-13T15:53:00.001-08:00

Okay, so, I'll admit, I haven't seen Quantum of Solace, so there may be premature judgment in the following (isn't there always?) but I trust my friends to some extent, and when they all say a sequel is crap, it pretty much cements my generally correct opinion that if X is sequel, X will suck, especially if X is written after, and by a different team than A, the “original.” This conclusion seems to have held true despite my great respect and hope for Marc Forster, Daniel Craig, and Paul Haggis (especially his work on Crash), and my hope in the greatest title I think a Bond film has ever had (and there have been some good ones, IMHO). So, believing that all these could do better, I wonder what went wrong, and pitch my own idea of what should have happened.

The film opens, after lavish, water-themed opening credits, with the last of them melting into the desert, sizzling on the sands. Bond sits in the sand, back against his car, looking into the distance. He glances to his left. Over the distant dunes, a huge procession is coming, most on camels.
We flash back to Bond searching Mr. White's house. He comes downstairs. White is tied to a chair, and has already obviously been worked over rather badly. Silently, Bond gives him a grim look, and begins to beat him again. We return, mercifully, to Bond in the desert. The caravan is much closer. We flash in and out of the interrogation of Mr. White throughout the first act, learning that Mr. Bond is contacting this caravan because it has some unstated connection with the organization “SPECTRE”, which is not stated by Mr. White, but found on a single piece of notepaper – “SPECTRE, 25.039198, 50.019979 Nov. 3?” It is there that Bond waits now. During the flashes we learn that Mr. White has been taken back to MI5 to be under interrogation there. M begins to talk to Bond about revenge. During the flashes the caravan moves closer, until it directly in front of Bond. When the caravan is half-past him, all of them stop, and Bond is suddenly covered by dozens of guns. He is entirely unperturbed. One of the men comes forward to talk to him.
“SPECTRE?” Bond asks.
The man smiles. “You don't want SPECTRE.”
“What is SPECTRE?”
“To find out what SPECTRE is, is to join SPECTRE.”
“How do I find out more?”
“Go to Dubai. SPECTRE watches over Dubai.”
“Is that where you are going?”
“Yes.”
“Can I travel with you?”
“No, we go too slow for your purposes. You may, however, dine with us.”

Bond dines with them, and, in the darkness around the tents, drives away after the dinner. Later, in the darkness surrounding the tents, he returns, and roughs up a few young men indiscriminately, questioning them about SPECTRE. One of them, he discovers, is a disguised Estonian spy, after she repels his attacks. Her name is Maria, she's the main bond-girl for the movie. She asks to go with him. They drive to Dubai. The second act is split half-and-half between Dubai, and Moscow. In Dubai, Bond-girl tells him where he can find Mr. White's handler. Mr. White's handler asks Bond, just before he commits suicide, if Bond is SPECTRE. This puzzles Bond, and Bond, searching the handler's apartment, is taken captive by a Dubai police task force. They take him, to his surprise, before the Emir of Dubai, who takes him for White's handler, and tells him, after Bond's credentials are cleared, that SPECTRE actually works with the government of Dubai, as well as the governments of Russia, Great Britain, and the United States. The Emir also tells Bond that SPECTRE says there were indications of Mr. White's handler having connections in Moscow. Bond goes with bond-girl to Moscow, to continue to research. There we brow more embroiled in a number of suspicions and paranoias, of Dubai, of the Emir, of the girl, of Moscow, of SPECTRE.
The beginning of the third act, Bond meets a self-described “SPECTRE” agent in Moscow, who tells him that he's “Not from the government, but here to help.” Bond learns more about the apparent structure of SPECTRE, how a number of government agents work with it, but none are allowed to tell of its existence to any others – essentially, the test to enter SPECTRE is to find it. Bond and Bond-girl have a couple more adventures, she could die (she's a Bond girl, she's expendable). M starts to doubt Bond's dedication to revenge, and tells him that Revenge is a quantum of solace – the smallest possible piece of solace, because revenge is always tinged with regret. Revenge means one has power- and probably had the power to stop the thing from happening which now must be avenged.. Bond just looks at her blandly, and tortures White more. White asks Bond if Bond is looking for revenge. Bond says yes. White says, well, that's easy, for that, you need to go back to where you started. Bond girl (if alive) goes back with Bond to the desert (either way, that's where Bond goes), where he tells the nomad (still camped there) he does want SPECTRE. The nomad smiles, and they join the caravan into the desert. If we want to do a classic Bond, they are making love in a covered camel saddle, or wagon, or whatever, when the caravan stops, at the apparently empty edge of the sea. A door opens in the sand, and Bond goes in. M's voice comes on over the loudspeaker.
“You know Bond, you were right. You may not have known it, but the quantum, while it is the smallest possible piece of revenge. But quantum is also a level, and once you get down to where those smallest particles matter, the big ones don't matter anymore. In any case, you're at the right place now. Welcome to SPECTRE.”

There we go. Leaves us wondering whether M is working for the greatest criminal organization ever, leaves us with a great jumping off point where Bond starts suspecting SPECTRE, and, to M's protests, teaches M a lesson about watching her friends. At that point, one could keep creating new Bond films, or return to the originals. Remake anyone? I'll write a script if Marc Forster, Daniel Craig, or Paul Haggis contact me... :)

True enough, and most useful for its air of condemnation.

2008-12-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

"The public school headmaster and the public school prospectus use the word "philosophy" much as Californian Valley Girls use the word "like," ceaselessly and senselessly." - Steven Fry, Moab is My Washpot, "Falling in" sixth paragraph.

The only trouble is, if they were to attempt to use it any more rarely and thoughtfully, it would only reveal, unbeknownst to them, the poverty of their thought.

Our thought for today.

2008-12-12T13:53:00.000-08:00

You know what bureaucracy is, don't you? Bureaucracy is a way of making your rise to power so slow that by the time you have power anyone you were going to use it against is dead, and all the evils you were going to fight have been replaced. By you.

National Novel Writing Month: My Experience, and the Modern World

2008-12-02T17:36:00.000-08:00

1. Words without thought (or other qualitative measure) are stupid and lacking in quality.
2. A high volume of production causes a devaluation of quality products in both economic and intellectual areas.
3. It is therefore the economic, social, and intellectual responsibility of everyone to strive to only produce and only reward quality – in anything we pay for or support.

If you agree with me on the above points, and don’t have much time, or don’t want to hear my conclusions from these theses, you needn’t read further.

As the few who read this blog with any regularity perhaps know, I have been participating in the National Novel Writing Month, hosted by the so-called “Office of Letters and Light.” On Saturday I “finished” with a total of 52,698 words, making me one of the 2008 “winners.” In their vapid and hyperbolic prose, the office of letters and light would like to call this a resounding victory. If my victory resounds, it is only because this victory is hollow – and that is the only reason I would like it to resound.
I will not be posting the rest of my novel on this blog. I apprehended, even in chapter 1, that this writing would not be of the quality I desired. My “novel” suffers most from a complete lack of organization – a trouble I feel is deadly to any story, especially a detective story. While there are certain passages of my novel I do like, while there are certain parts I enjoyed writing, I generally found the exercise not to be worth my time.
I find the reason this exercise was not worth my time interesting, and symptomatic of modern culture as a whole. The reason, specifically, I found this experience hollow, is that the focus of the National Novel Writing Month is entirely upon the production of a set number of words. I believe, however, that the quality of writing should never be judged or even referred to by the number of words. I believe, furthermore, that not even the quantity of writing, and especially of novels, should be judged in words. A novel is not a creature of words - this is obvious as soon as we consider collecting a jumble of words and calling it a novel. It is not a novel. A novel therefore is composed of something other than words – it is composed of ideas, and the quantity of these ideas, the number and depth of them, is the true and only quantitative measure of any writing.
Yes, one might say, but the Office of Letters and Light cannot measure that. Exactly so, and therefore, they should not encourage the production words without content. So far in 2008, according to their webpage, 1,519,501,005 words have been written as a part of National Novel Writing Month, and through the writers, the Office of Letters and Light received donations of $333,682. Needless to say, I find it unbelievable that even a small percentage of these words were produced with worthwhile content. I once had a teacher who would doubtless be happy with this result. He told us often that, to become good writers, we must write every day. I disagreed with him then, and I do so more now. If writing every day were the content of the practice of becoming a great or even good writer, romance novelists would be great writers, as they produce huge amounts of fiction every year. In any list of the most prolific authors of western literature, I would challenge anyone to actually recognize as reasonably good any but Alexandre Dumas, who ranks somewhere around 19th, and wrote many of his books with co-authors. The most prolific authors of the western world are known for novels such as “Wind of Desire” “Gathering Storm” and “Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince.” It seems to me that to encourage the production of novels in the same method as these – as Shakespeare, and later T.S. Eliot phrased “words without thought”, is not only a step backwards in literature, but literally irresponsible.
To save time, and to save myself from proving my point while making it, I will refrain from making suggestions of what might replace it, but I have thought of some which could likely be implemented with less than $333,682 (as a side note, they’re still griping that they don’t have enough money).
I would, however, like to say (at this point my complaint about NaNoWriMo has ended, and my subject becomes the culture) that I think this seems to be a symptom of much of the character of the nation today, a character which the internet makes daily and increasingly apparent. Many pundits refer to western culture as “consumption” or “consumerist” culture, but I think that in some respects, they may have the thing completely backwards. Western culture may be more dangerously “productionist” or “producing” culture. I have heard that one of the contributing factors to the great depression was that there were large volumes of low-quality products warehoused, which began to destroy the value of new production. It has been said that the current bust is deeply related to the production of houses which were assumed to have value, although there were too many houses for any to be of the assume value. Though stores were crowded, and people died, black Friday was considered a failure, because not enough product was sold – so which is there more of? Production or consumption? Of course, especially in this case, the over-production could be symptomatic of too much consumption, but, especially in the case of letters, a terrific amount is produced which is not meant to be read, largely the form of National Novel Writing Month. This production is present not only on the internet, but in Academia, where academics are pressured to (or do of their own free will) produce new books constantly repeating what they have already said, in order to satisfy tenure boards or research grants, rather than taking their time to produce really quality material.
It seems to me that this over-production, without a careful eye to quality (and it is extremely rare when quantity is raised but quality not lost), de-values the qualitative product, burying it in a huge number of suitable but low-quality replacements that consumers will consume, because they are cheap and easy, and, more so, because it is difficult to wade through the thousands of low-quality products to find one or two high-quality ones. Therefore, because no one can find the high-quality product, and high national sales are generally generated through ubiquity, there is even less encouragement for those with the ability to produce to produce a high-quality product, and the bar is lowered again. This is the system which it seems to me the National Novel Writing Month participates in, to name just one.
As an expected result of this, I will not recommend that anyone engage themselves in either National Novel Writing Month or Script Frenzy in the future. I will also recommend that if they really want to, they should be of a specific, and very rare character – a character which has more trouble writing words than planning them, and who, while they might have a refined plot, developed characters, and a host of interesting ideas, lack the impetus to actually sit and write them down. This is not my character (really? You could tell?), but to those who have such a character, I would encourage them, too, not to force themselves through National Novel Writing Month or any other means, to write, but rather, share their ideas with someone, perhaps a friend, with a gift for writing, but little gift for ideas, characters, or plots. Work with someone else. The internet is rife with the production of possibilities of social network, so network, so that you may concentrate on doing what you do best, rather than trying to do something you aren’t really excited about, and depriving someone else of the opportunity to do it. Quality is the only really rare thing in the world, and I still believe that when people see it, especially in writing and philosophy, they long to pursue it, to be a part of its production.
What shall I do? Well, first, I am going to hound a friend of mine, who is a far better proofreader than I, and has a different eye for stories. I’m going to hound him to work with me, because I greatly respect him as a thinker, and don’t want to miss an opportunity to write with him, even though that probably means we’ll disagree about a number of items. Second, I am going to focus on my short stories (since I can’t find someone to write plots for me, I’d best improve on mine) in part so that I can work on my editing, and try to produce small things of unquestionable quality. This will not be easy. Finally, I will work on another blog, the sartorial screen, which will speak mostly of the cinematic history of men’s style, something for which I have a passion, as my loving wife has often pointed out. Through these three things, and in my posts here, (which will large be concerned with the quality of my short stories and essays) I hope to pursue a quality and brevity unmatched by my previous writing, and a quantity of ideas unalloyed with the dross of vapid production. Also, I will be producing less total words. Hopefully. A higher percentage of them should be on my blogs, because a higher percentage will be readable.

My Apologies

2008-11-13T15:18:00.002-08:00

Hey everybody (or anybody - is there anybody out there, and all that) Sorry about not posting in a while. I have been working on the novel, and just posted three more chapters. I'm a little more than a third of the way through, and if I can only avoid writer's block, I should be able to finish on time for NanoWriMo. Please do keep in mind that what I'm posting is quite unedited, so be kind (wife).

Thanks all for reading.

Cooking with Arsnic - Full fifth chapter

2008-11-13T15:18:00.001-08:00

Chapter 5
Going Home
It got dark quickly. I had forgotten how hungry I get when I skip lunch. Fortunately, I found a box of raisins in my pocket. It was still a long night. Some thing to do a second coming for. I was sitting outside the window of a house of a woman whose husband did not care what she did, while she might or might not be hearing important military secrets from an Admiral with whom she might or might not actually be sleeping with, and might be spreading said secrets to the other men with whom she did or did not sleep. I had no trouble, however, believing that she might actually be sleeping with an Admiral. Of course, if it weren't for the fact that my boss and mentor was lollygagging around a boat, busy pretending to be dead for this strange assignment, I would probably delegate this watch to one of the kids. Of course, with my partner "dead", I couldn't exactly involve them in the case. Typical of Hartley, picking a route which creates more work for others, leaving less for himself. Slowly, the lights went out in the house, ending with what must be the servant's quarters. I check my watch, and it's nearing midnight. I'm powerfully hungry, and if anyone else owns the cars, they're staying for the night. Another thing which I find entirely believable. I am consistently surprised at how little people think their neighbors notice over a fence.
If Mrs. Miller's neighbors weren't busy ruining their own pleasant little lives, and that is admittedly likely, they could easily know not only that Mrs. Smith was very busy with other men, but exactly who those other men were, and how little Mr. Smith visited or cared. I once was involved in the case of a sweet little old lady who went into a nice little business for herself blackmail three sets of neighbors, after she, bored one afternoon, simply set out a lawn chair in her own back yard, and watched and listened. She grew addicted to watching and listening, then to the thrill of blackmail, and it was only when that had worn off that she realized just what a predicament she might be in, so she hired us to try to fix her legal problem. We did, by finding out what each house would take to secure the secret of our little old lady's blackmail, and then supplying it. I heard tell they all moved away fairly soon, and that the little old lady, struck deep with remorse, actually gave all the money back anyway. There were piles of it, but people have done stranger things.
Anyway, it was about time I got down out of that tree. Another day I might actually strike up a conversation with her neighbors, or, better yet, her friends. I wonder if the people who receive the gossip of Admirals are as likely to have friends who gossip as anyone else. Probably. It was a fairly and fortunately short walk to the nearest phone booth I could call a cab. I got my taxi, after a wait, got in the back, and was glad of the driver's silence. He drove me to my apartment building in his silent manner, asking me once which way was better. He obviously didn't go to my apartment building often, and seemed distressed to be entering my part of town. It was late enough, all the groceries, food stands, and various other places one might possibly eat were locked up and silent. Otherwise I would have had my intrepid cabbie stop off at the meanest looking one, go in for a quick bite, and come back out, probably to find him gone. Just as well, we went straight to my house, and I held my head as high as I could with thoughts of the pastrami I had stashed at my apartment from yesterday's lunch. It should still be good. That, day old french loaf, a tomato, cheese, a sprinkle of onion. I usually liked my pastrami only with mustard, but tonight I was in no mood to be simple. I wanted to stuff as many tastes into my mouth as it might fit.
I hobbled up the steps to my apartment, legs stiff from a night of waiting and watching, and found, to my surprise, my beautiful young lady, fallen asleep sitting next to my door. Tony, a neighbor poked his head out of his apartment.
"Hey Jimmy, you shouldn't keep her waiting so long."
"I know. Thanks for keeping an eye out."
"Anytime."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."

Tony was an odd man. I pondered waking the young lady, but decided my chivalry would be challenged either by carrying, or by waking, and it seemed the more gracious thing to do to carry her into the apartment. And so, tiredly bending, I did, picking her up, I felt huddled against her, a bag I did not expect. From it wafted the aromas of fresh cooked bread, and I could only believe that in some strange way, she had sensed my hunger, and come to fulfill it, arriving, sadly, far too soon - or at least at the wrong location. I carried her, while still she slept, into my small apartment. It was half one bedroom, half loft, and I laid her on a mostly empty couch, her head resting on a book or two, and some magazines. Thankfully, they were generally clean. As gently as possible, yet with firm determination, I removed the prize form her hands. It was still warm, huddled as it had been against her sleeping form. I could not wait, and bit straight into the loaf of bread, walking towards my small kitchen as I did. I was only a moment before she woke, turned, stretched, fell back asleep for a few moments, and woke again.
"Hi." She said, as if waking on my couch were completely normal.
"Hi." I said, as if it were not.
"See you found the bread."
"Thank you. I don't deserve you."
"That's right you don't. Leaving me waiting like that."
"Sorry. Had a watch."
"I know. I asked at the office. Maybe I can use this to buy some sympathy with Mrs. Tummley."
"Probably. Easiest way to get sympathy with her is to turn her against someone else. In this case, me."
"You going back out there tomorrow?"
"Fortunately, no. Tomorrow I have to case a few bars. Look into the Heartley murder."
"How are you doin' with that?"
"Kind of lonely, but okay."
"Yea, Mrs. Tummley seemed to take it really hard. McAven said you should take the corner office."
"I just might."
"A little heartless of you, the man still being warm."
"Yea, but it's a great view."
"Yea."
We were silent as I ate more of the loaf, and, cutting off some slices, loaded them with a variety of goods. She took one sandwich, and the only sounds, for a time, were the welcome sounds of the uncontrollable smacking of lips trying to navigate silently the sticky waters of good, fresh bread.
We finished, and still were silent, lethargic in our engorged state. All the blood in my body was rushing to my stomach to deal with the sudden influx of food. I knew I had to get to sleep soon, or I would be awake throughout the ordeal of my body screaming at me for so ignoring it. The pains and wearynesses of sitting in a tree for a whole day catch up quite quickly, but, if sleep can be had, the right sleep, before those pains take hold, one can easily avoid their worst manifestations. One look from me was all it took to convince us both that we had the same thought. Silently, she rose, and I walked her to the apartment she shared with three other girls, three buildings away. We walked largely in silence, and I kissed her on the cheek at the door. Our delighted innocence welled up, but you don’t want to hear about that. Suffice it to say, she went to bed, and I, alone, hobbled back to my apartment through the warm Los Angeles night. Once at my apartment, I went straight to bed, stopping only to strip myself of the day’s clothes, not stopping to put them away properly. My mother would be incensed, I knew. My mother could deal with it, and she never had to know.
The half-room I call my bedroom, with only a wall and no door separating it from the main room was not uncomfortable, taken up as it was, largely by a single bed. I buried myself under the unkempt covers, taking care always to make sure that I was positioned properly. I discovered even in my high school years that there were certain ways of sleeping which would stretch the body properly, helping it to recover from a day’s strenuous exercise, or from the long niggling the muscles receive from the stiff positions of a watch. I positioned myself properly in my bed, closed my eyes, and waited for sleep to come over me.
I waited for a long time, a thousand butterflies in my brain, each one trying to settle itself to sleep, but as each butterfly of thought settled, it turned up another, which, restless, would flap its orange wings of the mind, float, listless in image, sound, or concept across my brain, and hover into rest in a spot calculated to disturb one of the crowded companions of my brain. Every now and again, the floating butterflies would all come to rest, and I would, for a moment, skim across the surface of sleep, feeling the warmth of that glowing ocean call me and reach up from its depths, but, some butterfly would discover, at that moment, that it could not endure the snoring of its neighbor, or that it had not vacated its bowels before settling in, and the wings would stretch out, and the pattern would begin again. Somewhere deep in my stomach, a thunder of earthworms began to rumble, disturbing, now and again, the butterflies of my mind. I grew all too glad that the next day’s work would generally be in bars, which are only profitable for anyone after noon.
My first visits, of course, would be to those half-bars half-cafes so often frequented by military workers on their lunch break. Then there would be a hopefully quiet afternoon, followed by the loosened tongues of the bars around town to which the navy men might resort when they grew tired of their officer’s clubs, which was often enough. Finally, at who knows what time of morning, the butterflies themselves grew tired enough of their shifting that they entered into mutual pact no longer to disturb my slumbers, settled down, rose, bloodily slaughtered the single thought that dared rustle its wings, and tumbled back into sleep, to be shifted only by the strange and tectonic patterns of dream. I slept fitfully, secure in the knowledge that I had closed my blinds, and that the morning light would not intrude too early upon my slumbers.

Cooking with Arsenic - Full fourth chapter

2008-11-13T15:17:00.000-08:00

Chapter 4
Climate
“Mister Miller?”
Despite appearances, John Smith was not as nervous as he seemed to be. He was more calm than the day before, and the fidgeting Miller interrelated as nervousness were part and partial to a excess of energy and conscience which, now that movement had finally occurred, had dug itself deep into the psyche of John Smith. Fingers twitching, legs shifting, and rapid eye movements were the symptoms of a man who had lived without adrenaline for so long that when it began to rush through his system for the first time, perhaps in years, it affected him in a way similar to a rich grande cup of espresso, downed by Mormon, forever previous, abstinent of caffeine.
“I want to assure you, your partner’s death had nothing to do with me or my friends. I do not even think it is attached to my case. I have considered it, and I do not think it is likely, furthermore, I hope it is not likely.”
“If you will forgive me.” Miller replied, “I think it is best, no matter what, to proceed with your case as if my boss’ death was directly related. After all, the cases Mr. Hartley usually took often had more to do with Hollywood heiresses than half town hit men. Hollywood heiresses, though they may hold quite a grudge, will rarely plot murder.”
“Surely, he’s made other enemies. Is it not possible, also, that his death was merely a mistake, just one of those things that happens in that part of town?”
“I didn’t say it’s not possible. I said it’s best if we proceed as if that were not the case. I think it’s best if you tell me everything you can, and then leave the rest to me.”
“I suppose I have no choice. I do feel badly for your partner. If I may offer my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
As they spoke, they entered Miller’s office. He pushed a stack of papers from one side of his desk to the other, then put his feet up on the edge of the desk, and lit a cigarette.
“Lucky Strikes?”
“What the doctor ordered.”
“May I?”
“Please.” Miller tossed the pack to him, and for a moment, they joined in one of the oldest conspiratorial traditions in mankind. The warm glow of the cigarettes released from them the glow of Mrs. Tummley’s glare, and gave strange, warm relief from the heat of the day. In hot climates, cigarettes can be strangely homeopathic medicines.
“So. First, what’s your real name?”
“My real name? John Smith.”
“Come on. Now’s not the time to pull my leg.”
“Would you like to see my identification?”
“Yes, actually.” Miller studied the document closely, wrinkling his eyebrows. “John Smith. What sort of parents did you have, that’s been a cliché since Sherlock Homes.”
“My parents did not expect me to be in the midst of a murder investigation, Mister Miller.”
“Really? They seemed to have planned it well enough – a real name everyone will think is an alias.”
“It was certainly partially that they were not raised American. Irony does not translate terribly well I find.”
“True enough. Where were they from?”
A long sigh. “America. But their parents came from Japan.”
“Japan?”
“Japan. This is part of why this so concerns me. My mother was born in America, raised by parents who spoke Japanese almost exclusively. She was raised to speak American. My father was of Scottish blood, adopted by first-generation Japanese parents, who also spoke little English. My father, not knowing his real name, at some point took the name Smith, and my parents desired me to have a name they considered American. I am a very patriotic man, and understand why my so-called people are now under suspicion, but I have no desire to come under suspicion myself.”
“You work as a lawyer?”
“Yes, how did you guess?”
“Not unexpected, along with an American name you were given an American schooling, and the most American of carriers. Being a lawyer gives you the longer lunch break to speak with me, without arousing suspicion, and explains why you have so easily put your ancestry out of the way of notice.”
John Smith checked his watch. “You are more perceptive than I first gave you credit for. I am a lawyer, specializing in business law.”
Miller imagined, for a moment, that he heard a mocking laugh from next door. McAven hated business lawyers.
“So, who is this Admiral?”
“I’m not sure. She just talks about big brass, and about military secrets. She tells me things, reports before they’ll come out.”
“Do you know how they met?”
“Mr. Miller, this may come as a shock to you, working in your business of broken homes and weeping, emotionally betrayed people, but I do not really care what my wife does.”
“For your information, that isn’t what I was asking. You might be surprised. My business is rarely involved with the passionate and betrayed. Usually, I’m called in at the end of a long marriage the couple both knew was over for some time; one side just needs some evidence to ratchet up their winnings in court. I have actually simultaneously represented both sides in divorce hearings.”
“I’m sorry. I tire of those who judge my position on marriage. I was, you see, rather forced.”
“Isn’t every man?”
“True enough.”
“I’m just looking for anything that can help us to understand what is happening, or to help me find the man your wife is… seeing.”
“You could just follow her.”
“That is certainly an option, but I vastly prefer not to, if someone else already is, the situation might very quickly become dangerous, and I think it’s quite dangerous enough as it is.”
“I suppose that is true. Unfortunately, I have no information, as my wife and I live very separate lives, exactly what we came to Los Angeles to have the ability to do.”
“Very well then, what’s your address?”
“24243 Sycamore. But that won’t help you much.”
“Why’s that?’
“My wife’s address is 1322 Canary.”
“The other end of town.”
“Correct.”
“You do live separate lives.”
“I did inform you of that before.”
“Not even keeping up appearances?”
“For whom would we do that?”
“Why stay married?”
“Two reasons, the first being taxes, the second, simply I think we both get some benefit from it. We both found, rather quickly in our marriage, that we were attracted to a certain sort of people who find their joy in thinking themselves home-wreckers, able to turn people away from their wives. There is an inexplicable number of men and ladies willing to throw themselves at those they would not touch, were they not married.”
“The seal of approval of another woman is the greatest attracting factor?”
“Something like that, I do believe. Perhaps a penchant for drama, I don’t know. With those already married, our being married extends to them a feeling that we are living as dangerously as they. I will admit, to a man such as yourself, that this has, at times, proved financially helpful.”
“Blackmail.”
“Only from those who could afford it. I’m sure you understand. We actually help each other sometimes, she will create drama at times when I feel my relationship needs it, or she will help me blackmail to prove I have nothing to loose. All in all, it’s a wonderful marriage, despite appearances.”
“Sounds like it. You aren’t nervous are you?”
“Yesterday? Yesterday I thought I would soon have the immigration bureau breathing down my neck. Today, I know it’s something much larger, and I, sir, prefer prison to paperwork.”
“Very well. I guess I’ll follow your wife.”
“Ironic, you following the wife of a man who couldn’t care less.”
“I told you, it’s what I do. Any idea when I should watch her?”
“Did it sound like I kept track? Do what you do.”
With that, John Smith left.
Jim Miller muttered, and his stomach followed suit. He had been leaning against the desk for the entirety of his interview. He threw himself into his chair, and put his feet up on the desk. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, and ran his hands across his face. He took one three second glance out of his window, swung his feet back down off of his desk, and left the room. As he passed Mrs. Tummley on the way out, he spoke:
“Mrs. Tummley. I will be out for the rest of the day on a trail.”
“Thank you Mr. Miller.” Though Mrs. Tummley disliked rudeness, she did appreciate a businesslike, hardworking attitude. She liked to see them busy, and it was often jested that she was more a slave-driver than Mr. Hartley. The jest was funny because it was an understatement. Jim Miller caught a quick “Very good, sir,” Emanating from her battleship of a desk before he was out the door.
Miller after taking the stairs as quickly as gravity and agility would let him, he paused, and peered out of the doorway, looking for John Smith. John Smith, apparently, had been eager to depart, and had disappeared entirely. After making sure of this, Miller stepped into the street, and, after some watching, managed to flag down a taxi.
“1333 Canary.”
“Right.”
In the taxi, Miller thought of his two trips to New York – taxis there were places of talk and chatter, only occasionally struck by silence, in rare moments when passengers and driver were both quiet. Here in Los Angeles, taxi rides were silent affairs, even the cars more silent than in New York, and the cacophony of horns, motors, and screeching tires. He rode silent through the streets, pondering the movement, and the long, low buildings. After some time, the taxi turned into the residential area, and long low businesses gave way to the long, low houses that form the backbone of the Californian rich life. Canary street was a brief side street, with no number 1333. The cab driver seemed unnaturally perturbed when he was told to stop in a cul-de-sac and just let his passenger out. He took his pay, however, and left. Miller walked back part way back to the gate for 2311. The neighborhood here existed almost completely of gates, the houses being set far enough back from the road that roofs alone were visible. Around 2315, Miller slipped into a hedgerow, and swung himself easily over a fence. He tried to spend as little time as possible in either breaking and entering or trespassing, but the police tended to look with a blind eye toward private investigators with good records who committed minor crimes while doing their job. The police, so long as their more important and public cases were not interfered with, tended to see private investigators as doing work they would prefer not do themselves. Those who extended no such grace were the sort that could often be bribed.
That was trouble Miller would rather not go to, and he was glad to see neither cars in front of 2315, nor any lights on inside. Silently, and staying toward cover, watching the house carefully despite its apparent emptiness. The next yard was occupied by a dog, yet Miller quickly and easily navigated it through trees and fences, keeping well out of the dog’s reach.
Miller, crossing the final yard, found a perch in a tree near the gate. Best of all, he was technically on public property, the tree extending over the sidewalk, and could drop if escape or pursuit was necessary. He so ensconced himself in the brush and bushiness of the tree, it was, after all, a pine, that he could not be seen from nearly any angle. There, he waited, nearly motionless, and without result, for the rest of the afternoon.
There were three cars outside of the house, and Miller could easily believe that all, or none, of them actually belonged to Mrs. Smith. They were each of a certain sort - a rich sort, a sporting sort, yet slightly antiquated. They could have been all of the sort one person might choose, or all of the sort one person's friends would choose, were that person particularly limited in friends. In any case, Miller took all their license plates down, and used the idle moments to memorize license plate numbers and descriptions, and plan routes up and into the house. By the time darkness had fallen, he had worked out fourteen ways he could most likely get into the house, including a daring chimney entrance. Chimney entrances are always problematic, and generally unnecessary, as people who might lock upper windows rarely realize how easy it is for one with practice to climb a house.

Cooking with Arsenic - full third chapter

2008-11-13T15:16:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3
Movement
I know that there is only one thing I should be focusing on now. I know that. All the possible problems that could arise from the Second Coming as a tactic come down to this – it should not be a long term tactic. I twist one lip upward briefly as my college encounters with existentialism come back to me. Isn’t this the problem with Christianity? It executes a second-coming maneuver, but now the family is asking where he is, the archaeologists are checking the death certificate. Were I executing the second coming, it would be something done at the end, not at the beginning. Yet here we are. God created the world. His son died. What now?
Simultaneously, I can see the sense in executing the second coming at the beginning of maneuvers. The disadvantages of the early second coming also operate as advantages – now is the time of most uncertainty. The movement was just too quick – too quick for me, but too quick for anyone else too. Mr. Hartley has placed the opponents into positions of greater uncertainty before. I just need to move. The second coming is meant to draw out information. Of course, it can backfire – people can go into hiding, but as Mr. Hartley pointed out to me before, when people hear of a killing, they go into hiding sloppily, quickly, and this, too, reveals information. So, here’s the question. Given the information we have now, what is the best course of action? This is the primary principle of the private investigator. Probably the primary principle of anyone. I envy, momentarily, the professors I knew at college. They puttered about, gathering information, and had all the time in the world to do so – and if their results were contradicted, no problem, just publish a paper on what an interesting scientific state that put them in, then move on. That worked well for them, but it would never work for me. In most cases, that would mean no pay. In this case, it could mean someone would die – possibly even many people, many young soldiers. As I am unable to go to war, should I feel responsibility towards them? How best to discharge responsibility? No doubt about it. I was caught, with too little information.
There is a simple solution, however, a strangely simple solution. In this case, what would people expect me to do? As I cannot myself decide what I should be doing, the best course of action is to do whatever people would expect of a young private investigator whose elder partner has just been killed. And so, that is what I will do. There are two things that can be done in that case – go to the office, and try to direct an investigation from there, hoping that yesterday’s John Smith will come in on hands and knees, insisting he had nothing to do with Hartley’s death. Of course, that is not what I would do. I must live as if Hartley died. Eat less. Eat more? Perhaps alternate. More importantly, go straight down Apple Street. Look at the place he was “killed” see if I can find John Smith. See if I can find his wife. Apparently, she has a fairly loose tongue.
And so, I walk towards Apple Street, hands alternating between being in my pockets, and hanging by my sides. I keep my head up. Eyes searching the street for any furtive glances. Sometime after the Apple street nonsense I’ll go visit a few bars. Tongues are loosened there. I’ll go to the seaside bars where sailors, from ensign to Admiral, fall off their ships and do a sea-leg crawl to the closest notorious establishment. Two movements, I already feel better. The streets are bustling now, everyone returning to work. I reach the crossroads with Apple. There is a strange four-way balance here, one quarter of the men wear suits and ties, and I look among them especially for yesterday’s visitor. If I am to catch him it would be best to see him before he sees me – but simultaneously, I watch for sudden movements, of the sort that might indicate him seeing me. Another quarter are the denim and coveralls crowd. Many of them are not in their denims, but it is clear their slacks, shirts, and sometimes suits have not been worn for as much of the day. They are scattered, heading back to the demanding whistles of various labor jobs. Scattered, usually among them, are farmers from North, South, East and West, in the city to sell their various produce, their animals, and their fruits. They are generally still in denim. The last contingent is military, and it, if any, holds a slight majority. It has its own variation, the majority the white and navy town-wear of sailors too soon off the boat to change, or too proud of their military standing to consider it. There are scattered among them the green of the army, and the darker navy hues of the air force as well, in increasingly smaller numbers. I turn onto Apple Street, hoping the location will lend me some insight into the nature of our current investigation.
As I walk down Apple, the bars disappear, and so do the soldiers. I know one thing about Mr. Smith. He knows his location. It’s a more downtrodden area, in which there is not the emptiness of the true ghetto, but still, there are not the attractions here to draw the soldiering clan. That is a few blocks up, where these men send their daughters, when they are old enough, and their sons, if they are handy enough with a bottle, a chef’s knife, or, if they are lucky enough, a microphone. Here, there is training for all these professions, training which will never transition into actual labor. There are butcher’s shops for the kids with chef knives, small shops in which the underage and ugly daughters are waitresses, bars only the local visit, and songs sung in Spanish. Perhaps my friend Mr. Smith was not as smart as I thought. He had no Spanish blood that I could discern, if anything, his vaguely oriental looks would earn him, here, more hatred and animosity than I was subject to, though I absorbed the heat of unwelcome glares with practiced ease. I have, after all, had plenty of practice. There were no doughnut shops here, where Hartley preferred to fall, whether that be to add the touch of the local cops, or as an underlying comment on the fat he saw as replacing his beloved bars. So, where would He have fallen? Not in front of one of the local saloons. A man falling there would attract no attention at all. It was unlikely that even the police had a distinct location on his so-called demise. The few ambulances that flit as quickly as possible through this section of town do not keep distinct records, and even if they did, location is difficult to track in a slum – things are always being moved by someone. Some years ago, I read an article about new street signs in one of these neighborhoods. They had been stolen and moved around so quickly that more than one tourist found themselves quickly lost, even in danger, and many of the signs became no more than private decoration. Tourists knew a street without signs was not a street on which they should travel.
The heat began to become oppressive; walking mid-day in Los Angeles is hardly recommendable, even in the dead of winter. I took off my coat, walking with it slung over one shoulder. Even this slight step from the norm more deeply ingratiated me with the populace, my alien presence softened by some casual movements I had picked up, and by the presence of remnants of the Irish in the slums. If certain private eyes wandered into this part of the city, they might be robbed, even killed, marked as under-cover policemen, the slum’s juiciest target. The undercover policeman carries large amounts of cash for cease of movement, and will rarely report a robbery, for fear of making obvious their delicate position. Fortunately for me, one of McAven, Hartley, and Miller’s advantages lay in the work it has done on both sides of the so-called law. Many people, on both sides of this mad game of cops and robbers, forget that the police are not the law, but rather the judges, juries, and codes of the state and nation in which they live, and, in order to keep the law, it is sometimes – sometimes, necessary to go behind the back of those who think of themselves as the law.
This brief and egoistical reverie of democracy brought me to a point likely to be that chosen by Hartley. It fulfilled all of my inclinations, it was near the end of Apple Street, which dove off an uncompleted bridge over some minor runoff, and behind it spread out the brown and khaki that the west and southern United States chose as a replacement for nature. Here the drama could be fulfilled by the audience – Mr. Smith and his partner, hiding at the end of Apple Street, could see clearly Hartley go down. After a brief search, I found upon the ground a dark red splotch on the concrete that confirmed my suspicions. It is in front of a closed vegetable stand, next to a one way side street only too convenient for the Ambulance.
A scraping noise interrupts my reverie. There’s an old Irishman, in vest and trousers, dragging a chair toward the middle of the street. Before this, the street was abandoned, and the man, with a few white scraps of chin-hair worming and twisting above and below his lips, drags the chair directly to the middle of the street, sits on it, and regards me with gray eyes. I suppose this close to the ragged, unfinished end of Apple Street, it almost makes sense. He could have been sitting there last night. He could sit there every day, as his mad fancy takes him. He’s looking around, as if he doesn’t see me, then he looks again bullet-straight at me. He smiles. He leans on the rugged, dark-stained cane he holds in his hands, and smiles.
“Quite a pickle.” He says, his voice thick with accent.
“Eh?”
“A pickle. Quite a pickle. You know, stored in brine. Sour. Plump with the salt-sea juices.” His lips slurp, sucking down an imaginary slice of pickle. “In this case, metaphorical, of course. He fell as if shot from behind.”
The man’s arms and chest, visible round the edges of the vest, lead me to believe he would know how a man looks when shot from many directions. I’d trust him more if Hartley were “killed” by knife.
“How do you know what I’m looking for?”
“Don’t ruin the mystery, man.” He says. “Though I suppose that’s what you private detectives are for, isn’t it now? To give you a hint, no stranger stops in the middle of this neighborhood to study the sidewalk. No one round here drops diamond rings or hundred dollar bills, and I know everyone around here. Does that make it clear enough for you, or will you have to investigate for yourself?”
“Did you see him fall?”
“Did I see him fall? I was sitting right here, wasn’t I?”
“Were you?”
“I was, I’ll have you know. Don’t disrespect me.”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
He laughed. I paused. This was the strangest encounter I’d had in a while. I was saddened to find myself unprepared for it.
“Now, is there anything else you’d be wanting to know, or can I go back to smoking my pipe?”
“Do you know a John Smith?”
“John Smith, I know a lot of John Smiths. You don’t have time to meet all the John Smiths I know. John Smiths, and John Does, that’s the only people I know.”
“Anyone else in this neighborhood see anything?”
“No one in this neighborhood sees nothing. I’m the only one sees anything. I am the surrogate eyes of the world. They pluck them out, give them to me.”
The man was mad, but metaphorical. I had no doubt that the people around here would have nothing to say – besides that the existence of some secret government killer was pure myth, invented by the oh-so-professional private eyes. Just one more question, for my amusement, and to lend some quantum of solace and plain explanation to this mad conversation.
“You come to Hollywood to act then?”
“Me? I was born acting. I’ll give you to know, true actors never appear on screen, not when they’re born acting. They that are born acting want to see. They that have to learn want to be seen.”
“Wise words.”
“Hidden thoughts. Go with God.” And, as if I had spoken a password, effective, though unknown to me, he was gone. He stuck a pipe in his mouth, and lit the pipe, and proceeded to blow smoke out through his nose, his lips shut tight like those of a determined child. His arms were crossed. I know our conversation was over, and I felt like he would not speak again for that whole day. This was enough, I supposed, any tail must have tired of this conversation by now, and would understand if I pursued the neighborhood no farther. Any nearby rooftop or room could house the marks of the killer’s rifle, it was pointless to search those.
Quietly, I turned, and began to walk back down Apple street, my coat still thrown over my shoulder. Magically, the tone of the whole street had changed, and I was met with something like acceptance by the people as I walked by, as if my conversation with the mad Irishman had somehow washed from me the stench of the rich city boy I was. No doubt that stench was deep inside me, and would soon exude from my skin again. I rejoined the four way flow of man at the intersection, since deeply quieted. The lunch hour was not yet over, but a few early returners to their desks were walking my way, down towards the docks, and toward my office, and the subtle but infective aromas of the white collar world. A few taxis passed me by, and I could not notice how old and rare the taxi drivers seemed to be, since the disappearance of so many young men to war. Perhaps they would come back, and fill those taxis again soon. I wanted to walk, to clear my mind, to focus on what to do next. A few bars? I needed to find out more about this Admiral. There was no alternative. I would have to find John Smith. I thought his first name was John, the Smith a definite forgery – perhaps intentional to cover up the unrehearsed dropping of his first name. I did not put my jacket back on until I had walked all the way up the stairs of the building, enduring the looks of prim secretaries, lunching at their desks with the doors wide open, and looking out at the stairs. In front of my office, I breathed deep, and dove back into the wooly warmth. Stepping through the door, I met my favorite unabashed glare.
“There’s a mister Smith to see you.” Mrs. Tummley said. She was always more cranky when Mr. Hartley was gone. I turned towards the seats which waited to one side, and there, sitting, looking even more nervous than yesterday, was John Smith.

Cooking with Arsenic: Chapter Two: The Second Coming

2008-11-06T10:35:00.001-08:00

Chapter 2

The Second Coming

The second coming was a trick Hartley had worked out during his career as a solo investigator. The operation of the second coming could be extremely complex, fortunately, Hartley was unmarried, and relatively unknown, Hollywood actors rarely paying their respects to private investigators. At 9:00 that night, Hartley would be seen leaving a party in a high-rent part of Hollywood. The primary witness of this would be the party’s private bartender, who would mark the sudden decline in the disappearance of Gin.

At 9:15, on his way to Apple street, the respected Mr. Hartley, private investigator, would drop to the ground, blood flowing out of his body. Fortunately, there would be an ambulance nearby, and no one would notice the relative youth of the ambulance’s operators. The right high school students are both indistinguishable from the college-aged ambulance drivers of the day, and extraordinarily discreet. Mr. Hartley would be delivered directly to a police station, and directly to the head of that particular police morgue and autopsy, Reginald Emminson, a first-generation American, from England, sent over just before the first word war. He had an unquestionably morbid sense of humor, and was only too happy to send a friend’s paperwork in all the necessary directions. This caused a murder investigation in the department, which was usually handed to a relatively inexperienced, and notably lazy investigator. The hospital received “body received” paperwork, which listed the doctor who declared Hartley dead as an indistinguishable name, halfway between two of the more absentee and forgetful doctors at the given hospital of choice. Of course, it need not be the same hospital every time.

Hartley had died several times any hullaballoo. The obituaries page in most newspapers is run as a stopping point between copy boy and other assignment, and in some papers is run as a punishment post more than anything. As such, and given the relatively nomadic nature of journalists, chances that anyone would notice two identical obituaries were close to zero. Given the nature of the post, most newspapers were more than happy to accept the family and friend’s offers in obituaries. This, Mrs. Tummley did in the morning, from letters already prepared, ranging from the suspiciously polite, to the mind-numbingly praise-filled.

According to this plan, Jim Miller left the office at 9:30 the morning after the supposed murder, and traveled down to the police station, where he was met by Reginald Emminson. Reginald saw it as a necessity that the role be played up somewhat. As anyone who knew McAven, Hartley and Miller would know, Jim Miller had been close to the esteemed Mr. Hartley since his childhood. When Miller arrived at the morgue, he was met with a brief and sufficiently awkward hug, entirely outside the character of the still very English Reginald Emminson. He was then lead into the silence and solitude of the police morgue. The solitude of the morgue is a wholly strange solitude, a strangeness Emminson loved, and to which Miller had never entirely adjusted. In the morgues of the late twenty first century, bodies are will be stored in cabinets, ensuring that any friends or family to visit the morgue will see only a single body. This, however, offers no consolation to Jim Miller, who must wander among the cracked marble slabs, half-sheeted white. In a police morgue work of a more immediate nature than that of the undertaker is constantly underway. In this old sort of morgue, bodies are constantly in view. The effect is like that of entering a room filled with sleeping people – a brightly lit room filled with the sleeping. These eyes, however, have often lolled or been pushed open, despite the absence of any comprehensible consciousness. The faces are white, and the absence of breathing is marked. Surely it is in morgues where men first dreamed of vampires and zombies – the undead, who, though they appear to be living, still leave anyone in contact with them with the horrible taint of the simacrula of life that is the carcass.

“Lost another partner, eh Jim?” Reginald says. He speaks partly through his nose, an oddity for morticians, whose sense of smell sometimes even deteriorates from being so often half abused, half neglected.

“Yea. They drop like flies.”

“It’s a risky business.”

McAven, Hartley, and Miller had lost people before- though never partners. More often than not, those killed in the strange non-duty of private investigation had been those with a more than tasteful connection to the crime, one deeper than the investigation went, only on the payroll because Hartley knew the value of information. Sometimes, in the strange human cannibalism of finances and lusts, they were killed by their families. Though the most uncouth of tribes will shy away from family meat, the family of many men will gladly devour his finances, properties, and ambitions, for the right end, and should they think themselves invisible to the law.

Those who died in the course of investigation were always offered a pleasant funeral by McAven, Hartley, and Miller. Often, their families could not or would not pay for the funeral. They were not, however, offered the use of Mr. Hartley’s yacht, where he planned to spending the next week or two finishing a number of books, and several bottles of Gin, and fishing. If duty compelled him, he may even read up on a case or two, or track the doings of Hollywood superstars, his most lucrative perspective clients. Now and again, his sail might wink above the horizon of some actor’s seaside castle, long-range telescope and camera trained upon the suspicious beds. This was dangerous - both because these seaside castles can be surprisingly hard to tell apart, and because Mr. Hartley would have no way of knowing how the investigation progressed. In times of peace, information could be snuck to the ship through Morse code on little-used channels. In full-blown war in the Pacific, the Navy watched every channel, and such activities were foolhardy at best, illegal at worst.

Mr. Hartley’s body was one of the few covered with a sheet, and when Miller lifted it, it was to his surprise that he saw the slightly pale face of Mr. Hartley.

“Fool” he muttered. He thought he saw the crack of a grin, which confirmed his suspicions. Some people took necessary risks, and Mr. Hartley was not one of them. Necessary risks were not so much taken as ignored in pursuit of the more interesting risks. Miller laid the sheet back down over the dear deceased. The white cloth felt like the weight of sailcloth more than a bedsheet. Miller wondered if this was Emminson’s precaution against the detection of breathing. He doubted the Englishman had the wisdom, foresight, or sense of diligence to think of it. He concluded it was best just to think of it as a normal sheet, and noted to himself not to imagine the sheets in a morgue rustling in the wind anymore, at least, not in anything short of a hurricane. Of course, as soon as he identified the body, it would be zipped into a bag, a new addition, and wheeled out, theoretically to be cooled and preserved during the investigation, but in fact, it would be “accidentally” delivered to the docks, where Mr. Hartley would leave port, an assumed name on the shipping register.

“That’s him.” Miller muttered, smelling gin still on Hartley’s breath.

There were plans in effect, in case something unexpected took place. If the detective on the case showed an unnatural amount of interest in seeing the body (usually, a coroner’s report would suffice) Emminson would be more than happy to get in a row with one of the younger attendants, one who was failing anyway, and, if necessary, produce a false corpse. To especially bar this necessity, the detective on the case would be informed that a private investigator, one Mr. Miller, was already investigating the murder, and had inspected the body, and would be more than happy to share any further information he uncovered. Jim Miller wondered if it wouldn’t be wise to feed a couple of useless and moronic tidbits through Mrs. Tummley – exactly the sort of drivel a cynical policeman would expect to come from a young private investigator with no experience in murder cases, but would give the policeman one more excuse to visit the donut shop. Still, the thought of breath rustling the sheets brought again to mind the sheer audacity of such a plan of fake death, the audacity of many of Hartley’s plans. Often, of course, the audacity was a calculated one. Hollywood stars and celebrities are rather fond of both drama and audacity, the businessmen that run the celebrity sideshow even more so, and elaborate plots, and tricky capers attracted high-paying business, extra bonuses, and often, the sympathy and consequent confession of the guilty party. Often, the stars who were on the receiving end of the trick or plot, even if it was uncovered before being fully successful, would confess. A memory of Mr. Hartley, purely vocal, hummed in Miller’s mind. “Stars, celebrities, and the businessmen who manage them.” Hartley once said, between sips of a Gin Rickey, “Are inherently dramatic, and gluttonous for attention. When they feel they’ve been upstaged, they will, almost always, try to return the attention to them by dramatic means, and there is nothing so dramatic as a confession, and the most dramatic confession, the most final confession, is confession of the truth. In this twisted town, people will likely go to jail for the truth, but will only tell the truth for the sake of drama.” As much as Miller did doubt the effectiveness of this amateur psychology, he had seen it work. He was worried about this case, however. He wondered if Hartley recognized the strange commentary he was making on the military by treating them as similar to Hollywood stars. He wondered if too much time dealing with those twisted people in the Hollywood hills had finally twisted Mr. Hartley. Most of all, he wondered if there were people, other people, who would mess it all up. He didn’t know whether or not Hartley’s parents were alive. Brothers, sisters, cousins, they were all possible, and anyone who would be interested in Hartley’s death was a potential danger.

All these things on his mind, Jim began his long trek back to the office. Conveniently, his way back to the office, he met a short redhead with whom he shared a short and early lunch. She did not intrude upon his quiet, but rather danced conversationally around the edges of his life, tying off frayed strands on the edges of his spirit.

Ron Paul? A modern Triptych: Creative mind seeks skilled hands.

2008-11-05T13:31:00.000-08:00

I wish I had skilled artist friends with few ideas - because I have a swarm of ideas but very unskilled hands. Somehow, of course, I suspect that this is a widespread problem - everyone has ideas. Ideas are easy. Skill is difficult. At least, that's the way it seems to me. Anyway, here's my idea for a representation of what a lot of people are feeling after the election. If anyone with skilled hands wants to paint it, put it on deviantart or anything like that, please do, just give me credit. Call it a community work.

A triptych is a three-panel painting, by the way, and is usually found in ancient churches, often behind or in front of the altar.

The first (left) panel would be labeled "Democrat" and would feature a young man, a very city-styled young man, visiting his family. He sits on a couch toward the background of the picture, and has an ironic look of pain and relief on his face. In the foreground, but only half-in-focus are either his family, or the remains of their campaign. They are clearly Republican. It's unclear whether they know which way he voted. He's the sort that might have voted Republican under other circumstances.

The second (right) panel would be labeled "Republican" and would feature much the same irony - this time probably a middle-or-older-middle aged man, in a teacher's lounge or place of business, his co-workers obviously rejoicing over Obama's victory. He is very clearly a family man, and no fool or caricature, just a man who cares about certain things (like abortion) enough that he felt it necessary to vote for the Republican ticket. Perhaps there's a wedding ring on his finger. Perhaps he's clearly a military veteran. Perhaps he even holds his infant son or grandson. Something like that.

In the middle panel, a man of somewhat indecipherable age would hold over his head a sign saying "RON PAUL." There is a mixed look of hope and despair on his face, like that on the face of Charlie Chaplin at the end of City Lights. He's trying to hold on, and he's happy to be holding on to his passion, but he feels disappointed.

At least, that's the idea. Who knows.

Cooking with Arsenic - full first chapter

2008-11-05T13:28:00.000-08:00

Cooking with Arsenic

Chapter 1
Port

From my office, I can see Los Angeles Harbor. It's not a corner office or anything. It's just high enough to be a pain to get into, and just low enough never to be mistaken for prestigious. It has one window that looks out over the Pacific Electric building, then out to the crooked beach of the San Pedro turning basin. My desk doesn't face my office door, like I want it to, because I like looking out at the ocean. The port is always busy these days. A few frigates, maybe even a destroyer are docked there, the less-important cousins of others under repair at Midway and Hawaii, bombed or no. I have my desk sidelong to the door.
Sometimes, in my more heroic moods, I like to think of some half-hearted crook busting open the door, screaming revenge, firing misguided shots through my window, while I crouched behind my impenetrable desk, waited for the shooting to subside, and then arrested the poor, misguided sap. Of course, it would never happen. They'd never get past Mrs. Tummley. She worked for the library for fifty four years, before they made her retire. She works here through equal measures of generosity and spite. Generosity for my associates and I, McAven, Hartley, and Miller, private investigators. I'm Miller. Mrs. Tummley's spite is reserved for anyone who tells her when she should retire.
Suddenly, my door bursts open, and through it, comes a sight as surprising, though not as shocking, as a revenge-bent, crook-toothed monster with a gun. Through my door walks a beautiful blond, almost six feet, five feet of which is all legs. She has two of them. They're each about two and half feet. Six feet of legs. Basic math. I can still feel the radiant heat of Mrs. Tummley's spite like an aura around her. Mrs. Tummley does not extend her generosity to blonds.
“What'cha thinkin?” She asks, interrupting my repose. She's chewing gum.
“Narrating my life.” I respond. I have to work on making it less obvious I'm thinking.
“Always said you'd best stop watching those movies.” She replies. Typical female attitude. “How's it coming?”
“Fine. I was just thinking about how a beautiful blond walked through my door, almost six feet tall.”
“Why do I have to be a six foot blond? You don't like the way I look?” The petite fiery redhead says, who is now luxuriating in one of the sadly bestained chairs which flotsam my office.
“I'm translating.” I reply, wincing at the extra stain of rivet-driver grease she's added to one of the less stained charis. “You have to be that way for the audience to understand how pretty you are.”
“I told you, you need to stop it with those movies. Used to be, people only thought they had an audience when they were on stage.”
“Not true.” I reply. She has abandoned her chair after a particularly bad creak, and re-positioned on my desk. She's trying to distract me. Crafty vixen. I carry on. “Since when were you so old, to be speaking of “back in the day?” Besides, you know very well that Chaucer and Shakespeare both were extremely audience-conscious, off stage as well as on. Homer probably was too, and Plato, well, obviously.”
“I'm three months older than you.” she replies. “And they weren't wasting the precious little time of their girl's lunch break.”
“True enough.” I reply. “Were would you like to go today?”
“Can't.” She says. “Have to get back, and I ate on the way here.”
“As always.” I say, feigning disappointment. I would be disappointed, don't get me wrong – it just happens too often for any real feeling. She remains unconvinced of my disappointment, and in a movement of the utmost aggression, kisses me squarely upon the nose before braving the spite of Mrs. Tummley, swinging herself, lithe out of my office. As I snatch at a last few glimpses of her through my glass door, a young man, sadly, of obviously foreign origin pushes through the door, and heads directly for my office. It has the discouraging characteristic of being closest to the door, and most visible as one enters. On his way, his ankle meets the ankle of Mrs. Tummley. He trips, and falls, very nearly smacking his head against my glass door. Thankfully, Mrs. Tummley's aim is better than that, and he misses. Her ankle will be fine. I have known for some time she does not approve, indeed, she retains her deepest, most horrifying spite for those who underestimate the power of the secretary.
The man, however, seems distracted enough not to care. He scrambles to his feet, his smooth-soled shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. He dives into my office, like the last man onto the lifeboat, and takes a moment to buoy himself by the door, his eyes scrambling momentarily for me, returning twice to the middle of the room, where my desk, it seems, ought to be. He blinks twice, his eyelids seeming to make a clack similar to his shoes. He does not seem truly at rest until I stand.
“Come in.” I say. “Have a seat.” I glance outside. Mrs. Tummley is glaring at me, now, hoping against hope I will eject this poor, bedraggled, and well-heeled (if not well-soled) individual, putting him back at her mercy.
“Mister McAven?” He asks.
“No, Mr. Miller.” I reply. He looks disappointed.
People seem to eternally have the wrong idea about this. Why is it that a company of private investigators is always thought to have the most senior member in full view of the door? What other company commits such heresy and foolishness? Besides this, Mr. McAven isn’t actually the longest-standing member of the company, that would be Mr. Hartley. Mr. Hartley started Hartley, private investigations, in 1917. He made his fame investigating and providing sound legal advice for liquor merchants, especially the smaller ones, and for investigating the divorces of Hollywood movie stars. Mr. Hartley was one of the first private investigators in Los Angeles, and one of the most trusted. That our sweaty friend sitting across from me did not know Mr. Harley ran the business indicated that his fine shoes were not bought with movie-cash. Mr. Hartley added Mr. McAven in 1937, when he began to see the great assistance an experienced lawyer could add to the investigative process. Mr. McAven had been especially impressive in the Roman Strauss affair. He retired shortly after that sordid affair. It was only two years later Mr. Hartley and Mr. McAven added Mrs. Tummley, when McAven and Hartley was becoming a liferaft for the retired but not tired.
During this time, Mr. Hartley had never underestimated the assistance of a young pair of legs, or arms, and had provided part and full time gainful employment to any number of young men, and for that matter, young women, which was how I found my first employment here. You see, McAven and Hartley, at the time, hired a young lady to do secretarial work, a young lady who held in her lips and long, long legs the hope of most of the junior and senior classes at my high school, along with the daydreams of more than a few of the freshmen and sophomore types. My working for Hartley was a way of impressing her. In the fire and passion of my love, I ended up impressing him more, working a number of jobs, some of which have something to do with my unfortunate juvenile record, others with my unexpected acceptance at Stanford. I returned to work for him all three summers of my college education, giving me the opportunity to regale the young and influential of Stanford my very own Dashiell Hammett stories, ever so slightly, well, translated. When I graduated, my graduation present from the one who could only be described as a secondary father figure was the offer of a full partnership, and the opportunity, should I so choose, to hire my very own young lackeys to do the heavy lifting. Mr. Hartley has taken the addition of another partner to mean that he can begin his own retirement, if only partially, though the advent of the war has attracted him again to our offices. He has been fascinated, as have we all by the special problems in investigation provided by the essentially gypsy class of military men, and the tight self-protecting organization of the military. Most of our business now comes from a variety of night-club owners and businessmen seeking various reparations for damages done by visiting military men, who seem to do as good a job trashing Los Angeles as they have ever done to the pacific islands.
Which brings us back to our poor sweating friend here. Interesting, he sits crooked. That, and his age, explain his being here rather than on some Asian island. Excuse the long description, I know it’s out of character, it probably won’t become important later, but it’s my life, I find it interesting, and I’m not old enough yet to be terse and cynical.
“May I see Mister Hartley?” he asks. His accent is of garden-variety school-taught. Not indigenous. Interesting.
“It’s possible, but it would require pleading with Misses Tummley.”
“Miss Tummley?”
I nod towards the reception area. Our friend turns several shades of pale, interesting to only but the most jaded of anthropologists. “Don’t worry.” I assure him, “I can help.”
I see his face recover, the white grimace easing into a tan dour. I know it’s my charm and respectability that help. I try to remind myself that charm and respectability don’t mean squat with a bullet between your ears and a drunk tax accountant – or wife – standing over your body, screaming about tariff law. More horrifyingly, charm doesn’t matter when faced by an IRS agent. It is a long-standing law of the universe that no one can charm an IRS agent. That is the whole basis of American government, and the reason they are the most feared men in the world.
“But.” I say, dramatically, “I would have to know how first. And a name might help as well.”
He stutters for a moment, then manages “John Smith.”
“Very well, Mr. Smith.” I say, giving no indication of incredulity, except the absence of any raised eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”
He ponders for a moment. Sits back. Sighs. Ponders. Lights a cigarette. Shakes it. Draws. I put my feet on the desk.
“You can…”
“Yes?”
“It would be of great help, if you – if Mister Hartley – could meet me, and a friend, at the end of Apple street, at 9:30 tonight.”
“He’ll want more details before he accepts an invitation.”
“A matter of national security.”
“What sort of matter?”
“Of some delicacy.”
“Matters of national security, in my experience, are rarely matters for delicacy.” What the hell do I know? I’ve never been involved in a matter of national security in my life, unless you count the governor’s affair, and that’s a different matter.
“I don’t think you are in any position to comment.”
“Well done. You called my bluff.” Best to just own up to it. “I still insist upon knowing.”
“My wife has several times gone to bed with a certain Admiral.” Hardly a matter of national security. But typical of a jealous husband. “Not that I mind, you understand. I can trust you to be discreet?”
“Of course.”
“And this Admiral, he has disclosed certain secrets.” Could this be on the level? “I am concerned such activities may continue, and may threaten the fiber of this nation. Loose lips, and all that, you understand.”
“Very much so. What would you like us to do about it?”
“You know the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know their, say, penchant for protecting their own?”
“All too well.”
“How much stronger do you think it would be, with an Admiral in the docket?”
“Yes.”
“Yes indeed. I must go now. Cannot be late back to work. Sir, I trust this message to you, I trust you to get it to Mister Hartley. Apple street. 9:30. Tonight. You understand the necessity of his involvement.”
“I’ll pass him the message.”
“Very well. I bid you good day.”
We shook hands. Very small hands he had. He managed a smile, and I once again felt the soothing glow of Mrs. Tummley’s spite as he exited the office. I took a minute to review the facts in my head, then exited my office as well. Mrs. Tummley’s glow combined in both spite and generous patronship. Spite for my friendliness to intruders, patronship for the obvious reasons.
“Misses Tummley, my favorite woman above thirty.”
“You have a lot of favorites under thirty.”
“True, but none so dependable and knowledgeable as yourself. Is the boss in?”
“He hates being called that.”
“I’m not calling him that. Not to his face at least. Is he in?”
“He is. What’s going on?”
“A matter of national security.”
“Ten years, and I still don’t learn never to ask.”
A pause too long, and I know I’m beaten, before the battle of wits has begun. I try anyway. “But if you didn’t ask, you’d miss out on all that gossip.”
Her victory dissolves the spite. She smiles.
“In any case, you can go in now.”
“Thanks.”
I head down the hallway towards Hartley’s office. On my right, an old oak door is cracked open, and I can see McAven bent over a tome the size of Belgium, in a comfortable chair. He could be sleeping, or reading, it’s hard to say. The same uncertainty had struck many a judge in court. McAven once told me that guilt is a great tool – a lesson well learned in private investigations. More than one unfriendly judge had fallen into guilt and then kindness after heartily reprimanding the old lawyer’s doze, only to find that he had “entered a state of repose so as to better focus upon your honor’s words.” Upon request, McAven could always repeat back the last several sentences of the proceedings. Whether this was simply an anomaly of his sleep, I still wonder. On my left, behind a closed door, is a conference room which becomes a partial office each afternoon for whatever part-time workers we employ. Sometimes, it’s a place the more bookish can come to study without being anti-social, and without the monotony and limited social options of the library. At the end of the hall is Hartley’s corner office. He offered it to McAven when McAven joined the company, but the elder man said the light and business out of the windows distracted from his reading – and probably from his sleeping as well. The door is cracked, but I knock anyway.
“Boss?” The door swings, silent and graceful, wider. Straight across from the door, he sits. A single, graying raised eyebrow reassures me that I’m still not really in trouble for calling him boss. It also tells me, and many people, that, though gray, he has not begun to droop with age. He is, as always, dressed impeccably. A suit of fine, light wool and mohair sheds the California sun, shimmering ever so slightly. Beneath it, a cotton vest with a subtle windowpane betrays a relaxed nature, at least, today. He is leaned back in his chair, reading some report submitted by one of our “junior partners.”
“What’s cracking, Jim?” He says, putting the report down.
“New case.”
“Sounds interesting from the commotion out there.”
“Might be. National security stuff, maybe another chance for you to show off just what idiots the Navy churns out and promptly aggrandizes.”
“Man thinks his wife is in bed with an Admiral, getting all sorts of secrets.”
“Did he have any proof?”
“Not that he mentioned. Most jealousies don’t come with delusions of grandeur.”
“It would seem self-contradictory. Did he seem jealous?”
“No, not particularly. He wants to meet you to talk it over, apparently, “He and a friend.” At the end of Apple street, tonight, 9:30.”
“Sounds dangerous.” This voice came from behind me. McAven had, among his overly well developed bag of lawyer tricks, the ability to creep silently, or to command attention by sound, entirely at will. He often used this ability to nearly hypnotize juries, sliding lithely over points not particularly helpful to his case, and pouncing upon the elements which the jury would later remember.
“Not particularly.” Hartley replied. “Actually, it sounds lovely. Your visitor, he was nervous?”
“As a…”
“Young man whose wit fails.” McAven supplied, unasked.
“But reticent?”
“Eh?”
“Of ungreased mouth.”
“Positively rusted shut.”
“Sounds like a good time for the second coming.”
“Haven’t we done that one a bit much? Besides, it’s it early for the second coming?” McAven was always the pessimist. His practice was based on it.
“Not at all. We’ve never used the second coming in anything attached to a military operation, and in this case, it’s probably best to strike first.”
“I still don’t trust it. I make it a habit to avoid teams that refuse to play on any field but their own.”
“Of course, but that’s exactly why the second coming exists. It exists because we don’t trust people. And I don’t think it’s too early, especially in matters of national security. In any case, it’s what I plan to do.”
We both knew better than to argue.

NanoWriMo - My Progress So Far

2008-11-03T16:50:00.000-08:00

It's National Novel Writing Month, and what follows is my first attempt. I'm progressing fairly nicely, but worried about my ability to keep the volume up. I've got an odd mashup of satire, self-awareness and humor going into an essentially noir novel, so it's turning out rather strangely. Not sure how that combination will turn out. I'd be interested in any comments.

Cooking with Arsenic

Chapter 1

Port

From my office, I can see Los Angeles Harbor. It's not a corner office or anything. It's just high enough to be a pain to get into, and just low enough never to be mistaken for prestigious. It has one window that looks out over the Pacific Electric building, then out to the crooked beach of the San Pedro turning basin. My desk doesn't face my office door, like I want it to, because I like looking out at the ocean. The port is always busy these days. A few frigates, maybe even a destroyer are docked there, the less-important cousins of others under repair at Midway and Hawaii, bombed or no. I have my desk sidelong to the door.

Sometimes, in my more heroic moods, I like to think of some half-hearted crook busting open the door, screaming revenge, firing misguided shots through my window, while I crouched behind my impenetrable desk, waited for the shooting to subside, and then arrested the poor, misguided sap. Of course, it would never happen. They'd never get past Mrs. Tummley. She worked for the library for fifty four years, before they made her retire. She works here through equal measures of generosity and spite. Generosity for my associates and I, McAven, Hartley, and Miller, private investigators. I'm Miller. Mrs. Tummley's spite is reserved for anyone who tells her when she should retire.

Suddenly, my door bursts open, and through it, comes a sight as surprising, though not as shocking, as a revenge-bent, crook-toothed monster with a gun. Through my door walks a beautiful blond, almost six feet, five feet of which is all legs. She has two of them. They're each about two and half feet. Six feet of legs. Basic math. I can still feel the radiant heat of Mrs. Tummley's spite like an aura around her. Mrs. Tummley does not extend her generosity to blonds.

“What'cha thinkin?” She asks, interrupting my repose. She's chewing gum.

“Narrating my life.” I respond. I have to work on making it less obvious I'm thinking.

“Always said you'd best stop watching those movies.” She replies. Typical female attitude. “How's it coming?”

“Fine. I was just thinking about how a beautiful blond walked through my door, almost six feet tall.”

“Why do I have to be a six foot blond? You don't like the way I look?” The petite fiery redhead says, who is now luxuriating in one of the sadly bestained chairs which flotsam my office.

“I'm translating.” I reply, wincing at the extra stain of rivet-driver grease she's added to one of the less stained charis. “You have to be that way for the audience to understand how pretty you are.”

“I told you, you need to stop it with those movies. Used to be, people only thought they had an audience when they were on stage.”

“Not true.” I reply. She has abandoned her chair after a particularly bad creak, and re-positioned on my desk. She's trying to distract me. Crafty vixen. I carry on. “Since when were you so old, to be speaking of “back in the day?” Besides, you know very well that Chaucer and Shakespeare both were extremely audience-conscious, off stage as well as on. Homer probably was too, and Plato, well, obviously.”

“I'm three months older than you.” she replies. “And they weren't wasting the precious little time of their girl's lunch break.”

“True enough.” I reply. “Were would you like to go today?”

“Can't.” She says. “Have to get back, and I ate on the way here.”

“As always.” I say, feigning disappointment. I would be disappointed, don't get me wrong – it just happens too often for any real feeling. She remains unconvinced of my disappointment, and in a movement of the utmost aggression, kisses me squarely upon the nose before braving the spite of Mrs. Tummley, swinging herself, lithe out of my office. As I snatch at a last few glimpses of her through my glass door, a young man, sadly, of obviously foreign origin pushes through the door, and heads directly for my office. It has the discouraging characteristic of being closest to the door, and most visible as one enters. On his way, his ankle meets the ankle of Mrs. Tummley. He trips, and falls, very nearly smacking his head against my glass door. Thankfully, Mrs. Tummley's aim is better than that, and he misses. Her ankle will be fine. I have known for some time she does not approve, indeed, she retains her deepest, most horrifying spite for those who underestimate the power of the secretary.

The man, however, seems distracted enough not to care. He scrambles to his feet, his smooth-soled shoes clacking on the hardwood floor. He dives into my office, like the last man onto the lifeboat, and takes a moment to buoy himself by the door, his eyes scrambling momentarily for me, returning twice to the middle of the room, where my desk, it seems, ought to be. He blinks twice, his eyelids seeming to make a clack similar to his shoes. He does not seem truly at rest until I stand.

“Come in.” I say. “Have a seat.” I glance outside. Mrs. Tummley is glaring at me, now, hoping against hope I will eject this poor, bedraggled, and well-heeled (if not well-soled) individual, putting him back at her mercy.

“Mister McAven?” He asks.

“No, Mr. Miller.” I reply. He looks disappointed.

People seem to eternally have the wrong idea about this. Why is it that a company of private investigators is always thought to have the most senior member in full view of the door? What other company commits such heresy and foolishness? Besides this, Mr. McAven isn’t actually the longest-standing member of the company, that would be Mr. Hartley. Mr. Hartley started Hartley, private investigations, in 1917. He made his fame investigating and providing sound legal advice for liquor merchants, especially the smaller ones, and for investigating the divorces of Hollywood movie stars. Mr. Hartley was one of the first private investigators in Los Angeles, and one of the most trusted. That our sweaty friend sitting across from me did not know Mr. Harley ran the business indicated that his fine shoes were not bought with movie-cash. Mr. Hartley added Mr. McAven in 1937, when he began to see the great assistance an experienced lawyer could add to the investigative process. Mr. McAven had been especially impressive in the Roman Strauss affair. He retired shortly after that sordid affair. It was only two years later Mr. Hartley and Mr. McAven added Mrs. Tummley, when McAven and Hartley was becoming a liferaft for the retired but not tired.

During this time, Mr. Hartley had never underestimated the assistance of a young pair of legs, or arms, and had provided part and full time gainful employment to any number of young men, and for that matter, young women, which was how I found my first employment here. You see, McAven and Hartley, at the time, hired a young lady to do secretarial work, a young lady who held in her lips and long, long legs the hope of most of the junior and senior classes at my high school, along with the daydreams of more than a few of the freshmen and sophomore types. My working for Hartley was a way of impressing her. In the fire and passion of my love, I ended up impressing him more, working a number of jobs, some of which have something to do with my unfortunate juvenile record, others with my unexpected acceptance at Stanford. I returned to work for him all three summers of my college education, giving me the opportunity to regale the young and influential of Stanford my very own Dashiell Hammett stories, ever so slightly, well, translated. When I graduated, my graduation present from the one who could only be described as a secondary father figure was the offer of a full partnership, and the opportunity, should I so choose, to hire my very own young lackeys to do the heavy lifting. Mr. Hartley has taken the addition of another partner to mean that he can begin his own retirement, if only partially, though the advent of the war has attracted him again to our offices. He has been fascinated, as have we all by the special problems in investigation provided by the essentially gypsy class of military men, and the tight self-protecting organization of the military. Most of our business now comes from a variety of night-club owners and businessmen seeking various reparations for damages done by visiting military men, who seem to do as good a job trashing Los Angeles as they have ever done to the pacific islands.

Which brings us back to our poor sweating friend here. Interesting, he sits crooked. That, and his age, explain his being here rather than on some Asian island. Excuse the long description, I know it’s out of character, it probably won’t become important later, but it’s my life, I find it interesting, and I’m not old enough yet to be terse and cynical.

“May I see Mister Hartley?” he asks. His accent is of garden-variety school-taught. Not indigenous. Interesting.

“It’s possible, but it would require pleading with Misses Tummley.”

“Miss Tummley?”

I nod towards the reception area. Our friend turns several shades of pale, interesting to only but the most jaded of anthropologists. “Don’t worry.” I assure him, “I can help.”

I see his face recover, the white grimace easing into a tan dour. I know it’s my charm and respectability that help. I try to remind myself that charm and respectability don’t mean squat with a bullet between your ears and a drunk tax accountant – or wife – standing over your body, screaming about tariff law. More horrifyingly, charm doesn’t matter when faced by an IRS agent. It is a long-standing law of the universe that no one can charm an IRS agent. That is the whole basis of American government, and the reason they are the most feared men in the world.

“But.” I say, dramatically, “I would have to know how first. And a name might help as well.”

He stutters for a moment, then manages “John Smith.”

“Very well, Mr. Smith.” I say, giving no indication of incredulity, except the absence of any raised eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”

He ponders for a moment. Sits back. Sighs. Ponders. Lights a cigarette. Shakes it. Draws. I put my feet on the desk.

“You can…”

“Yes?”

“It would be of great help, if you – if Mister Hartley – could meet me, and a friend, at the end of Apple street.”

“He’ll want more details before he accepts an invitation.”

“A matter of national security.”

“What sort of matter?”

“Of some delicacy.”

“Matters of national security, in my experience, are rarely matters for delicacy.” What the hell do I know? I’ve never been involved in a matter of national security in my life, unless you count the governor’s affair, and that’s a different matter.

“I don’t think you are in any position to comment.”

“Well done. You called my bluff.” Best to just own up to it. “I still insist upon knowing.”

“My wife has several times gone to bed with a certain Admiral.” Hardly a matter of national security. But typical of a jealous husband. “Not that I mind, you understand. I can trust you to be discreet?”

“Of course.”

“And this Admiral, he has disclosed certain secrets.” Could this be on the level? “I am concerned such activities may continue, and may threaten the fiber of this nation. Loose lips, and all that, you understand.”

“Very much so. What would you like us to do about it?”

“You know the Navy.”

“Yes.”

“Then you know their, say, penchant for protecting their own?”

“All too well.”

“How much stronger do you think it would be, with an Admiral in the docket?”

“Yes.”

“Yes indeed. I must go now. Cannot be late back to work. Sir, I trust this message to you, I trust you to get it to Mister Hartley. You understand the necessity of his involvement.”

“I do indeed.”

“Very well. I bid you good day.”

We shook hands. Very small hands he had. He managed a smile, and I once again felt the soothing glow of Mrs. Tummley’s spite as he exited the office. I took a minute to review the facts in my head, then exited my office as well. Mrs. Tummley’s glow combined in both spite and generous patronship. Spite for my friendliness to intruders, patronship for the obvious reasons.

“Misses Tummley, my favorite woman above thirty.”

“You have a lot of favorites under thirty.”

“True, but none so dependable and knowledgeable as yourself. Is the boss in?”

“He hates being called that.”

“I’m not calling him that. Not to his face at least. Is he in?”

“He is. What’s going on?”

“A matter of national security.”

“Ten years, and I still don’t learn never to ask.”

“You never learn, that’s what I like about you.”

Loss of Innocence and sciences

2008-10-24T17:21:00.001-07:00

So, the solution (or at least what I think is a solution now) came to me - and opened a number of new possibilities. My problem was how to express an essentially scientific mindset while simultaneously expressing the draw of mysticism, and the way I think I can pull it off is by making a major element of the story the observation of and interactions with a child, and thoughts upon how that child thinks - the way he has insights without realizing they are insights, and how he sometimes says plain foolish things.

This opened the possibilities of a whole short story collection - which I think I may embark upon - which deals hugely with children, but with children almost as metaphors for ourselves, our politics, our loves, and our deaths, are all reflected in them. The struggle will be to not simply rely upon the natural hypnotism of children (I'm sick of authors who just use kids to arouse automatic sympathies) but to explore the place of children in our world, to show them in their horror and their unexpected kindnesses, and, more than this, to show that they are not always right, and that they do not always know it when they are.

Story: Pink Knot and the Shell on the Shore

2008-10-20T16:20:00.000-07:00

So, back to my story about the young man travelling the world, an encapsulation of the pink knot and the shell on the shore: Two things I don't want this story to become are preachy and somehow "against" modernism/rationalism/structuralism. I believe structuralism has its uses, and I don't believe that somehow the dreams of savages are superior to our own -the noble savage ideal is one I reject completely - I am, in fact, more likely to trust in the dreams of modernist scientism than its results - I think they are beautiful, worthwhile dreams. So I don't want to criticize them. But I do want to bring up the joy of metaphor, because I think metaphors, and their mis-application does lead to a fair amount of the pain and bad philosophy in the world. So, there's definitely a struggle there, for me as a writer at least. Hopefully one I can somewhat transfer to the page.

Storytelling and focus

2008-10-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

So, in a random, unfocused attempt to give this blog a bit more focus, I've decided, for now, to make the focus of this blog my story writing. I'm thinking of working on a short story collection, to work on my plotting skills, and, if nothing else, this should give me a good chance to keep my mind on it.

So, for now, I'm back. Perhaps not all that consistently, but I'm back.

A thought

2008-10-06T13:23:00.001-07:00

A thought for today:

Despite a history of oppression, despite a long string of human rights violations, despite the fact we kill babies, torture prisoners, invade countries, snoop, and generally limit freedoms, the United States has, it seems, managed to make at least one man completely free.

George W. Bush.

Free of consequences. Free of accountability. Free to torture, invade privacy, extradite, invade, and generally do whatever he wants. These days, generally, even, free of criticism. I wonder if that's because the critics are getting tired.

A thought on political definition

2008-10-02T12:28:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking about Obama's position on abortion, and I arrived at a broad, but I think, insightful set of definitions.

The libertarian believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the range of choices of the individual.

The authoritarian believes the government/society has the most possible place dictating the range of choices of the individual.

The "liberal" believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the moral choices of the individual, and a greater place dictating the possible economic choices of the individual(s).

The "conservative" believes the government/society has the least possible place dictating the economic choices available to the individual(s) and a greater place dictating the moral choices of the individual(s).

It offers interesting insight toward Palin's comments on abortion as well - she seems very reluctant to say anything about policy towards abortion, but very open about her "personal" feeling - which is almost the same as Obama's position - thinking people should make the decision for themselves.

A Hat Thought

2008-09-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

In the real world, one of the things I am known for, I suppose, is my tendency to wear classic hats - fedoras, porkpies, caps, even a bowler, now and again. I think there are so many good reasons for wearing them - protection, warmth, shade, the soft feeling of a good felt, and, perhaps best of all, the fact that tipping (or doffing) one's hat is, it seems to me, the last sign of respect which can both excite joy, and never offend. Everyone understands and accepts the hat-tip as a sign of respect, and it's a wonderful thing.

So I've been thinking - why has this wonderful thing disappeared. Somehow, this idea got mixed up in my mind with thoughts of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's nest (accidental thought collisions are probably the only thing responsible for my limited creativity) and I realized that, among other things, that is a story of height - the narrator sees himself as small, even though he is huge, and sees the imposing nurse as huge, until the protagonist restores the narrator's faith in himself, and the narrator sees himself as big. We've all experienced this, a feeling of elevation when we are "winning" because height and size are power, in our common metaphoric structures. (Great Lakoff tie-in)

So, the thougt occurs - a hat, especially the bowler, looks rather rediculous on a short man, yet few can disagree with the look of it on a tall man. Even more so with the fedora (though it does not look as silly on the short man). Could it be that the disappearance of hats is symptomatic of the disappearance of the can-do culture. Think about it - which culture still has the can-do attitude in America? Cowboy culture, perhaps? And which culture still wears hats, in the traditional sense? Even more curiously, isn't a bare head associated with shame, even biblically? Think about crowns in cultures across the word, and laurel wreaths. Interesting, interesting, interesting.

My hope for fame: applying geekiness to swearing

2008-09-29T09:35:00.000-07:00

So, a few friends and I invented a swear word the other day -

132.

It's wonderfully simple. Just represent 132 using your fingers as binary digits - AKA, right thumb is 1, pointer finger is 2, middle finger, 4, ring finger 8, etc...

A few suggested uses:

fu&132. or fu+132

also plausible: "But officer, I was just telling you I had four drinks... in binary!"

For those who still need help, 132 is 2 to the 7th plus 2 to the second.

Incidentally, 132 is Steve Job's number on the Forbes rich list 2007. Hmmmm....

The manifesto I wish I could write

2008-09-26T09:08:00.000-07:00

I live in a nation without borders.
I live in a nation whose stock never fails.
For my nation invests in information, in wisdom, and knowledge - and though they may fail, for they are human, they are never less valuable.
I live in a kingdom of information
Stretching around the world
In this kingdom, there is no single king.
There are many kings, and they are mostly symbolic.
Symbolic, but personal, rather than powerful, yet distant.
They are the best sort of kings.
There are many rulers, but none of them rules, only advises, for each man has dedicated himself to this - knowledge and wisdom, these are worthwhile beyond gold. They are also capable of a socialism beyond the wildest dreams of the most fervent Marxist.
They gain value as they are shared.
In fact, that may be their only value.

It is partly true, but I so wish it were more true.
I wish I lived in a nation without cowboy leaders.
A nation whose politicians dedicated themselves-
not to hope, not to nation, not to party, not even to people,
but to love, and, because of love, wisdom
because love without wisdom
is a foolish, dangerous love
and hardly love at all.

I am one of the many migrane sufferers in our world

2008-08-29T21:27:00.000-07:00

And I just had one. My first in several months. I'm in the after-blah right now, and it feel like someone took all the blood out of my veins and replaced it with salt the consistency of molasses.

This is not a post

2008-08-28T16:14:00.001-07:00

No post today, too busy keeping an eye on the world.

A trick of the soul

2008-08-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

So, one of the things Derren Brown talks about in Tricks of the Mind, only getting slightly off topic, is the question of whether one can trust the biblical accounts of Jesus. This strikes me as a very interesting problem in western religion - in so far as western religion seems so very based in two things: faith, and text. One has one's text commanding one to have faith in a savior/God, but at what point can one divide having faith in that God from having faith in those who transmitted that text to you.
The Catholic church seems to have circumvented this struggle, to the best of my understanding, by putting a lot of faith in the transmitters and current authority.
But what should a Protestant do - after all, the Bible tells one to trust in Christ, not in thousands of years of human transmission and translation, and no matter how we may investigate and hope for certainty within that process, it is a human process, unless one resorts to a theory of supernatural intervention in transmission and translation, which has its own problems. This becomes especially problematic on issues which regard one limited section of the larger text which may have been changed or misinterpreted only in a small way, but which leads to a far different conclusion.

What should one do, I wonder. Let us also remember that the point of this excercize is to see, not if one can grow more and more certain of conclusions or of some historical chain of information, but to see if one can, even theoretically, remove a faith which is imbued in a historical person or God which may be supernatural from a faith in historical texts which may not be.

A Very Interesting Book

2008-08-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

So now I'm reading Derren Brown's book "Tricks of the Mind" I find it thoroughly enjoyable, very truthful, if not entirely true, and enjoyably charactered. Just as a warning, some who do not find irony as attractive as I do may be put off.

Language games and teaching

2008-08-25T16:23:00.003-07:00

Come to think of it, could good or proper teaching be defined as a language game in which both parties win?

We'd have to define win, of course, but that's another language game in and of itself. :)

Carrying on the good work

2008-08-25T16:22:00.001-07:00

This past week gives me a vague feeling of success. I introduced someone to Wittgenstein, and he took to it like a fish to water.

In the language games of teaching, sometimes I win.

Cartesian mind-body problem: A possible solution

2008-08-25T16:13:00.000-07:00

So, either no one is interested in the Cartesian mind-body puzzle, or no one is interested in my blog... either way, I shall not be flagged. Though, I must say, I was looking forward to your posts, to see if one of you could come up with an interesting solution. I am content, however, to be the only one leaving a record for future philosopher's amusement.

My current solution of the Cartesian mind-body problem is somewhat as follows:

I think Descartes, in posing this problem, actually confuses imagining a thing with imagining the effects of a thing. If we pose the problem differently, "I can imagine the effects of my mind existent without my body..." well, of course I can, but I can imagine the effects of anything without that thing - the morning star's effects (light in our atmosphere, even a gravitational pull near Venus) can be imagined without the existence of the morning star, a podium's effects can be imagined without a podium. When we imagine ourselves looking at ourselves in the mirror and nothing being there, we are not imagining consciousness, we are imagining vision, which is one of the effects of consciousness. Even the feeling of consciousness is not consciousness itself (to say it is would, perhaps, be the position of a staunch and limited materialist, but I think I can feel safe from Descartes on that one) but an effect of consciousness.

Of course, this leads us only deeper into difficulty - how do we know the effects of a thing from the thing? But it also leads us closer to a solution - for it seems to ever answer the question "what is real?" we must, of course, answer that very question - what are effects, and how may we divide them from a thing. This, incidentally, is one of the great difficulties of linguistics, no?

What think you?

Writing Stories

2008-08-21T16:43:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking about writing more short stories, as practice for my writing in general, and especially for my ability to achieve cogent plots. For inspiration, I'm turning to something my friend Abigail did recently, which is write short stories based on images. This week, my image is Dali's Pink Knot and Shell on the Seashore.

So far, what I'm thinking is an interaction between the modern world and ancient mysticism (a theme in keeping with Dali, I think).

So far, I'm thinking about a young man, fresh out of Harvard, who joined the peace corps for lack of other attractive options, and is sent on a cultural mission to Africa, to be a translator and general help to a tribe there. He discovers they have an odd tradition of burying sticks in the beach sand and then giving them mystical names. He, of course, takes this from a post-christian western perspective, and silently mocks it, especially their idea that some of them have that certain sticks go straight to the center of the earth, until, during a tryst with a woman, she ties her hair-ribbon around one of the sticks to go swimming, and he feels the stick plunge right to the center of the earth metaphorically.

That's pretty much it. Oh, and he's friends with a translator from the tribe who is old, who he calls Bwana for no apparent reason, and who smokes a pipe.

Where shall I go from here...

Metaphors. Lots of metaphors.

Ultimately, I think I want to achieve a feeling of two cultures clashing and neither having the upper hand (unlike so much other "tribalism" literature), but still effecting the destruction of a human's value system.

The Cartesian Mind-Body problem

2008-08-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

On the topic of the embodied mind, I'm also watching Yale's open course on Death, with Professor Shelly Kagan. In lectures 5 and 6, Professor Kagan brings up a very interesting philosophical puzzle first posed by Descartes. It is, in brief, as follows:

"Because I can imagine my mind as completely distinct and operational without my body, the mind and body must be two separate things."

Among us weirdo philosophers, this is the sort of stuff that keeps us up at night. I can see how it would be a somewhat compelling argument, after all, it does seem terribly hard to imagine music without sound waves. For that matter, to take a hint from Yeats, it seems rather difficult to imagine a dance without a dancer, or a dancer without a dance. That in itself is a whole separate philosophical debate, but I hope you can see the essential point of Descartes' argument - that in some way, our imagination seems limited by laws of identity and non-contradiction, that is, if a thing is itself, we can not even imagine it to be existent in part but not in whole.

Kagan goes on to list other illustrations:

Can we imagine a smile without a body (and yes, teeth do count)
Can we imagine a podium without a podium?
Can we imagine anything without that anything itself?

So, if we can imagine the mind without the body, if we can imagine being wholly conscious beings without a body (and I, at least, dream fairly often that I am without a body) then must the mind and body be separate things?

I think I've come up with a solution, but I want to hear anyone's comments first, because I'm interested to see if anyone comes up with a solution, and, hey, suspense is fun, right?

Making a Scientific Movie

2008-08-20T12:25:00.001-07:00

So, I've been thinking about how un-scientific movies tend to be. From the documentaries purporting to be scientific, but only providing simplistic sound bites, to the dramatic movies which flagrantly violate science and academia for all too often pitiful dramatic purposes. So I've been thinking about how I could make a movie about science. Perhaps even worse yet, film tends to move towards supernaturalism (probably because it looks cool) and, like the Poltergeist, lead us to believe that the best thing to do is trust a short southern woman with big glasses.

First off, the myth of the sound bite. I don't think they are as bad as people say they are. Sound bites done right can really do a good job of explaining complex ideas - or they can do a crappy job. That should be no surprise, as it shouldn't be a surprise that there tend to be more bad sound bites than good ones. Pick any media/form of information you like and my money is on finding more crap than really good stuff. Besides that, in film, you have the visual element, which, when used properly, can contribute tremendous amounts of information quickly, and a very comprehensible way.

So I'm thinking about how I could make it interesting... hmmm... Because science, above all else, takes TIME.

Most exciting opening, continued

2008-08-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

To continue my thoughts on Philosophy in the Flesh:

Yesterday, I addressed my interest in the idea that abstract concepts are largely metaphorical. Today, this holds my interest like the world holds a man - he may move to one side or the other, he may see many other things, but he is still within the world. I turn around, and there again is the idea, haunting me like the ghost of Socrates, unreal phantom of a potentially fictional philosopher.

I've always suspected that abstract ideas are largely metaphorical, or at least have a largely metaphorical structure. The way we operate within them seems to make them even more metaphorical. When I speak of an abstract concept, such as "freedom", that word means something to you - but what does it mean? It is more than a metaphor, but a metaphor for what? With what image? Perhaps that is the strong use of abstract concepts- they contain no inherent image, but still inspire an imigaic structure, or at least alight the imagination.
When I say, or better yet, when William Wallace says "Freedom" do we think of Wallace's struggle for freedom, or do we think of our own freedom? Could it be that abstract concepts are ultimately a means of inspiring tight sympathies, by allowing us to place whatever specific image we want into someone else's word. When Wallace (or Bush, for that matter) call us to fight for freedom, it isn't their freedom, we would be unlikely to fight for it if it were, it is our freedom, it must be felt, be imagined, as our freedom.

This leads me to thoughts on literature - and how abstract concepts work in literature. Literature, especially modern film literature, presents us with specific situations which demand our symapthy with the protagonists, through specific situations which limit their abstract rights or desires (freedom, as in Braveheart or Shawshank Redeption, Justice, in Philidelphia, Amistad, or The Green Mile, friendship and family, as in Shaun of the Dead or, in an odd way, Unforgiven.) but these abstract rights are not abstracted and made to apply to us, they are rather specified to those others. This could lead, if I put more time into it, I think, to a thought about the purpose of literature which would be a reversal of Aristotle's catharsis idea.

Aristotle thought that the ultimate purpose of tragedy is to purge us of pity and fear, so that we may fight. I think that the purpose of literature, tragedy or comedy, could be to put us into other's shoes, so that we can imagine what they go through, and will be more likely either to fight for them or not to fight against them. The purpose of literature therefore would not be to expel from us pity and fear, but to impregnate us with symapthy.

That, at least, is the beginning of some philosophical ponderings.

What think you?

The most exciting book opening I've read in a while.

2008-08-19T14:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it may be a revelation of my complete philosophy geekyness, but I just finished reading the first chapter of Philosophy in the Flesh George Lakoff and Mark Johnson's voluminous work of cognitive science/philosophy, and I found the opening to be one of the most interesting and enrapturing things I've read in a long time. I will now take the liberty of quoting this briefly, because it's just so interesting. What follows is the text of the opening.

"The mind is inherently embodied.
Thought it mostly unconscious.
Abstract concepts are largely metaphorical.
These are three major findings of cognitive science. More than two millennia of a priori philosophical speculation about the aspects of reason are over. Because of these discoveries, philosophy can never be the same again."

Holy heck, what an opening! It's like taking a sledgehammer to philosophy of mind. Blunt, brief, oh so effective. What interests me most is the last major finding - the first two seem well proven. That the mind is inherently embodied is supported well by the work of Kristoff Kotch, Steven Pinker, and especially Vilayanur S. "Rama" Ramachandran, whose work on this issue I find most fascinating and persuasive. These three also give good credence, and they are not the only ones, only the ones I am most aware of, to the idea that thought is mostly unconcious. One of my favorite examples from Ramachandran is the story of the young man who had specific brain damage which did not allow him to recognize his mother as his mother - he knew she looked like his mother, but could not believe she was his mother. (if you're interested, and before you question the findings, please read more here.) Such a aspect of brain damage leads me to strongly believe both the first two points, because it shows that 1. The brain is embodied, other wise such specific brain damage would not have such specific effect, and 2. Such effect could not be effected without huge processing taking place on an entirely unconcious level.

But the third one, oh, there's a field I could play in for a while. The difficulty, it seems to me, is that the concept of "abstract concept" is itself an abstract concept, and much work must be done before we can answer the question "what is an abstract concept" specifically, non-metaphorically, and not a priori. it's like a metaphor of a metaphor of a metaphor. I'm very, very interested to see what Lakoff and Johnson do later, and I really want to see if they address this. Woo-hoo!

Mind, Language, and Society: Weekend Book review

2008-08-18T16:36:00.000-07:00

Doing a lot this week, so a summary, aphoristic book review:

John Searle: Mind, Language, and Society

An attempt to escape the material/ideal dichotomy by positing intentionality as the sign of the mind (a weak hypothesis, weakly supported by the essentially open role of the word "intentionality") then showing that intentionality can be measured physically through words.

The above is a vast oversimplification.

The book is still worth reading for anyone interested in cognitive science and language, even if it doesn't dedicate itself to science and empiricism like a Steven Pinker book. It's much more in the "cognitive philosophy" than "cognitive science" section of my mental shelf. If you're not so interested in language and mind, I'd recommend Pinker first, even though he's so much longer, he, ultimately, isn't a philosopher, who, as Shelley Kagan once said in his Open Yale class on death is "someone who doesn't know much"or some such thing.

Allegory: Thoughts I've had for a while.

2008-08-15T15:39:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, I was talking to a friend about Quentin Tarentino’s movie “Kill Bill, volume 2” Remember the poignant scene in which Bill discusses with Kiddo and BB the nature of death, and BB’s fish? For those who have not watched the movie, BB has a fish, who, at one point, she scooped out of its bowl, and watched it flapping on the floor. Then she stomped on it. When asked what this resulted in, BB replies, “He stopped flapping.” My friend’s question was “What does this mean? Is it showing that she’s already a messed up kid?” I told him no, and I will tell you why.

Tarentino’s work, as best as I can tell, is not an allegory. The figures and actions in its stories have nothing to do with concepts or figures that one would easily recognize coming from an outside system of thought. However, to think of BB’s action as having such a narrow range of interpretation, essentially, to use it alone as the proof for or against whether BB is psychologically damaged by her relationship with Bill, is not only short-sighted, it is asking something of the movie it was never meant to do.

Allegory has been popular in many social groups, and is, essentially, an expanded method of parable. A parable is basically an expanded metaphor. When we create a metaphor, we say “this thing is like this thing in this way.” When we create a parable we say “this thing is like this thing in this story” essentially, a way of further focusing the metaphor’s usage, so that a law is thought of as a rock not in that it melts in a volcano, but in that it’s one of the most solid things we encounter from day to day. An allegory takes the parable to another level, by mixing a number of metaphors, to place a larger metaphoric structure upon the work as a whole.

The use of Allegory has been especially popular within the Christian church. Jesus used many parables, and it only makes sense that the descendants of his thought would make use of allegory. Dante’s Divine Comedy is, essentially, twisted allegory, as Dante’s pilgrim is brought through various punishments and rewards which reveal the nature of the crimes of the deceased. These deceased function as a metaphor for a certain type of people. In the sixteenth century, one of the most popular English Christians, Edmund Spenser, wrote part of a massively extended allegory of the Christian life called “The Fairie Queene” And today, perhaps one of the most well-known of Christian allegories is C.S. Lewis’ tremendously popular Chronicles of Narnia series.

When an allegory operates, it creates a language. One who has read the Chronicles of Narnia might relate Aslan, which would be a sound indecipherable to the uninitiated, to any lion they saw thereafter. In relating two unrelated things, allegory creates language, in the same way as the English language produces the meaning “meaning” whatever it may mean out of an essentially chaotic set of symbols on a page, or vibrations the air molecules.

Allegory says “this means this” and “that means that” “Aslan means Christ” “Bleeding tree means suicide” “Beatrice means heaven” and “Red Crosse Knight means Christian, patriot, Englishman, chivalrous lover, among other things” please excuse the rather erudite in-joke.

Quite possibly through the Christian usage, allegory as the only form of storytelling has infiltrated our entire educational system. Be it Huckleberry Finn or Shakespeare, the first question asked of the students is “What does it mean?” To improperly ask this question is to misunderstand the very heart and soul of storytelling its self. Storytelling is an experience, even when it is allegory. Even as allegory, storytelling provides an experience, an experience of meaning, possibly even emotional meaning beyond rational meaning, if it is a very well-told allegory. Yet, not all meaning can be located in words, and the moment we open our mouths to identify them meaning, we demean the meaning, at least to some extent. At this point, a story in which the meaning is found in the experience, and not in the interpretation, is destroyed.

This is the primary difference between normal storytelling and allegory. Normal storytelling provides experience, and allows the reader to interpret or leave uninterpreted. Allegory forces an interpretation upon the reader, and gives them an easily explainable meaning, and leaves it at that. Storytelling is no issue so simple. It provides an experience. Whether this experience is believable or not depends upon the skill of the artist. Whether this story should be believable or not depends upon the skill and discernment of the audience. However, it will do no good to combat improper storytelling with allegory. To say that Tolkien’s fantastic work of myth and magic was, in fact, allegory, is not to properly represent Tolkien. To say it is completely true is not to properly represent Tolkein. To say you are Gandalf, and can shoot fireworks with the end of your stick, is to misrepresent Tolkein, yourself, and very possibly invite a Darwin Award.

Such an over interpretation may be blamed, logically, though perhaps not completely factually, upon the over usage of allegory. My train of logic is this: Allegory teaches that the elements of a story are, in fact, present in the rhyme and reason of the everyday world. It ignores the fact that the everyday world rarely has a rhyme or reason it can explain. The ancient allegories, blind cupid and blind justice, both serve to illustrate this fact. When the person raised on a purely allegorical understanding, rather than an experiential understanding of literature encounters a work of fiction which is not allegory, that person attempts to treat that literature as allegory. This leads to the over interpretation. If nothing is found that can be related back to life in an allegorical sense, say, Gandalf’s magic having no relation to life as we know it either in a physical or a intellectual way, we immediately think that it must be true in some way. This is illustrated by the violent reaction by some parties against Harry Potter, and the violent reaction in some cases for magic, which feeds the former reaction.

In the end, neither Tolkien nor Rowling have, to the best of my knowledge, meant that magic is accessible to the normal person today, at least in the extent of turning a bully into a pig or making friends with a dragon. However, because the children are constantly pestered with the question “what does it mean?” rather than simply being allowed to grow in experience through imaginative literature, they attempt to create a meaning that is not there, and so do we.

This is not to say that eliminating the allegoric will in some way make a better world. I think, personally, that the allegory is a dumb way of writing literature. In many cases, it destroys the brevity and clarity of the lesson, and destroys the beauty and veracity of the story its self. Even a storyteller like C S Lewis can not escape this. George Orwell and Aldous Huxley were both criticized for their flat writing (albeit, unfairly) and they were, in may ways, writing allegorical works, especially in Orwell’s Animal Farm.

Yet, all the same, the interpretation of literature is necessary, as is the interpretation of experience. Even though allegory still has the reprehensible fault of pointing directly to its own interpretation. This does not teach proper interpretation, it weakens the powers of one to interpret on their own, using the faculties of previous experience. Interpretation, however, is still necessary, and even vital, and must not be sacrificed for experience. That, however, is for another essay. For now, think, and let think.

An Aphorism

2008-08-14T16:26:00.000-07:00

As I've perhaps mentioned before, I like aphorisms. Here's one:

A true gentleman is not serious about being a gentleman.

It holds true in all the aspects of gentlemanlyness I can think of, except the more serious ones, such as defense of a woman, and even then, it should be mostly carried out with a modicum of humor and self-depreciation.

Though I'm not sure it should even be classified as gentlemanly to defend a woman - that is beyond gentlemanly, it is simply right, and thus, one may be vicious about it.

Been thinking about: Postjustified emotions

2008-08-14T15:49:00.000-07:00

There is a statement in modern literature has been running through my mind again. It runs through my mind often. It is this:

"We assign a moment to decision, to dignify the process as a timely result of rational and concious thought. But decisions are made of kneaded feelings; they are more ofte a lump than a sum." - Hannibal by Thomas Harris (http://books.google.com/books?id=HA2UyrPlnXwC&printsec=frontcover&dq=Hannibal+Thomas+Harris&sig=ACfU3U0jHJwHCwvGViuoMFzVweshuM0k9g#PPA162,M1)

Fiction usually gives reasons for its characters actions. Most ficiton that does not do so, in one way or another, is disregarded or never treated with attempts to explain actions. Every now and again, there is a work that we can not avoid so easily, such as Hamlet. It is an enduring point of debate for critics, as it was for those surrounding Hamlet in the play, why the prince is so melancholy, and so murderous. The reasons he gives seem weak - the death of his father, the not-really-adultery of his mother, which, when it comes right down to it, is more fickleness than adultery, the abandonment of Ophelia, who he must understand he forced away. But perhaps, as Harris suggests, decisions are kneaded feelings - perhaps the reasons for Hamelt's actions are his feelings, not his reasons, and it is a divide between feeling and force, not reason and force, which troubles him so deeply.

Perhaps this is true of all of us - our reasons are justifiers of our actions, and of our feelings, which interact much more directly with the material world, and lie much more deeply in our conciousness, prickly motes behind the eye of the mind. If this is true, one could explain all of literature as a post-justification of this sort: one could say that all of fiction, which is so primarily concerned with the changes wrought in people, seeks those changes not in the liquidity of their characters, but in the forces which surround them, and their reasonable responses to these forces, rather than dealing with the idea that we may not be as rational as we wish, and that, when I am sad, I think of reasons to be sad, not that I am sad because I have reason to be.

What think you?

Nothing today

2008-08-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

Well, today, I got nothing. I've had thoughts, but they're all scattered and not fully developed yet. And so, a poem. From Chesterton:

Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he
He called for his pipe
and he called for his bowl
and he called for his fiddlers three

after Lord Tennyson

Cole, that unwearied prince of Colchester,
Growing more gay with age and with long days
Deeper in laughter and desire of life
As that Virginian climber on our walls
Flames scarlet with the fading of the year;
Called for his wassail and that other weed
Virginian also, from the western woods
Where English Raleigh checked the boast of Spain,
And lighting joy with joy, and piling up
Pleasure as crown for pleasure, bade me bring
Those three, the minstrels whose emblazoned coats
Shone with the oyster-shells of Colchester;
And these three played, and playing grew more fain
Of mirth and music; till the heathen came
And the King slept beside the northern sea.

after W.B. Yeats

Of an old King in a story
From the grey sea-folk I have heard
Whose heart was no more broken
Than the wings of a bird.

As soon as the moon was silver
And the thin stars began,
He took his pipe and his tankard,
Like an old peasant man.

And three tall shadows were with him
And came at his command;
And played before him for ever
The fiddles of fairyland.

And he died in the young summer
Of the world's desire;
Before our hearts were broken
Like sticks in a fire.

after Walt Whitman

Me clairvoyant,
Me conscious of you, old camarado,
Needing no telescope, lorgnette, field-glass, opera-glass, myopic pince-nez,
Me piercing two thousand years with eye naked and not ashamed;
The crown cannot hide you from me,
Musty old feudal-heraldic trappings cannot hide you from me,
I perceive that you drink.
(I am drinking with you. I am as drunk as you are.)
I see you are inhaling tobacco, puffing, smoking, spitting
(I do not object to your spitting),
You prophetic of American largeness,
You anticipating the broad masculine manners of these States;
I see in you also there are movements, tremors, tears, desire for the melodious,
I salute your three violinists, endlessly making vibrations,
Rigid, relentless, capable of going on for ever;
They play my accompaniment; but I shall take no notice of any accompaniment;
I myself am a complete orchestra.
So long.

It's an interesting poem to me because it daubles in so many things, and proves, to me, Chesterton's initimable standing - he was able to imitate, quite passing well, three "great" poets of the English language, and to do so with more than a little teasing, because in doing so he seems to have offered strong evidence that sometimes the old, folksy things should stand so much longer, and can encompass so much more than the new, shiny pets of the academy.

The Tyrants are ahead of us...

2008-08-12T15:41:00.000-07:00

Come to think of it, anyone willing to pay me for that research would probably be a tyrant looking for a better way to take over the world... tyrants (at least the smart ones) are always willing to pay for research when it means better ways of enforcing their thoughts among the populace...

Something odd it would be hard to prove

2008-08-12T15:26:00.000-07:00

I work in distance education, and part of that work is watching people watch videos - and I've begun to suspect something I suppose is rather odd. People are often more less bored watching videos of someone than watching that person themselves. Even with long presentations, I've watched hundreds of students in many, many classes (I was bored) and I've watched dozens of students watching videos of the professors - and it seems that the majority are more interested in the videos.

To prove this, of course, I would need a good neurology lab... but I still wonder why...

Is it just that a screen is shiny?
Perhaps that cutting makes thing more interesting - that we pay more attention when we change perspectives more often? That could be rather interesting to test...
Perhaps we're just lazy, and the camera "shows" us what to focus on.
Perhaps it's just the head is bigger.

Anyone want to pay me to test all this? It could have a huge impact on education in general, and on the way movies are cut... and it'd be really, really interesting.

Against Stupidity: A Rant

2008-08-11T15:40:00.000-07:00

This is a rant. My friends have heard me rant about it before. It springs from a conversation I had with some of my best friends on Saturday. It is a rant. If you are not prepared to be spewed all over with the fierce, long-pent fire-breathing hamster that is my anger, read the following sentence, then close this blog, opening it again only whenever you: a. feel like having something to be mad about, or b. I've posted something new, and this fire hose of scorn is buried forever deep in the internet's backlog, along with (insert celebritney of choice) nudity and that Chihuahua movie (yes, it's so bad, it's been forgotten a month ahead of release).

This is the sentence you should read: Why must entertainment capitalize on stupid people?

I don't know why I apologize for my vehemence, P.Z. Meyers doesn't... ;)

Anyway, I find myself wondering why so much entertainment has to capitalize on stupidity. It's not new. It's not even old. It's ancient. If you don't think it's ancient, go read Aristophanes, then get back to me. His work is essentially all satire aimed at various stupid people dressed up as heroes, who make stupid mistakes, and escape by the skin of their teeth, and he's probably the last one to do so honorably. If my memory serves, Aristotle praised him for it in Poetics. Not that I particularly trust him on things dramatic.
Right, so that's the first point. I hear way, way, way too many people treat Napoleon Dynamite (the quintessential stupid people are funny movie of my generation). Most of the rest of this rant, however, is aimed at things which could have been better. Most namely, Arrested Development. Now Arrested Development is a very good show, much better than most out there, and well worth watching. That said, it is largely about stupid people. As such, to list a few shows I think better: Scrubs, House, and Doctor Who. Now, Arrested Development has a tremendous lot going for it. First off, it has incredible acting, in some cases, possibly even better than any of the shows listed above. Jason Bateman does a very impressive job as Michael, though, if you asks me, he looks frighteningly like Nathan Fillion. Michael Cera does his usual work of making the whole show better just by his existence, Jeffrey Tambor is impressive as always, David Cross is excellent playing his stock character, and the occasional Liza Manelli appearance is absolutely icing on the cake. That said, note that all these characters (with the exception of Liza) are more or less stock actors, who play one roll well. Bateman is always a little confused, but generally sensible, Cera is a confuddled, nervous teen, Tambor is a basically foolish man who does understand more than he seems to, and Cross is a entirely un-self-aware person who thinks he understands the world. This is where the show starts to fail - because the writers write to these stocks.
House may seem like a stock character, but there are many flavors to his individualism. Hugh Laurie, one of the great actors of the time, is sad, happy, gleeful, mean, depressive, and determined by turns, and the supporting cast mostly backs him up on it (especially Robert Sean Leonard). For all failings, one of the amazing things about Scrubs is that almost all the characters manage to be more than one thing - sad, understanding, in control, out of control, mean, vindictive, funny, AND stupid, and even play in the corridors between these extremes. JD, Dr. Cox, Carla, Turk, Eliot, La Verne, and the Janitor, just to name the majors, all have specific instances in which they are each of these things.
Why do I hate stupid one-dimensional writing so much? It's an escape, a silly, ridiculous escape for writers who don't know enough, or can't think enough to make characters multi-faceted and believable. That, and I'm tired of stupid people. I get enough of them elsewhere, I don't need them on my TV, and I learn a lot more from smart people, even when they do stupid things, because to learn from one's stupid mistakes is almost the definition of a smart person. To give another proof, the writers show that they aren't that knowledgeable or hardworking in episode one when they call cartography "the mapping of undiscovered places" (or something more stupid) then have their "smart" character make a joke about everything already being discovered - which, if you look at the swamps in Africa (just as one example), is certainly not true, and, besides that, cartography is just the craft of map-making, not necessarily of undiscovered places. They didn't even get a basic definition right. That said, I still think it's a great show, with some genuinely witty, smart moments. I just wish it didn't have to be stupid so often to get there.
As a side-note, I wonder how much smarter our kids would get if they were watching smarter TV... hmmm... and NO, I'm not comparing Arrested Development to the Discovery Chanel. I'm comparing it to Scrubs or House. I don't just think smart TV is documentaries. Some documentaries are very dumb TV.

Movie Review: Innerspace: The Surprising Eighties

2008-08-08T16:30:00.000-07:00

I don’t even know why I picked this movie up. I saw it on some list, threw it on my library request list, and forgot about it. Weeks later, it showed up at my library, like a discarded puppy, vaguely endearing, but simultaneously troubling. So, I picked it up, and hoped it wouldn’t pee all over my carpet, secure in the knowledge that, were it bad, I could give it back, and were it terrible, I could drive nails through its corny, anti-intellectual, ill-researched aluminum self, trying to forget that movies just as corny, anti-intellectual, and ill-researched are stamped out by the millions for less than it costs to produce nails.

In this case, I was pleasantly surprised. Not that there wasn’t the occasional yellow puddle on the carpet. (I don’t know why I’m still running with this analogy… I get the feeling no one’s chasing me, except to tell me to put it down before it absorbs me in a puddle of not-so-goodishness.) Okay, plotline, because you probably haven’t seen it. Dennis Quaid is a hotshot test pilot, depressed because he’s not graduated Top Gun, or some such thing. He’s working on a project to be shrunk down in a vaguely cell-size inner-body submersible, to be injected into a bunny, because, “miniaturization is the future”… or something like that. Anyway, because of industrial espionage, Quaid is not stuck into the bunny, instead, he’s stuck into Martin Short. Chaos ensues, etc… Along the way, Quaid can see what Martin can see by plugging into Martin’s ocular nerve… which anyone who has studied vision will laugh hysterically at… and Quaid at one point cuts a hole in Martin’s artery about half an inch from the heart, causing no apparent problems for Martin.

If we suspend our disbelief like a 16-ton weight hanging from a spider web, the movie proves, despite all this, to be surprisingly entertaining. There are more than a few good lines, and a host of ironic situations which lead to more than common amusement. On the philosophical side, one could probably draw all sorts of Top-Gun esque military-is-repressed-gay parable parallels (it’s a movie about one guy being in another, how hard can it be?) but I won’t go there.

Derren Brown

2008-08-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

Another thing I'd love to see Derren Brown do - he did a series called "Derren Brown: The so-called messiah" in which he went around America winning accolades from various religious personages for his "religious" powers. I'd love to see him enter academies, schools, academic journals, etc... and see if they can pick him out.

I'm just wondering how much we've checked to make sure things are really as kosher as they are supposed to be with peer-review.

Interesting Thinkers: Derren Brown

2008-08-07T15:02:00.000-07:00

I would love to write a Doctoral Thesis on Derren Brown. He fascinates me from all levels.

Who is Derren Brown, you say? Derren Brown is an enigma wrapped in the horror of human suggestibility, but with the coat of a magician. One feels that all will be alright when it ends, though the means, one is not sure. Now for specifics: Derren is blonde... or did you want to know that? He has done several BBC shows, as well as shows in front of live audiences, and what he does is to use the power of suggestion, subtle or strong, to get people to do things they would never imagine they'd do. That, or use his rather impressive intellect to get them to admit things they'd never admit. So much interesting stuff. Best of all, he tells you how he does it. I know, I know, the magician never reveals his tricks. Bollocks. The greatest magicians can, and one never ceases to wonder. Puny magicians, like puny thinkers, don't reveal their tricks, because anyone can do them.

Derren Brown fascinates because:

His abilities to influence by subtle suggestion raises all sorts of interesting questions in the realms of literature and philosophy.
His work could lead to such interesting cognitive science research.

There are clips of him on YouTube.

Philosophical Movies

2008-08-06T14:09:00.000-07:00

I posted this today on a philosophy discussion board asking to list four philosophical movies:

"1. A.I.

Seriously, this film is one of the most interesting philosophical movies - and talks about all the big questions - what is real? How would we know? How would we communicate it? It's Pinocchio meets Blade Runner, set up by Stanley Kubrick and filmed by Steven Spielberg. Some will say he ruined it with his Hollywood ending, but I completely disagree. The ending is as much of a question as the ending of Blade Runner.

2. Paranoia Agent

An Anime T.V. Series directed by the same director as Tokyo Godfathers and Paprika, Satoshi Kon. I think Paranoia Agent is by far his best work, covering thoughts about identity, the relationship of popular culture to thought, morality, and, best of all, the moral status of nostalgia. Unlike so many other philosophical movies (A.I., Blade Runner, etc...) Kon touches on the big questions, but deals more with specific questions - like why we want to be nostalgic, and how it affects us.

3. One Hour Photo

Morality. Identity. Character. And Photographs.

4. Lawrence of Arabia

Morality. Platonic ideals. Mortality. Western and Eastern cultures clashing. War, killing, and the triumph of will. What more could you ask for?

So many great movies have been posted, but those are four favorites for me. I think one thread that connects them is the way philosophy is not just questioned, it is lived, which is so necessary to good film...

Also, I think films do not need to have philosophical lines to be philosophical films - sometimes, I think, philosophically, Neo dodging bullets may be the most philosophical statement of the Matrix - the ultimately very Platonic belief that the rules can be broken, the cave has an escape."

I wanted to share it with you few because I really like the last point - perhaps the most Platonic part of Platonism is to believe the rules will be broken for you... but isn't that what so many of us hope for?

More to follow in Platonism... there's one topic I'm not going circle warily before assaulting...

Theory Formation and Paradigm Shift

2008-08-05T17:31:00.000-07:00

A friend recently asked me about the elements of what a theory is and how it can be more certain. I've been thinking about it, and I think one of the things is that one of the ways it could be more certain is to be less susceptible to paradigm shifts - AKA, that it won't change everything if we change just a couple things around. Or is a paradigm shift more than that? Can we measure what is susceptible to such a shift? It could certainly be helpful if we could...

Quoting Chesterton: Nothing Better

2008-08-04T16:19:00.000-07:00

Some days, I feel there's nothing better to do than quote G.K. Chesterton.

"In fact, the mere abstract rationality of this problem is very wrongly discussed. For instance, it is always considered ludicrous and a signal for a burst of laughter if the spiritualists say that a seance has been spoiled by the presence of a skeptic, or that an attitude of faith is necessary to encourage the psychic communications. But there is nothing at all unreasonable or unlikely about the idea that doubt might discourage and faith encourage spiritual communications, if there are any. The suggestion does not make spiritualism in abstract logic any more improbable. All that it does make it is more difficult.

There is nothing foolish or fantastic about the supposition that a dispassionate person acts as a deterrent to passionate truths. Only it happens to make it much harder for any dispassionate person to find out what is true. There are a thousand practical parallels. An impartial psychologist studying the problem of human nature could, no doubt, learn a great deal from a man and woman making love to each other in his presence. None the less, it is unfortunately the fact that no man and woman would make love to each other in the presence of an impartial psychologist. Students of physiology and surgery might learn something from a man suddenly stabbing another man on a platform in a lecture-theater. But no man would stab another man on a platform in a lecture-theater. A schoolmaster would learn much if the boys would be boys in his presence; but they never are boys in his presence. An educationalist studying infancy might make important discoveries if he could hear the things said by a baby when absolutely alone and at his ease with his mother. But it is quite obvious that the mere entrance of a great ugly educationalist (they are an ugly lot) would set the child screaming with terror."

Interesting stuff, at least to me.

A Metaphor for Writing

2008-08-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

There have been plenty of metaphors in the history of the world for poetic speech. There are enough for Harold Bloom to write a book about ones in the Renaissance and Romanticism. It seems Shakespeare may have thought himself a mirror of humanity, Wordsworth a lamp to humanity.

I have come to a new metaphor in my thoughts. I don't know if it is truly new, its nature should tell you that. It probably owes plenty to the subtle, realist symbolic structure of A River Runs Through It.

I am not a lamp, I am not a mirror. I am a part of a river.
I am not a thing apart from my culture.
I am a collection, a few rocks, an eddy, a gurgle.
pieces of my culture are caught in the liquid tendrils of my thought,
and sometimes released to surprising effect.
Other movements of the stream and world around me push symbols and facts into me
They are often ejected with the same force, for good or ill.
I am a part of a greater stream, and I may have my peculiar eddy
my few fish, gathered cobbled bottom,
The words I express myself with may be unique
But I am only part of the river, and the river is the world.

I hate it when I finish something like this and begin to feel it's just over-poeticized, over-thought elephant pee metaphor.

The problem of replicants

2008-08-02T00:56:00.000-07:00

In one of the many great moments of Blade Runner, Rachel asks Deckard, "Have you ever retired a human by mistake?" and when he answers "No" she replies "but in your position, that is a risk." But the problem in Blade Runner seems to run deeper. When we finally discover the possibility, nay likelihood, of Deckard himself being a replicant, we begin to wonder just how many are replicants, and just how few are humans. And we realize that the greatest problem of Blade Runner may be, in a way, identical with the fact that retiring a human may not be as much a risk as we thought.

What a strangely Baudrilliardian problem.

Warning: May contain callous rants.

2008-08-01T12:17:00.001-07:00

Maybe I should read more IMDb movie comments... it seems to make me want to write very much.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't.

I just finished watching the Japanese film "Nobody Knows." (I've been watching a lot of Japanese film this week, after realizing I hadn't seen that many modern Japanese live-action films.) I know this may seem terribly callous, but I wasn't moved by the film. I am often moved by films, and am often moved by foreign films, so, before you go that route, just stop and go spew some comment on a youtube video. Here area couple of the reasons, as they seem to me, I wasn't affected:

1. I'm finding more and more that "gritty" filming is just pretentious carbon copying. I've seen all these angles before, and, unlike one user's comment, it doesn't make me feel like I'm just another kid in the apartment. For one thing, were I another kid, I wouldn't be standing that close to the other kids, and I wouldn't get random strange perspective shots. The cutting rhythm of these "gritty" films just seems off to me, and, most annoying, I'm tired, tired, and very tired, of the same "buzz" used for a quiet outdoor city scene. Every scene in every country that is supposed to be of some park where something terrible is about to happen, has the same semi-natural "buzzzzz-cricket-cricket-buzzzzz" sound effect, and it's as bad a Wilhelm scream without the irony! I'm sorry, "gritty" camera work and buzzing backgrounds, and lots of things shot off of brown-tinted pale walls doesn't make me feel like I'm in real life, it makes me feel like I'm in some movie's version of real life that wasts to emphasize how horrible this life is, and, because they can't do this in subtle, real, or ironic ways, they just decide to tint everything slightly more like... crap (I'm trying to keep this somewhat PG).

2. I didn't find the kids that believable, and reality backed me up. I really, honestly, have little problem with Disney films, because almost everyone knows they're not real, but when a film like this comes in and tries to make something seem "real" it needs to get the facts straight. The kid who died, in reality, didn't die by accident. She was killed by her older brother's friend over a fracking BOWL OF RAMEN. That should give you some idea of the older brother's character, too, and that he may not have been the mature, sad, loving young man portrayed in the movie. Yes, all the performances by the kids were great, but I'm beginning to believe more and more that kids just have an easy time acting, and we always tend to find them more believable than adults. Kids are natural hypnotists, it's how they survive, to make parents believe that it's important to care about them. That's not to say it's not important to care about kids, just that kids know it's important to care about them, and have developed how to make parents care very carefully. Call it evolution or design or whatever you want, either way it makes sense. Kids are natural hypnotists and con men.

So, that's my rant. Strange, disconnected, quite possibly callous. But it's mine, and I'm probably going to stick by it.

Wikis, Lolcats, and the internet itself: A paean to collaboration

2008-08-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

Paean: An exultant song of praise.

I've been thinking about collaboration lately. I've realized that, while there are many academics in praise of collaboration, the internet does little enough praising of itself. Sure, we all know about Wikipedia, we all speak out vaguely in praise of it, but, like the criticism, I find so much of the praise to be so blandly general. To say that "collaboration works" or that "Wikipedia has so much more information" or isn't all that inaccurate is to ender a world of ideals, and I love ideals, but I also love experience. I love those experiences that take my breath away. So, every once in a while, I'm going to post something that shows just how a group fights the rampant stupidity of humanity, an extremely well-written Wiki, maybe one where collaboration has been done right, maybe just in a hilarious lolcat. Because understanding how these things are done right is an important step towards understanding collaboration, which is so key to all learning today, from the traditional academies and their peer-reviewed research, to wikis and blogs.

Quote most interesting

2008-07-30T22:28:00.001-07:00

"If we think about it, the problem was the same for the Iconoclasts of Byzantium. The Iconolaters were subtle people who claimed to represent God for His greater gory but who in fact simulated God in images, dissimulating at the same time the problem of His existence. Behind each image, God had disappeared. He was not dead, he had disappeared; it was no longer a problem. The problem of the existence or non-existence of God was resolved by simulation."
-Baudrillard, Toward the Vanishing Point of Art

Another interesting bit of the internet

2008-07-30T12:33:00.000-07:00

Worth watching: Jonah Lehrer's presentation at Google Cambridge.

Anyone who mixes cooking (French and Japanese) with Music (Stravinsky) with Cognitive science is good by me. Also very worth noting - another proof of the difficulty with consensus. Were we to read the scholarly journals for almost all the 20th century, we'd see a definite consensus of four senses in the tongue. Now we know we missed the most pervasive of them.

I fear for the future

2008-07-30T12:04:00.000-07:00

As someone who studies the past, I often think about those who will study us.

Things like this make me especially afraid.

"So, Bob, what have you uncovered about the 21st century culture?"
"Well, Jim, we've discovered a giant map of bi-sexuals."
"These people mapped sightings of bi-sexuals?"
"We think it was some sort of ancient cult of ridicule, Jim."

Just Watched: Thank you for Smoking

2008-07-29T12:37:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I think the main point of America is a giant competition for bullshit artists.

We have to solve the democracy crisis!

2008-07-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

Instructions:

Go to Lawrence Lessig's blog.

Watch his Netroots Nation Keynote.

It seems to me that Lawrence Lessig is one of the most well-informed political activists today - I enjoy him and rejoice in his knowledge.

Interesting points:

I didn't know about the peer reviewed journals on climate change.

He's exactly right when it comes to trust.

The difficulty of trust in academia is perhaps larger, but that is not his focus.

The Lookout in The Shop Around the Corner

2008-07-25T20:33:00.001-07:00

In this Friday movie review, I was going to talk about the Lookout.
I watched The Lookout earlier this week, and was quite impressed by the clever but subtle camera work, and especially the way that veteran writer Scott Frank handled the main characters' disabilities, not as gimmicks on which to run a movie, but as honest ways of not making one feel like the character has to be right all the time - as a way of making the character human.
It seems a consistent theme in even passably good movies that a character, in order to be believable and have a struggle, in fact, in order to be human and not be a bad guy, must be either misunderstood (a case of romanticism which became Cliche long before romanticism) or must be struggling under some pre-set limitation. We only believe the protagonist in Chris Nolan's Memento represents all of us because he has a brain injury. (and if you've watched Batman without Memento, shame on you) we believe that Neo can only be a hero if he was grown under the illusive world. We believe Han can only be a conflicted hero with a bounty on his head (hence, Jabba). But Frank avoids making the protagonists' struggle about his injury, even avoids making it completely about his past, rather, makes it about his humanity.
But I'm not going to talk about the Lookout. I want to talk about Ernest Lubitsch. I have been watching several of his movies this week, and I want to talk especially about "The Shop Around the Corner." On the cover of it, this looks like a bit of over-sweet Capra, Capra without the darkness and irony of Arsenic and Old Lace (his only really good movie). The sweet initial feeling of "The Shop Around the Corner" is furthered by Jimmy Stewart, but those who have seen other Lubitsch films, such as To Be or Not to Be will understand that Lubitsch only plays to be sweet, and The Shop Around the Corner is perhaps his lees consistently sweet film. Not only does it include a horrible scene of discovered adultery, displaying all the character devistation of that feeling, without indulging in visual viscerality, except perhaps the stomach-cramping nature of the devastation a good actor can represent, it also includes a scene of attempted suicide, and sandwiches between them a very sweet, clever seen about a rascal of an errand boy. Lubitsch swings us from one end of the emotional range to the other with all the mercy of Copolla and Tarentino, and with all their effortless strength. Furthermore, for a movie with perhaps one or two close-ups, it's incredibly emotionally powerful and communicative.
Furthermore, the main romance is mostly a cat-and-mouse game of irony and perhaps even disguised hatred which, admittedly, ends up well, but throughout contains stinging, half-witty remarks (the sort of good wit that common people come up with when trying to be movie-witty) and some scenes of genuine anger, mixed with regret and attempted consolations. It's a movie that runs the full gamut of feelings, while remaining contained in a strange shell of normal life - no other director has taken fairly normal days and occurrences at a shop and turn them into such great movie scenes. We need more movies like this. What can I say? It's like Clerks... but without the sexuality and geeky masochism. Not to say Clerks is bad, just different. Anyway, The Shop Around the Corner is as much worth watching as anything, and I do highly recommend it.

Steampunk vs Cyberpunk

2008-07-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

So, I'm more than a bit worried that (to twist a phrase from the brilliant Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw (AKA Zero Punctuation) that Watchmen will become nothing more than an
Objectivist (the worst thing you could to to Watchmen)
Steampunk
CGIturd.
As a side point, if you have not watched any of Zero Puncutation's reviews, and have any interest in hearing a smart, literary dissection of modern gaming philosophy couched in funny rants about current games, get over there right now. Now, now, now, so I have people to laugh with.

Anyway, Watchmen has got me thinking about the differences between Cyberpunk and Steampunk. That said, I'm not an expert on either, so don't get all pissy if you've found I'm wrong by reading K.W. Jeter's original manuscripts. I'm engaging in creative philosophizing here.

It seems to me that one of the main differences between Steampunk and Cyberpunk is housed in the way that each becomes a running metaphor for the transformation of its protagonist. To wit: Steampunk is constantly obsessed with machinery that is never completely understandable, but always thinly veiled. There is always a sense that this machinery is understandable, even that the hero can understand it, and the hero is always trying to - be he H.G. Well's Time Traveler (or even more so Dr. Moreau) or Watchmen's Dr. Manhattan. (Watchmen, it seems to me, combines elements of each, and heroes from each), or for that matter, Tesla in the Prestige.
What is constistent with all these, however, is that once they get behind the thin veil (A reference to Dostoevsky's the Idiot and Conrad's Heart of Darkness, NOT to Wizard of Oz - that was a curtain) they discover a world that not only challenges their expectations, but their expectations of what to expect - the world behind the veil is categorically different from the world not behind the veil, and is not understandable on the first layer's terms. Furthermore, behind the veil are more veils. In this way, G.K. Chesterton's "The Man Who Was Thursday" is a work of Cyberpunk - besides having it's obvious dystopian, anarchic, Victorian, and philosophical themes, it is a group of men continually moving beyond various ignorance, and always feeling that "Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front —" but when they get round in front, while there is a change for the better, perhaps, there is still little certainty or vindication.
The cyberpunk hero, on the other hand, is often just forced to stand in awe of what arises before him, jutting up, as it were, through the veil, being the right way round, while still being entirely veiled. This is Blade Runner - at least, Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (and to a large extent, Philip Dick's Do Androids Dream, as well) insofar as Blade Runner presents us with a hero who is not a geek - he isn't trying to get round to the other side. He is merely trying to do his job on this side while the other side keeps stabbing at him. This is also carried in the metaphors of the computer- none of us can see to get around the other side of the internet. Wires and transistors make invisible the very methods of the machine, so that we do not feel we can comprehend it. There is no other side to get around to, and the world is flat.

That's about all I have time for right now.

Worth Listening To:

2008-07-24T16:30:00.001-07:00

I enjoy listening to Kevin Smith.
Go search for him on YouTube.

Fun times.

Watchmen is steampunk

2008-07-23T16:13:00.000-07:00

See? The machinery, the golden lighting, the crystals? Steampunk.

Some people are nostalgic

2008-07-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

So, here is a reassurance. Letter writing is not dead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jUxjhSSOnY

This also presents (I believe in the second video) a great example of two strong men disagreeing loudly, but without really hurting each other's feelings, and confronting one another like men. Something else you just don't see enough of.

The fifties are a blank signifier.

2008-07-23T15:16:00.000-07:00

The attitudes people have toward the fifties are very odd things.

In the Colbert Report appearance I mentioned earlier, Miller commented that "in the fifties, people trusted science."

Those people in the fifties must have trusted everyone.

I've heard religious leaders talk about the fifties like they were a holy land.
I've heard politicians talk about the fifties like they were the sanctified times of politics, when roads were built, back when the government did good... when they expanded the space race, the arms race, expanded an already failing Social Security system, and when scientists worked for and backed this expansion, when religion was its cheerleader.

The fifties have become the blank signifier (a literature term referring to a symbol that, like a white whale, can mean just about anything) of trust and goodness.

Now we have smog. Now we have nuclear waste. Now we have no post-war excesses. Now we can't oppress blacks and prisoners.

Is it any wonder we're a little more cynical when it comes to all these things, a little less respectful?

Not saying it's fully justified, not saying all our histories may be correct, merely trying to see where we think we have been, so I can know where we think we are going.

More Movies: Watchmen as Steampunk

2008-07-22T15:15:00.001-07:00

There is a lot that can be said about the upcoming Watchmen film.

I can express my disappointment with 300, both as a graphic novel and even more as a film.

Which makes me worried about Watchmen even more.

But for now, I'll let my hopes rise again, because the trailer has its moments - given, I'm very worried about the actors not being actually able to be three dimensional superheroes.

But what does encourage me is:

1. If Snyder actually has a hand in the trailer, he seems to understand the importance of the Mars sequence, which shows that he actually has sympathy with the character, not just the visual, because that scene is so important not just in a visual way.

2. Snyder's visuals seem to show an interesting understanding of the idea that Watchmen may be steampunk. After all Dr. Manhattan is a watchmaker, in case you didn't notice, and he always has a fascination with the world as a machine, run principally by intricate mechanistic works. So many scenes from Watchmen are about taking things apart - guns, people, watches, and putting them back together, and the layering seems much more steampunk than cyberpunk, because the idea of cyberpunk is more interested in wires than gears, in the invisible movement and energy of wires, with the clean, smooth, plastic exterior. In Watchmen, little is smooth, little is invisible, in fact, the whole thing may be more smooth on the inside than the outside.

And that I find interesting.

Back to Evolution

2008-07-21T16:13:00.000-07:00

Right, so, down to the meat of the issue.

In his appearance on the Colbert Show, Ken Miller stated we should trust science.

There are, in this, two difficulties. First, to trust science is to trust scientists. Scientists have been wrong. They are not omniscient, and consensus is by no means correct. Scientists often have no time to carefully review each others' work, so that they can actually be careful about what they believe. Also, often times our knowledge has simply not grown enough yet. This was certainly the problem with cigarettes for many years, when, according to several people I know, doctors would recommend them for colds. The problems simply weren't known. Scientists can also lie. It's surprising how often scientists, with all their ability to be wrong, so rarely report that their hypothesis proved wrong. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/money/main.jhtml?xml=/money/2006/10/16/ccpers16.xml)
The other problem is simple enough: The There may be problems we don't know yet, or, from a limited scientist perspective don't perceive, which was probably the case with most of the cigarette problems.

As Ken Miller says in his excellent lecture at Case Western University (available in full here: Ken Miller on Intelligent Design) for most Creation Science people, the problem isn't the scientists, it's the morals. I would certainly say that's true from what I've seen.

But that's the problem. We don't know the moral outcome yet, and morals allow us no leeway. In science we can be wrong, and unhurt. It is an academic exercise for good reason. It is an academic exercise because, in order to be safe enough to learn what is right, we have to be safe to be wrong and test it. But. But but but! The moment our ideas influence anyone to speak or act in a way that could damage them or anyone else, at least in my perspective, we loose the right and freedom to be wrong beyond any right or power of school, religion or state to bestow. Not that we can not be forgiven, but that we need forgiveness when we are morally wrong or encourage morally wrong action. In science we need no forgiveness for being wrong, unless that being wrong is willful ignorance. From the perspective of science, wrong is perhaps regrettable, but necessary. From the perspective of morals, wrong is urgent, and often deadly.

the old top 100

2008-07-21T16:02:00.000-07:00

I watched the old top 100 list. The new one has some worthy additions, Shawshank Redemption, Blade Runner and Cabaret being the big ones, but they also eliminated the two great James Dean movies, while leaving on so much crap.

Like Titanic.

Funny, before I said titanic, I felt like swearing, now I don't...

I was going to post about evolution...

2008-07-21T15:58:00.000-07:00

.. but the world is so interesting. For example, I have just finished watching all 100 of AFI's top 100 films. Later, I will try to summarize which ones are really worth watching and why (whenever I find myself actually having time for this blog. Isn't that the way things always are, I decide I have time to do something, then, boom... I'm busy again.)

Anyway, until I get my own views up, this list is quite worth a laugh:
http://my.spill.com/profiles/blog/show?id=947994%3ABlogPost%3A349345

First: Well done.

2008-07-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

I would like to start this series on creationism (ahem, excuse me, intelligent design) / evolution by congratulating both sides. I do believe this is a sadly ignored tactic, but I hope it will become more popular. I would like to congratulate both sides for not killing each other.
Looking at human debates over a broad view of history, it seems clear that this is a rare, nearly unique state of affairs. Institutions of power and influence seem to act somewhat like Bruce Lee. He famously said "Be water. When your enemy expands, contract, when he contracts, expand." When science doesn't have an explanation, religion often has filled in, and when science arrives at explanations or conclusions, religion has often contracted. Of course, neither side likes the contracting part, but it does happen. When it happens, there is often blood shed, books burnt, presses seized, and thinkers imprisoned. Religious and Secular texts and historians agree upon this history, from the first thinkers and dissenters until today.
To my extreme joy, I do not know of one case in the past twenty years in which either proponent of Intelligent Design or Evolution has been killed, had his books burnt, truly censured (not merely rejected for publication) or imprisoned. No matter what either side may accuse the other of, there can be no doubt that it could be much worse.

For this, I congratulate both sides. Well done. Thank you. Thank you for not killing each other. It makes my life so much more pleasant.

The first of a series

2008-07-17T17:23:00.000-07:00

Today, I begin the first post in what I hope will be a productive series. I want to write about something I have found particularly close to home, close to my experience, and interesting. Hurray, it's showing up here too (hey, it's important, and especially important to how we perceive information) it's the evolution debate.

To give a little background: I grew up in a conservative Christian home, my father was a pastor, and I still hold strongly to the faith of my youth. I believe in God, and the teachings of the protestant Bible, though my interpretation of the Bible may differ somewhat from your common Christian. I went to a private Liberal Arts college, at which there was, shall we say, an uncommon focus on this debate, and one which was rather one-sided. Doing more research myself, I have begun to doubt the common Christian arguments, have almost whole-heartedly rejected the "no-information-added" argument, and am currently working through a number of other issues. My very half-baked conclusions will be ignorantly and, perhaps, immodestly, displayed in this series.

To sum up: I wish I had all the time in the world to research everything.

Can't we just have a revolution?

2008-07-16T14:25:00.001-07:00

Congress now has a single digit job rating - %9 of Americans believe Congress is doing a good/excellent job. WTF? How did this happen?

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if a fair number of popular figures came out honestly for a revolution.

Perhaps we just need to re-write the constitution to try to keep this from happening again.

Vindicated! At least, somewhat...

2008-07-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, I was engaged in a long, heated debate with a couple of friends (they're still friends, actually) about the role of sports in academia. I took (and take) the position that having sports so dependent on the academy (high schools, colleges) is bad for sports, and worse for schools. In brief:

It creates a needless burden on already overburdened schools, especially financially.

It does nothing to help students to become more educated, or help the majority of students to become more fit - the only people becoming fit are the athletes, a small percentage of the students, and I think that this over-fit group discourages the majority of the students, since they see themselves as separate from this group. It is, like geekdom, a species of over-specialization.

I also think it possible that many people (and many sports) suffer from athletes being forced to do academic work, especially in college.

The presence of some athletes also, I believe, holds down the general intelligence of classes, making it harder for others to learn.

One of the main arguments I heard against this was "but Americans would hate seeing the college sports disappear" beside being aside the point, I think this may already be happening, which is why finding this post was so helpful:

Prep hoops star skips college, heads to Europe for a year

Never have I found a sports news item such a happy discovery.

Crazy birds

2008-07-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

It almost looks fake...

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?cl=8704649

Crazy.

Scratch that

2008-07-15T16:44:00.000-07:00

I said in my post about WALL-E that the theater in Washington cost half of what a SoCal theater costs, for the same quality. Scratch that.

I don't know if I can call this quality, but I just saw Hellboy 2 in theaters here - and they had the volume up way, way too loud. Is everyone in Southern California half-deaf?

So I thought about the Army...

2008-07-15T00:27:00.001-07:00

No, I'm not thinking of the service, though it could liven this blog up. I'm thinking philosophically. I was talking the other day with a couple of friends about military might, and something interesting came up. We were talking about military police actions, and how much we hate the way our government is involved in them, and what a mess they have been in the past.

First off, I think it important to state that I think we need to be careful about attributing a will and automatic sovereignty to nations. I have heard several people say things along the lines of "we should not be involved in hampering the will of a sovereign nation" - the difficulty of course being that nations don't have will - people have will, (the plural of will - what an odd thing, that linguistically we don't seem to think of will as plural) but nations do not. Tyrants have will, generals have will, presidents have will, but nations do not. Second, nations, I think, can not be assumed to be automatically sovereign. Just because people (in many cases our grandfathers) said they got to be separate nations doesn't mean they do - and that's a much longer discussion.

All that to say, one of the interesting points we came to in the discussion was that, while, as in the case of the Spanish Civil War we might intervene as private citizens (I highly recommend finding the old Esquire article on the Abraham Lincoln Brigade) to stop a civil rights violation, we are uncomfortable with the army doing it for us. This is interesting to me. I wonder if we would lend support to people going overseas to fight for civil rights in, say, Darfur and how that would be different from hiring an army.

Hard, important stuff.