Sincere Obscene Desserts congratulations to musician (and salmon farmer) Ian Anderson, who turns 60 today.
Jethro Tull was one of the important influences in my misspent youth, though that was already some time after the band were at their peak, creatively speaking (the 80s saw some good songs, but a little too much misguided experimentation with synths...but, hey, that was what the 80s were all about).
But albums such as Aqualung, Living in the Past, Thick as a Brick and Minstrel in the Gallery received heavy rotation on the old gramophone, and, I can testify that they were a great live band.
I even had a chance to speak to the band once...though I regret that I wasted that opportunity (through teenage nervousness) by asking a rather silly question. Sorry Ian.
For your listening pleasure, something from the early, bluesy days ('Back to the Family', 1969, in Stockholm).
Friday, August 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
A free lunch?
I have just noticed that a recent article of mine, 'The Limits of Culture? Society, Evolutionary Psychology and the History of Violence' seems to amongst the free content available for download from the journal Cultural and Social History.
Normally, you have to have a subscription to the journal (or be part of an institution that subscribes to it) to get access to its content.
For whatever reason, this issue is now free. (Article is here, click on 'view now' to get the PDF.)
The article's abstract:
The article appeared in the 'debate forum'. I have received two very thought-provoking responses. They, along with my own reply, will appear later this year.
Happy reading.
Normally, you have to have a subscription to the journal (or be part of an institution that subscribes to it) to get access to its content.
For whatever reason, this issue is now free. (Article is here, click on 'view now' to get the PDF.)
The article's abstract:
Recent debates about the meaning and role of cultural history have focused on the relationship between 'culture' and 'society'. Some have taken this opportunity to position cultural history as a site of resistance to 'biological' explanations of human behaviour. In contrast, this article argues that 'biological' methodologies - particularly the perspectives of evolutionary psychology - can usefully contribute to the historical understanding of culture and social development. To this end, it outlines the fundamentals of Darwinist psychology, suggests options for interdisciplinary cooperation and uses the topic of interpersonal violence to explore the potential for uniting cultural, social and evolutionary psychological methodologies.
The article appeared in the 'debate forum'. I have received two very thought-provoking responses. They, along with my own reply, will appear later this year.
Happy reading.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Atheism Friday, follow up
My post last Friday pointing to PZ Myers's response to an interview of Alistair McGrath prompted its own substantial response from Rob Jubb in the comments. I wanted to write a short reply, but due to my usual problems with concision and brevity, it got rather long. So, I decided to make a regular post out of it, not least since formatting and linking are much easier.
Rob's comment required me to do some thinking, but I believe I understood what he was getting at. For ease of reference, here is his comment:
Ok. Well, McGrath's arguments can be taken from Myers's post in excerpts or in its full glory via the link he provides.
One of those arguments, precisely, is that scientific criteria cannot be brought to 'bear on' God. This is, I think, McGrath's main argument. Rob seems to accept this notion too, by suggesting an analogy: science cannot provide an interesting or useful 'explanation of' the pleasures of reading a novel.
It depends what is meant by 'explanation of', and it depends what McGrath means by 'bear on', both of which are rather vague terms.
Actually, that's not true in the latter case: McGrath must be referring to the existence of God. If he's just talking about what it feels like to believe, then I'm not sure why he's wasting so much breath on such a banal point.
Thus, this argument must have to do with telling us something about whether God exists or not. Moreover, it is also clear that McGrath does not simply believe in some kind of vague Deist-like God: he believes in the biblical, intervening, prayer-hearing God whose son died for our sins. (I'm not clear how literally he takes things like burning bushes and the Garden of Eden, so we can leave that to one side.)
Is it really true that science has no relevance ('cannot be brought to bear on', in a slightly modified grammatical form from the original) to this question?
Really? I would think that providing (testable, proven) explanations about the way the world (life, universe) works that do not require a god--and which contradict Biblical versions of creation, the existence of heaven, the occurence of miracles,etc.--would be very relevant indeed. (It's feasible--maybe--that one's 'religious' interpretation could be so watered down so as to not violate science: but then we're talking about something that McGrath (like most believers) does not believe.)
Once you're in the realm of things that exist in (or around) the world and have an affect on the natural world, you are in the realm of science.
Religious motivated scientists once looked for God in nature; however, natural science has made God superflouous in nature. So what people like McGrath try to do now is say (simply by saying) that God is beyond natural explanation. It's a cute rhetorical trick, but what proof is there behind it?
None.
I suppose that's the point: one can just say, well, 'God is beyond all that' and the statement itself contains what is presumed to be a Get-out-of-the-natural-world-free card that is impervious to all reason, logic and evidence (since they have by definition been excluded).
This is essentially what McGrath does in the Root of All Evil interview. To be honest, I find it a pathetic argument. I am aware that someone who is content with simply asserting that God is beyond reason is not going to be swayed by a reasoned argument.
If that's at the root of this discussion, then I suppose that's the end of it.
I don't accept, though, the analogy of this kind of argument with Rob's on the pleasure of reading. If he means only that science cannot completely capture what it feels like to enjoy literature then he's right, obviously. The same could be said of any other mental state.
However, it can explain quite an enormous amount of things related to that mental state, not least the organs or brain structures we have to allow us to feel pleasure in the first place. The status of those feelings is much more real (and either is now or will likely someday be measurable to a rather precise extent) than a hypothetical 'God'.
A naturalistic explanation of love may not capture what it 'feels like' as a subjective experience: but it can indeed (contrary to Rob's argument) be a very 'useful' and 'interesting' way to describe that feeling.
Not that it's the sort of language in which you'd want to write a song about it....
And when we communicate with one another about that experience, we'll use a different language than talking about how our neurotransmitters are doing. But I don't see the relevance to the issue of a deity. Unless one wants to claim that that existence is irrelevant. But then, I think, we face a much different discussion.
It seems to me, though, that Rob's response mixes an argument about the ability to explain the existence or functioning of a thing or process and the ability to fully capture what it means to experience it.
Take the example given about reading: no, science cannot (completely) explain what it feels like to read a pleasurable passage in a book. But we can all agree that he and the book exist, and we can explain what happens in a person's brain as he reads the book.
So, while there is a little bit of added mystery there about subjective experience -- though not all that much, since anyone who has experienced that joy has had a similar experience -- the question of existence (of the book, Rob, or Rob's brain) has not been raised in the same way as debating the question of God does.
And there, while science cannot explain (some kind of) God away with 100% certainty (as Dawkins and Myers, as good scientists, admit), I think it has made (and is making) that possibility seem vanishingly small.
The same is true of Rob's spinach analogy: we may not have positive proof of his dislike of spinach, but there's no question that he, the spinach and a human ability to like or dislike particular foods all exist. And all that without leaving the realm of science.
I continue to think Myers does a great job of slicing into the McGrath's rather fatty argumentation (hence I still think 'to fillet' was indeed the right verb).
I mean...read the interview! Almost immediately after saying that experimental science cannot tell us anything important about God, he says:
How, once he has, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the scientific method as not relevant to the question does McGrath propose that science should 'show' anything? Which magical evidence would he willing to accept as proof?
McGrath, obviously, wants to have his cake and eat it: he denies the validity of science saying anything about God and then claims that religion and science are under equal obligations of proof (thereby sneakily elevating religion onto the same playing field as science).
I find this to be very confused thinking. And I think Myers's responses are quite appropriate.
I think that Myers is also right to skewer McGrath's shallow references to science being 'in transit'. (I don't know what it is with my culinary metaphors...maybe I'm just hungry.)
Obviously, science changes, but this is such a facile claim, especially for someone who has claimed to have studied the history of science. New findings certainly make for revisions, but if he thinks that one day we'll suddenly find that evolution or Newtonian physics (within particular domains) will be discarded, he is, I think, peddling a very mistaken notion of science.
Science, at least, has set up clear parameters for proving and disproving its conclusions: where is McGrath's version of Haldane's 'rabbits in the Precambrian' that would disprove what he thinks?
Is there any clearly identified criteria for believing what he believes that you can see?
I can't see any, and it seems to me that he simply believes some combination of things that he chooses to and that his church tells him to.
He is, of course, free to believe nonsense. But, as Myers says:
And neither, truth be told, do I.
Thanks Rob, very much, for the thought provoking question.
Rob's comment required me to do some thinking, but I believe I understood what he was getting at. For ease of reference, here is his comment:
Although I don't know the precise details of McGrath's argument, if it is anything like what I guess it is - that not all phenomena are best explained using the set of tools associated with naturalistic scientific investigation, and hence, one shouldn't necessarily expect an adequate explanation of religious claims from such investigations - Myers just asserts the premise McGrath denies against him - when he says that everything is to be explained by naturalistic scientific investigation. That is not a filleting of McGrath's argument. I happen to think that McGrath's claim is true about some non-religious phenomena - a scientific explanation of the pleasures of reading a well-written passage in a novel does not seem the most useful or interesting way to describe that event - although I doubt it is true about religious premises. If Myers wants to argue against McGrath, he needs to engage with that.
Neither is the 'sometimes we posit currently unobservable entities/events as explanations of currently observable entities/events' a gotcha. At best for Myers, McGrath seems pointing out that belief in a god is compatible with a rejection of the premise I am attributing to him. This does not commit him to that claim. At worst for Myers, McGrath is pointing out a feature of explanation in general, rather than scientific explanation in particular; that it relies on unobserved entities - as we might infer my dislike of spinach from my refusal to eat spinach, despite the fact that I have not affirmed the claim that I dislike spinach, none of which is obviously a scientific explanation - to explain observed ones.
Ok. Well, McGrath's arguments can be taken from Myers's post in excerpts or in its full glory via the link he provides.
One of those arguments, precisely, is that scientific criteria cannot be brought to 'bear on' God. This is, I think, McGrath's main argument. Rob seems to accept this notion too, by suggesting an analogy: science cannot provide an interesting or useful 'explanation of' the pleasures of reading a novel.
It depends what is meant by 'explanation of', and it depends what McGrath means by 'bear on', both of which are rather vague terms.
Actually, that's not true in the latter case: McGrath must be referring to the existence of God. If he's just talking about what it feels like to believe, then I'm not sure why he's wasting so much breath on such a banal point.
Thus, this argument must have to do with telling us something about whether God exists or not. Moreover, it is also clear that McGrath does not simply believe in some kind of vague Deist-like God: he believes in the biblical, intervening, prayer-hearing God whose son died for our sins. (I'm not clear how literally he takes things like burning bushes and the Garden of Eden, so we can leave that to one side.)
Is it really true that science has no relevance ('cannot be brought to bear on', in a slightly modified grammatical form from the original) to this question?
Really? I would think that providing (testable, proven) explanations about the way the world (life, universe) works that do not require a god--and which contradict Biblical versions of creation, the existence of heaven, the occurence of miracles,etc.--would be very relevant indeed. (It's feasible--maybe--that one's 'religious' interpretation could be so watered down so as to not violate science: but then we're talking about something that McGrath (like most believers) does not believe.)
Once you're in the realm of things that exist in (or around) the world and have an affect on the natural world, you are in the realm of science.
Religious motivated scientists once looked for God in nature; however, natural science has made God superflouous in nature. So what people like McGrath try to do now is say (simply by saying) that God is beyond natural explanation. It's a cute rhetorical trick, but what proof is there behind it?
None.
I suppose that's the point: one can just say, well, 'God is beyond all that' and the statement itself contains what is presumed to be a Get-out-of-the-natural-world-free card that is impervious to all reason, logic and evidence (since they have by definition been excluded).
This is essentially what McGrath does in the Root of All Evil interview. To be honest, I find it a pathetic argument. I am aware that someone who is content with simply asserting that God is beyond reason is not going to be swayed by a reasoned argument.
If that's at the root of this discussion, then I suppose that's the end of it.
I don't accept, though, the analogy of this kind of argument with Rob's on the pleasure of reading. If he means only that science cannot completely capture what it feels like to enjoy literature then he's right, obviously. The same could be said of any other mental state.
However, it can explain quite an enormous amount of things related to that mental state, not least the organs or brain structures we have to allow us to feel pleasure in the first place. The status of those feelings is much more real (and either is now or will likely someday be measurable to a rather precise extent) than a hypothetical 'God'.
A naturalistic explanation of love may not capture what it 'feels like' as a subjective experience: but it can indeed (contrary to Rob's argument) be a very 'useful' and 'interesting' way to describe that feeling.
Not that it's the sort of language in which you'd want to write a song about it....
And when we communicate with one another about that experience, we'll use a different language than talking about how our neurotransmitters are doing. But I don't see the relevance to the issue of a deity. Unless one wants to claim that that existence is irrelevant. But then, I think, we face a much different discussion.
It seems to me, though, that Rob's response mixes an argument about the ability to explain the existence or functioning of a thing or process and the ability to fully capture what it means to experience it.
Take the example given about reading: no, science cannot (completely) explain what it feels like to read a pleasurable passage in a book. But we can all agree that he and the book exist, and we can explain what happens in a person's brain as he reads the book.
So, while there is a little bit of added mystery there about subjective experience -- though not all that much, since anyone who has experienced that joy has had a similar experience -- the question of existence (of the book, Rob, or Rob's brain) has not been raised in the same way as debating the question of God does.
And there, while science cannot explain (some kind of) God away with 100% certainty (as Dawkins and Myers, as good scientists, admit), I think it has made (and is making) that possibility seem vanishingly small.
The same is true of Rob's spinach analogy: we may not have positive proof of his dislike of spinach, but there's no question that he, the spinach and a human ability to like or dislike particular foods all exist. And all that without leaving the realm of science.
I continue to think Myers does a great job of slicing into the McGrath's rather fatty argumentation (hence I still think 'to fillet' was indeed the right verb).
I mean...read the interview! Almost immediately after saying that experimental science cannot tell us anything important about God, he says:
Therefore I think Dawkins must realize that he’s under as great an obligation to show that there is no God as, for example, a Christian is to show that there’s a God.
How, once he has, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the scientific method as not relevant to the question does McGrath propose that science should 'show' anything? Which magical evidence would he willing to accept as proof?
McGrath, obviously, wants to have his cake and eat it: he denies the validity of science saying anything about God and then claims that religion and science are under equal obligations of proof (thereby sneakily elevating religion onto the same playing field as science).
I find this to be very confused thinking. And I think Myers's responses are quite appropriate.
I think that Myers is also right to skewer McGrath's shallow references to science being 'in transit'. (I don't know what it is with my culinary metaphors...maybe I'm just hungry.)
Obviously, science changes, but this is such a facile claim, especially for someone who has claimed to have studied the history of science. New findings certainly make for revisions, but if he thinks that one day we'll suddenly find that evolution or Newtonian physics (within particular domains) will be discarded, he is, I think, peddling a very mistaken notion of science.
Science, at least, has set up clear parameters for proving and disproving its conclusions: where is McGrath's version of Haldane's 'rabbits in the Precambrian' that would disprove what he thinks?
Is there any clearly identified criteria for believing what he believes that you can see?
I can't see any, and it seems to me that he simply believes some combination of things that he chooses to and that his church tells him to.
He is, of course, free to believe nonsense. But, as Myers says:
Maybe Mr McGrath should try spending more time actually defending that nonsense convincingly than simply whining about the atheists who are picking on his beliefs…but I don't think he can do that, either.
And neither, truth be told, do I.
Thanks Rob, very much, for the thought provoking question.
Underappreciation
Via Bob Mould, I found a list, apparently compiled not long ago from suggestions by Rolling Stone readers, of the 25 most 'underappreciated' artists and bands.
It's a curious list in some ways, not least it's not clear what 'underappreciated' means.
How do you measure a musician's 'importance'? Inherent quality? Innovation? Influence on other musicians? Critical reception? Sales?
The related question is then: which combination of these factors leads to 'underappreciation'? Lots of influence and poor sales? Good sales figures but a lack of recognition by music writers? Great influence but poor name recognition?
By any measure, for instance, Bob Seger (#10 on the list) has been enormously 'appreciated': not only has he long been inescapable on 'classic-rock' radio in the US, but he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and his 'Old Time Rock and Roll' was named one of the Songs of the Century in some kind of recording industry music heritage poll. So, he seems plenty 'appreciated' to me.
I suppose one could claim his unappreciatedness by the fact that I don't think most rock critics would see Bob Seger's music as innovative or, necessarily, influential. I mean, he does what he does quite well, but was it ever really innovative?
We have the opposite situation with the number 1 'underappreciated' artist Tom Waits. Now, I love Waits's music, but I'm not sure he belongs on the list either: his fan base and airplay might be relatively small (compared to, say, Bob Seger), but, considering the kind of music he makes, I think it's safe to say he's not really aiming for mass appeal. Furthermore, his fans make up for their relative rarity thorough their devotion, and he's gotten an enormous amount of critical appreciation amongst people who really think about music. (The latter could also be said of many artists on the list, such as Wilco, Talking Heads and Sonic Youth.)
So, can we really say that Waits is 'underappreciated'?
I don't know. The Replacements (#2) might have more of a justification for being there, as might Hüsker Dü (#21), considering that they were 'influential' (at least on the development of a particular style of American 'college rock' which then became 'alternative' or 'indie' which came to dominate US Airwaves (alongside country and rap)) to a degree which did not match their sales or general name recognition. (Unlike, perhaps, the Pixies, who are not on the list.)
Anyway, it's all very complicated (and perhaps not all that important...though a perusal of the comments following the list at the Rolling Stone site shows that some people will argue musical taste with the vehemence that others reserve for issues like war and religion).
But if I had to spontaneously come up with a list of ten underappreciated artists, i.e., those who I think are creatively excellent but who remain relatively obscure in that their popularity does no justice to their quality (a relative and somewhat shifting measurement) they would be (without thinking about it too much and thus reserving the right to alter my opinion):
Robyn Hitchcock
The Mountain Goats
The Notwist
The Wedding Present
Yo La Tengo
Erdmöbel
Console
The Books
The Flaming Lips
The High Llamas
I've undoubtedly missed something...but what?
(I'm aware that this list is limited to the genre of slightly nerdy indie-electronic-psychedelia. Even within those categories, there are thousands of probably very good bands and musicians out there I've never heard of. Not to mention that I'm overlooking all the underappreciated ambient dub artists and Scandinavian death metal bands that I'm...well, not all that up-to-date on, actually. But hey, I like what I like.)
It's a curious list in some ways, not least it's not clear what 'underappreciated' means.
How do you measure a musician's 'importance'? Inherent quality? Innovation? Influence on other musicians? Critical reception? Sales?
The related question is then: which combination of these factors leads to 'underappreciation'? Lots of influence and poor sales? Good sales figures but a lack of recognition by music writers? Great influence but poor name recognition?
By any measure, for instance, Bob Seger (#10 on the list) has been enormously 'appreciated': not only has he long been inescapable on 'classic-rock' radio in the US, but he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and his 'Old Time Rock and Roll' was named one of the Songs of the Century in some kind of recording industry music heritage poll. So, he seems plenty 'appreciated' to me.
I suppose one could claim his unappreciatedness by the fact that I don't think most rock critics would see Bob Seger's music as innovative or, necessarily, influential. I mean, he does what he does quite well, but was it ever really innovative?
We have the opposite situation with the number 1 'underappreciated' artist Tom Waits. Now, I love Waits's music, but I'm not sure he belongs on the list either: his fan base and airplay might be relatively small (compared to, say, Bob Seger), but, considering the kind of music he makes, I think it's safe to say he's not really aiming for mass appeal. Furthermore, his fans make up for their relative rarity thorough their devotion, and he's gotten an enormous amount of critical appreciation amongst people who really think about music. (The latter could also be said of many artists on the list, such as Wilco, Talking Heads and Sonic Youth.)
So, can we really say that Waits is 'underappreciated'?
I don't know. The Replacements (#2) might have more of a justification for being there, as might Hüsker Dü (#21), considering that they were 'influential' (at least on the development of a particular style of American 'college rock' which then became 'alternative' or 'indie' which came to dominate US Airwaves (alongside country and rap)) to a degree which did not match their sales or general name recognition. (Unlike, perhaps, the Pixies, who are not on the list.)
Anyway, it's all very complicated (and perhaps not all that important...though a perusal of the comments following the list at the Rolling Stone site shows that some people will argue musical taste with the vehemence that others reserve for issues like war and religion).
But if I had to spontaneously come up with a list of ten underappreciated artists, i.e., those who I think are creatively excellent but who remain relatively obscure in that their popularity does no justice to their quality (a relative and somewhat shifting measurement) they would be (without thinking about it too much and thus reserving the right to alter my opinion):
Robyn Hitchcock
The Mountain Goats
The Notwist
The Wedding Present
Yo La Tengo
Erdmöbel
Console
The Books
The Flaming Lips
The High Llamas
I've undoubtedly missed something...but what?
(I'm aware that this list is limited to the genre of slightly nerdy indie-electronic-psychedelia. Even within those categories, there are thousands of probably very good bands and musicians out there I've never heard of. Not to mention that I'm overlooking all the underappreciated ambient dub artists and Scandinavian death metal bands that I'm...well, not all that up-to-date on, actually. But hey, I like what I like.)
Friday, August 03, 2007
Atheism Friday: back-to-basics edition
Amidst all the rough and tumble of recent debates about belief and reason, it is sometimes possible to lose sight of the key issues involved. This is partly driven, of course, by the rather circuitous (read: desperate and flailing) logic that emerges from the realms of the faithful. Trying to respond makes nailing jell-o to the wall seem easy.
It is thus sometimes refreshing to have a nice, concise statement of the issues at stake, one that efficiently pierces the theological smokescreen.
It's even better to have two such statements.
First, at Pharyngula, P. Z. Myers makes such short work of Alistair McGrath that I almost feel sorry for the poor theology professor. Or, at least I would if he didn't have such a nice cushy job at Oxford despite having such breathtakingly banal thoughts. (If you think I'm being harsh on him, you can see him in full blither in this interview filmed for Dawkins's documentary The Root of All Evil.)
Myers always writes well and gets to the point very quickly, but this filleting of McGrath's arguments has something nicely elegant (and, as Geoff points out, practically surgical) about it.
I am, moreover, grateful to Dr. Myers for bringing this t-shirt explanation of Christianity to my attention:
Second, for your listening pleasure, A. C. Grayling is interviewed at philosophy bites about atheism (or, as he prefers to call it--and I agree--'naturalism'), science, ethics and death. It's all of 12 minutes long, and it's full of all kinds of relatively basic-but-fundamental (and in many ways profound) insights. (Via Norm)
Enjoy!
It is thus sometimes refreshing to have a nice, concise statement of the issues at stake, one that efficiently pierces the theological smokescreen.
It's even better to have two such statements.
First, at Pharyngula, P. Z. Myers makes such short work of Alistair McGrath that I almost feel sorry for the poor theology professor. Or, at least I would if he didn't have such a nice cushy job at Oxford despite having such breathtakingly banal thoughts. (If you think I'm being harsh on him, you can see him in full blither in this interview filmed for Dawkins's documentary The Root of All Evil.)
Myers always writes well and gets to the point very quickly, but this filleting of McGrath's arguments has something nicely elegant (and, as Geoff points out, practically surgical) about it.
I am, moreover, grateful to Dr. Myers for bringing this t-shirt explanation of Christianity to my attention:
Christianity: The belief that some cosmic Jewish Zombie can make you live forever if you symbolically eat his flesh and telepathically tell him that you accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul that is present in humanity because a rib-woman was convinced by a talking snake to eat from a magical tree.(Actually...that makes it sound far more interesting than it typically is...)
Second, for your listening pleasure, A. C. Grayling is interviewed at philosophy bites about atheism (or, as he prefers to call it--and I agree--'naturalism'), science, ethics and death. It's all of 12 minutes long, and it's full of all kinds of relatively basic-but-fundamental (and in many ways profound) insights. (Via Norm)
Enjoy!
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Who Said German Politics Weren't Sexy?
Since a certain political crisis has reached the boiling point, I present without further ado, an insightful despatch from The Wife.
** ** **
At the risk of inviting a lot of shoulder shrugging indifference amongst the gracious readers of this blog, I comment today upon a minor scandal that has held the German political scene in suspense for some months now. It also gets a bit confessional at the end, so you might consider skipping it – I won’t mind.
In spring, the world learnt something about Horst Seehofer, member of parliament and a high-ranking official in the CSU, the Christian Social Union (the Bavarian ‘sister-party’ of the German conservatives…as is typical, the Bavarians have to have their own version of everything). The CSU has been exerting one-party rule over that somewhat idiosyncratic southern 'free state' of Bavaria—thereby ensuring, as they would have you believe, absolute moral purity—since the founding of the Federal Republic in 1948.
Anyway, earlier this year, it was revealed that Herr Seehofer had had an extramarital affair that was not only longstanding but also, rather inopportunely, fruitful.
The bouncing baby Seehofer in question has recently arrived; small though she may be, she’s caused her own little political tsunami. Seehofer’s impressive, if imprudent, virility has rocked the boat a bit, not only because the C in CSU is virtually synonymous with ‘Catholic’ but also because he had been spending most of 2007 vociferously pushing to ascend to the throne of the ‘free state’ when its current king, Edmund Stoiber, finally totters off into the sunset (muttering inanely like Lear on the heath).
For weeks on end the German yellow press and its readers held their breath: would Seehofer leave his wife or not? Then, at the beginning of July, the news trickled out: he will stay. Result: relief tinged with a mix of ‘told you so’ cynicism and disappointment. After all, since Seehofer’s political ambitions were already beyond repair, he might as well have done something brave for a change and gone the whole way for true love. Oh well, Edward VIII he ain’t.
Now, his former lover has spoken out. After a sassy new haircut and the application of a hefty layer of make-up (and, I would say, a close encounter with Photoshop), Fräulein F. holds her (rather wilting) little bundle of joy into the camera with one big maternal beam.
The intended message is clear: I’m a strong, sexy chick who can do it by myself (the Diana-strategy)! Dig this Horsty: this is what you’ve passed up by staying with your Missus (it IS the Diana strategy alright – Frau Seehofer even looks...neigh...a bit like Camilla). And much like in Diana’s case, it seems the otherwise uptight reading public is ready to accept this version of grrrl-power (don’t forget, in Bavaria, they roll those ‘r’s).
So far, so sordid.
However, I had an uncanny epiphany today, one of those six-degrees-of-separation stories that now and then enrich all our otherwise tedious lives. My realisation of who Fräulein F. is has brought forth my first real emotional reaction to this sorry little farce, a reaction somewhere between triumph and embittered disgust.
Triumph because the case has yet again confirmed what I’ve said all along: there’s something rotten in the state of Bavaria. And the overtly Christian Conservative is no less a mammal than the rest of us.
The embittered disgust derives from the double standard behind it all. And this is where it gets a little more personal.
The famous Fräulein F., would you believe it, grew up only one village away from mine in the rural nowhere of Northern Bavaria. Though I must admit she was certainly a medium-sized fish in our rather tiny pond: her father, in fact, was our village mayor (CSU, of course. Catholic, of course).
I remember only too well his neatly side-parted, bearded and stripe-tied image on the flimsy xeroxed newsletters through which this local council spread its Good News: births, deaths, meetings of the Landfrauen and the Frauenbund (groups providing excitement—or at least macramé—to farmers’ wives), and the officially-sanctioned binge drinking (with optional subsequent wife-beating) called the Männergesangsverein. Oh, and of course: those CSU-meetings.
Now, it’s obvious to me that the origins of this little Immaculate Conception were prepared by a powerful, but not so divine, force. I call it the Old Boys Network (copyright pending). In the fetid little swamp of Bavarian local politics, this is the motive force for just about everything.
Now that the CSU is getting ‘modern’, of course, the Old Boys have let a few chicks into their ranks, as Fräulein F.’s example—she was a personal assistant to someone in the sister-party CDU (aka, ‘the conservatives for those not blessed with being Bavarian’)—shows. It’s possibly in this nepotistic context, too, that she met Seehofer (though I like to imagine him dangling her on his knees at some dingy village festival in the 1980s—who knows I might have been an innocent bystander: somehow this makes me feel vaguely ill).
And the same nepotistic network that brought Fräulein F. and Herr S. together is now closing ranks around her and promoting her as a gutsy, albeit provincial, feminist who deserves all our admiration and support. (Just look at that baby beam!)
Hang on: didn’t she have a four-year affair with a married man? Which memory hole did that get thrown down? Where are the voices (and there are many of them…and they are loud) which are typically raised when such things happen outside the charmed circle of C-Party influence and regard? Where’s the comment from the man in white at the Vatican – who, like bloody Bono, has an opinion about everything – at a moment like this?
Fräulein F. was but a toddler when my mother proved her own feminist strength by—for good reason—filing for divorce and leaving said village with two kids in tow. It’s odd (no, actually, it’s more than odd, it’s infuriating) that people then (good, loyal and relentlessly moral CSU voters all of them) went on a veritable witch hunt against my mother, not only literally turning their backs on her (and my brother and me) in the street but also gleefully spreading hurtful and slanderous rumours.
Where was the yellow press then? Who offered her a glossy photo spread (and the attendant financial rewards of celebrity)?
Of course... my mother was ahead of her time – and not a bearer of a CSU membership card.
Or, of a CSU politician’s child.
** ** **
At the risk of inviting a lot of shoulder shrugging indifference amongst the gracious readers of this blog, I comment today upon a minor scandal that has held the German political scene in suspense for some months now. It also gets a bit confessional at the end, so you might consider skipping it – I won’t mind.
In spring, the world learnt something about Horst Seehofer, member of parliament and a high-ranking official in the CSU, the Christian Social Union (the Bavarian ‘sister-party’ of the German conservatives…as is typical, the Bavarians have to have their own version of everything). The CSU has been exerting one-party rule over that somewhat idiosyncratic southern 'free state' of Bavaria—thereby ensuring, as they would have you believe, absolute moral purity—since the founding of the Federal Republic in 1948.
Anyway, earlier this year, it was revealed that Herr Seehofer had had an extramarital affair that was not only longstanding but also, rather inopportunely, fruitful.
The bouncing baby Seehofer in question has recently arrived; small though she may be, she’s caused her own little political tsunami. Seehofer’s impressive, if imprudent, virility has rocked the boat a bit, not only because the C in CSU is virtually synonymous with ‘Catholic’ but also because he had been spending most of 2007 vociferously pushing to ascend to the throne of the ‘free state’ when its current king, Edmund Stoiber, finally totters off into the sunset (muttering inanely like Lear on the heath).
For weeks on end the German yellow press and its readers held their breath: would Seehofer leave his wife or not? Then, at the beginning of July, the news trickled out: he will stay. Result: relief tinged with a mix of ‘told you so’ cynicism and disappointment. After all, since Seehofer’s political ambitions were already beyond repair, he might as well have done something brave for a change and gone the whole way for true love. Oh well, Edward VIII he ain’t.
Now, his former lover has spoken out. After a sassy new haircut and the application of a hefty layer of make-up (and, I would say, a close encounter with Photoshop), Fräulein F. holds her (rather wilting) little bundle of joy into the camera with one big maternal beam.
The intended message is clear: I’m a strong, sexy chick who can do it by myself (the Diana-strategy)! Dig this Horsty: this is what you’ve passed up by staying with your Missus (it IS the Diana strategy alright – Frau Seehofer even looks...neigh...a bit like Camilla). And much like in Diana’s case, it seems the otherwise uptight reading public is ready to accept this version of grrrl-power (don’t forget, in Bavaria, they roll those ‘r’s).
So far, so sordid.
However, I had an uncanny epiphany today, one of those six-degrees-of-separation stories that now and then enrich all our otherwise tedious lives. My realisation of who Fräulein F. is has brought forth my first real emotional reaction to this sorry little farce, a reaction somewhere between triumph and embittered disgust.
Triumph because the case has yet again confirmed what I’ve said all along: there’s something rotten in the state of Bavaria. And the overtly Christian Conservative is no less a mammal than the rest of us.
The embittered disgust derives from the double standard behind it all. And this is where it gets a little more personal.
The famous Fräulein F., would you believe it, grew up only one village away from mine in the rural nowhere of Northern Bavaria. Though I must admit she was certainly a medium-sized fish in our rather tiny pond: her father, in fact, was our village mayor (CSU, of course. Catholic, of course).
I remember only too well his neatly side-parted, bearded and stripe-tied image on the flimsy xeroxed newsletters through which this local council spread its Good News: births, deaths, meetings of the Landfrauen and the Frauenbund (groups providing excitement—or at least macramé—to farmers’ wives), and the officially-sanctioned binge drinking (with optional subsequent wife-beating) called the Männergesangsverein. Oh, and of course: those CSU-meetings.
Now, it’s obvious to me that the origins of this little Immaculate Conception were prepared by a powerful, but not so divine, force. I call it the Old Boys Network (copyright pending). In the fetid little swamp of Bavarian local politics, this is the motive force for just about everything.
Now that the CSU is getting ‘modern’, of course, the Old Boys have let a few chicks into their ranks, as Fräulein F.’s example—she was a personal assistant to someone in the sister-party CDU (aka, ‘the conservatives for those not blessed with being Bavarian’)—shows. It’s possibly in this nepotistic context, too, that she met Seehofer (though I like to imagine him dangling her on his knees at some dingy village festival in the 1980s—who knows I might have been an innocent bystander: somehow this makes me feel vaguely ill).
And the same nepotistic network that brought Fräulein F. and Herr S. together is now closing ranks around her and promoting her as a gutsy, albeit provincial, feminist who deserves all our admiration and support. (Just look at that baby beam!)
Hang on: didn’t she have a four-year affair with a married man? Which memory hole did that get thrown down? Where are the voices (and there are many of them…and they are loud) which are typically raised when such things happen outside the charmed circle of C-Party influence and regard? Where’s the comment from the man in white at the Vatican – who, like bloody Bono, has an opinion about everything – at a moment like this?
Fräulein F. was but a toddler when my mother proved her own feminist strength by—for good reason—filing for divorce and leaving said village with two kids in tow. It’s odd (no, actually, it’s more than odd, it’s infuriating) that people then (good, loyal and relentlessly moral CSU voters all of them) went on a veritable witch hunt against my mother, not only literally turning their backs on her (and my brother and me) in the street but also gleefully spreading hurtful and slanderous rumours.
Where was the yellow press then? Who offered her a glossy photo spread (and the attendant financial rewards of celebrity)?
Of course... my mother was ahead of her time – and not a bearer of a CSU membership card.
Or, of a CSU politician’s child.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Michelangelo Antonioni
This is becoming a sad series of posts about classic European film directors taking their leave.
Michelangelo Antonioni has died at the age of 94.
I only know two of his films, but they're both fascinating. Blow Up is perhaps the one he's best known for, and it's long been a favourite.
Zabriskie Point is maybe a bit less known, but it's certainly at least equally interesting. (Not least for the soundtrack) It is certainly a big mess of a film (it was an utter flop at the time) and may have its somewhat dated moments, caught up as it was in the Zeitgeist of its time.
Nonetheless, it managed to capture some beautiful images of both dreamy utopianism (some visible in the trailer)...
...and furious--but still dreamy--destruction (set to music by Pink Floyd).
And, somehow, it managed to bring them together, if not completely coherently.
Its incoherence, though, was one of the more charming qualities, I always thought, of both the film...and the time from which it emerged.
Though, I suppose this film is more a farewell to whatever potential the 60s had than a celebration of it.
And on that note...
Ciao, Michelangelo.
Michelangelo Antonioni has died at the age of 94.
I only know two of his films, but they're both fascinating. Blow Up is perhaps the one he's best known for, and it's long been a favourite.
Zabriskie Point is maybe a bit less known, but it's certainly at least equally interesting. (Not least for the soundtrack) It is certainly a big mess of a film (it was an utter flop at the time) and may have its somewhat dated moments, caught up as it was in the Zeitgeist of its time.
Nonetheless, it managed to capture some beautiful images of both dreamy utopianism (some visible in the trailer)...
...and furious--but still dreamy--destruction (set to music by Pink Floyd).
And, somehow, it managed to bring them together, if not completely coherently.
Its incoherence, though, was one of the more charming qualities, I always thought, of both the film...and the time from which it emerged.
Though, I suppose this film is more a farewell to whatever potential the 60s had than a celebration of it.
And on that note...
Ciao, Michelangelo.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Silence
Ingmar Bergman has died.
This is sad, even if he was 89 and apparently had a peaceful end. I've seen fewer of his films than I should have, but those I have seen have stayed with me.
And it's not hard to see why.
(From Wild Strawberries)
Farewell.
(Thanks to Anja for informing me.)
This is sad, even if he was 89 and apparently had a peaceful end. I've seen fewer of his films than I should have, but those I have seen have stayed with me.
And it's not hard to see why.
(From Wild Strawberries)
Farewell.
(Thanks to Anja for informing me.)
Friday, July 27, 2007
The end (at least of the semester)
A guest post, from The Wife.
**
Finished, finito, Schluß .... The semester is (finally) over. But just as there are still a few things that I need to get off my desk before I start thinking some serious thoughts, I need to get some things off me chest before I can settle down to recharge my batteries. So, this is just a brief cathartic rant about the last few frustrating weeks – after which I shall hold my tongue. Ignore at leisure.
Why rant if you have a cushy job with a semester’s sabbatical ahead of you? Because the institution in which I work is undergoing a Kafkaesque metamorphosis from which it will never recover and which has altered the profession I initially “went into” (back in those innocent days when it still seemed desirable) beyond recognition in a way that makes me weep. Don’t worry, I won’t go into the details of the current intellectual Gleichschaltung of German academia, other people have done that much more eloquently than me.
I just want to ventilate the lingering frustration of the past months (for the sake of above-mentioned catharsis). And I want to take this opportunity to emphasise how painful it is when, as you are trying to merely survive on less than six hours sleep a night for weeks on end (including weekends), a well-meaning colleague – though in the nicest and kindest possible way – tells you off for not showing up at a conference warming on the one single day that provided an opportunity to write a lecture during normal daytime hours rather than as part of yet another endless-seeming nightshift. And this, after telling me in her preceding sentence that I need to 'take some time out'.
So which advice should I follow. Or should I, at best, do both simultaneously?
Apparently these days, NOT to be schizophrenic is considered undesirable. Go, split up in as many selves as you can come up with to increase your bloody availability. I am, in fact, tired of being available and doing seven things at the same time. I too would like to be able – like apparently most men – to cultivate the old tunnel vision and FOCUS.
In the face of these demands, which are at complete odds with what academia was suppose to be at one point in my imagination (a safe ecological niche for misanthropic bookworms such as me) I’m getting increasingly exasperated by overeager students setting out on their GACs (Grand Academic Careers – herewith copyrighted) in their second semester (without anybody ever suggesting to them that they should).
Say no more – especially since Zadie Smith hits the nail on the head in the following description in On Beauty:
No comment.
I have an odd relationship with Zadie Smith, whose books I tend to give a wide berth (because the wrong kind of people seem to like her for the wrong kinds of reasons) until some specific reason compels me to read them, typically with the effect that I then enjoy them so much that I wonder why the heck I hadn’t looked at them before. This was the case with White Teeth, which I’ve reread several times and set for classes.
On Beauty, too, is already a couple of years old, but maybe because of the title I feared an unfunny, clever-clever tract about art and lies à la Jeanette Winterson.
As usual with Smith I’m disconcerted by her humour, which strikes me as facetious and potentially unkind (and hence is embarrassingly close to my own). Yet ever so often she comes across as sane and clever – like in the following passage (featuring aforementioned Zora and Claire, about whom the former goes to complain to Dean French):
Reading this, I felt uncannily reminded of a conversation I had had with a student a few weeks previously – an unusually bright student, I have to add, whose optimism and enthusiasm I should applaud rather than ridicule – who in the course of this conversation suggested that I should “make more gender trouble”.
Not that I haven’t read Ms Butler (which the student implied, probably finding me “barely intellectual”) – actually, I did read her about 10 years ago, the well-thumbed and heavily annotated version of Gender Trouble in my office upstairs is testimony to that – but this day and age, with my need for sleep extending proportionally to my going grey, I can’t see the point in all this anymore. I wouldn’t even know how to make gender trouble (and didn’t know then). I don’t think the student knew either – but then Ms Butler remains completely abstract about the whole concept herself (unless what she means is being some kind of academic Melissa Etheridge without make-up and a propensity for garbled writing).
This makes the passage from Smith’s novel all the more disconcerting. On the one hand and from my momentary perspective, I identify completely with 53-year-old Claire. Although well over a decade away from that age I have developed a very mature appreciation of humble animals (oh, our hedgehog!) and plants (one of the greatest successes of the year, my tomatoes. I now have become the kind of person who hands out freezer bags with home-grown produce ….) as well as a penchant for weeding.
On the other hand, Zora is exactly what I was like not too long ago: madly into subversion and anything needlessly complicated. But since my halcyon days of postmodern transcendentalism are over, I have developed a new appreciation for people who say intelligent things about complicated things in a clear and straightforward manner (audio file).
Anyway, against the schizophrenia and fucking aging process, here’s some music:
Watch out for the great line: “Our earthly pleasures distract us against our will.” Dig this, Judith Butler! And then of course the wonderful question: “Are you hopeful or just gullible?” – which reminds me of, oh, several professional acquaintances.
Cheers and happy weekend!
**
Finished, finito, Schluß .... The semester is (finally) over. But just as there are still a few things that I need to get off my desk before I start thinking some serious thoughts, I need to get some things off me chest before I can settle down to recharge my batteries. So, this is just a brief cathartic rant about the last few frustrating weeks – after which I shall hold my tongue. Ignore at leisure.
Why rant if you have a cushy job with a semester’s sabbatical ahead of you? Because the institution in which I work is undergoing a Kafkaesque metamorphosis from which it will never recover and which has altered the profession I initially “went into” (back in those innocent days when it still seemed desirable) beyond recognition in a way that makes me weep. Don’t worry, I won’t go into the details of the current intellectual Gleichschaltung of German academia, other people have done that much more eloquently than me.
I just want to ventilate the lingering frustration of the past months (for the sake of above-mentioned catharsis). And I want to take this opportunity to emphasise how painful it is when, as you are trying to merely survive on less than six hours sleep a night for weeks on end (including weekends), a well-meaning colleague – though in the nicest and kindest possible way – tells you off for not showing up at a conference warming on the one single day that provided an opportunity to write a lecture during normal daytime hours rather than as part of yet another endless-seeming nightshift. And this, after telling me in her preceding sentence that I need to 'take some time out'.
So which advice should I follow. Or should I, at best, do both simultaneously?
Apparently these days, NOT to be schizophrenic is considered undesirable. Go, split up in as many selves as you can come up with to increase your bloody availability. I am, in fact, tired of being available and doing seven things at the same time. I too would like to be able – like apparently most men – to cultivate the old tunnel vision and FOCUS.
In the face of these demands, which are at complete odds with what academia was suppose to be at one point in my imagination (a safe ecological niche for misanthropic bookworms such as me) I’m getting increasingly exasperated by overeager students setting out on their GACs (Grand Academic Careers – herewith copyrighted) in their second semester (without anybody ever suggesting to them that they should).
Say no more – especially since Zadie Smith hits the nail on the head in the following description in On Beauty:
Zora was on her way to Dean French’s office to empty her hypothetical future into his lap. She was particularly concerned about her failure to get into Claire Malcolm’s poetry class last semester. She hadn’t yet seen the boards, but if it happened again then that could have a very adverse effect on her future, which needed to be discussed, along with many other troubling aspects of her future in all its futurity. This was the first of seven meetings that she had taken it upon herself to schedule for the initial week of the semester. Zora was extremely fond of scheduling meetings with important people for whom her future was not really a top priority (140).
No comment.
I have an odd relationship with Zadie Smith, whose books I tend to give a wide berth (because the wrong kind of people seem to like her for the wrong kinds of reasons) until some specific reason compels me to read them, typically with the effect that I then enjoy them so much that I wonder why the heck I hadn’t looked at them before. This was the case with White Teeth, which I’ve reread several times and set for classes.
On Beauty, too, is already a couple of years old, but maybe because of the title I feared an unfunny, clever-clever tract about art and lies à la Jeanette Winterson.
As usual with Smith I’m disconcerted by her humour, which strikes me as facetious and potentially unkind (and hence is embarrassingly close to my own). Yet ever so often she comes across as sane and clever – like in the following passage (featuring aforementioned Zora and Claire, about whom the former goes to complain to Dean French):
The food arrived. Claire was still speaking about the land. Zora, who had been clearly brooding on something, now spoke up. “But how do you avoid falling into pastoral fallacy – I mean, isn’t it a depoliticized reification, all this beauty stuff about landscape? Virgil, Pope, the Romantics. Why idealize?”
“Idealize?” repeated Claire uncertainly. “I’m not sure I really … You know, what I’ve always felt is, well, for instance, in The Georgics –“
“The what?”
“Virgil … In The Georgics, nature and the pleasures of the pastoral are essential to any …” began Claire, but Zora had already stopped listening. Claire’s kind of learning was tiresome to her. Claire didn’t know anything about theorists, or ideas, or the latest thinking. Sometimes Zora suspected her of being barely intellectual. With her, it was always “in Plato” or “in Baudelaire” or “in Rimbaud”, as if we all had time to sit around reading whatever we fancied. Zora blinked impatiently, visibly tracking Claire’s sentence, waiting for a period or, failing that, a semicolon in which to insert herself again.
“But after Foucault,” she said, seeing her chance, “where is there to go with that stuff” (218-19).
Reading this, I felt uncannily reminded of a conversation I had had with a student a few weeks previously – an unusually bright student, I have to add, whose optimism and enthusiasm I should applaud rather than ridicule – who in the course of this conversation suggested that I should “make more gender trouble”.
Not that I haven’t read Ms Butler (which the student implied, probably finding me “barely intellectual”) – actually, I did read her about 10 years ago, the well-thumbed and heavily annotated version of Gender Trouble in my office upstairs is testimony to that – but this day and age, with my need for sleep extending proportionally to my going grey, I can’t see the point in all this anymore. I wouldn’t even know how to make gender trouble (and didn’t know then). I don’t think the student knew either – but then Ms Butler remains completely abstract about the whole concept herself (unless what she means is being some kind of academic Melissa Etheridge without make-up and a propensity for garbled writing).
This makes the passage from Smith’s novel all the more disconcerting. On the one hand and from my momentary perspective, I identify completely with 53-year-old Claire. Although well over a decade away from that age I have developed a very mature appreciation of humble animals (oh, our hedgehog!) and plants (one of the greatest successes of the year, my tomatoes. I now have become the kind of person who hands out freezer bags with home-grown produce ….) as well as a penchant for weeding.
On the other hand, Zora is exactly what I was like not too long ago: madly into subversion and anything needlessly complicated. But since my halcyon days of postmodern transcendentalism are over, I have developed a new appreciation for people who say intelligent things about complicated things in a clear and straightforward manner (audio file).
Anyway, against the schizophrenia and fucking aging process, here’s some music:
Watch out for the great line: “Our earthly pleasures distract us against our will.” Dig this, Judith Butler! And then of course the wonderful question: “Are you hopeful or just gullible?” – which reminds me of, oh, several professional acquaintances.
Cheers and happy weekend!
Sexy-mini-super-flower-pop-op-cola
A couple of ads from Charles Wilp for German soft-drink brand, Afri-Cola, from the 1960s.
While it does contain a large amount of caffeine, it does not, as far as I know, contain the hallucinogens that the ads might lead you to believe it does.
(Via David Thompson)
While it does contain a large amount of caffeine, it does not, as far as I know, contain the hallucinogens that the ads might lead you to believe it does.
(Via David Thompson)
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Time to leave the nest?
Geoff has taken a few lovely photographs of some barn swallows at his house.
Here's one:
He thinks it's high time they stopped sponging off their parents.
Perhaps.
They do seem greedy.
Animal watching is actually one of our favourite activities here at OD, and we're blessed with a garden that hosts an amazing variety of wildlife.
I'm convinced that a little time spent considering nature in action will tell you a great deal more about life than all the holy books ever written.
Amen.
Here's one:
He thinks it's high time they stopped sponging off their parents.
Perhaps.
They do seem greedy.
Animal watching is actually one of our favourite activities here at OD, and we're blessed with a garden that hosts an amazing variety of wildlife.
I'm convinced that a little time spent considering nature in action will tell you a great deal more about life than all the holy books ever written.
Amen.
...the answer is: very carefully. And loudly.
A prickly situation indeed:
(Via Atlantic Review)BERLIN (Reuters) - German police called to investigate unusual noises in the garden of a Bremen house late on Monday were surprised to find that a pair of amorous hedgehogs were to blame.
After illuminating the garden with spotlights, officers discovered the animals making love beside the pond.
"The pair were loudly engaged in ensuring the continuity of their species," said Bremen police spokesman Ronald Walther.
"All those spectators did not worry them in the least, indeed they even intensified their activities, so the officers turned off the lights," he added.
The hedgehog breeding season runs from April to September and their lovemaking is typically accompanied by very loud puffing and snorting, usually by the female as she tries to ward off the male.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The bravery of being out of range
Max Blumenthal has made a very interesting little film called 'Generation Chickenhawk', which he has posted at his blog. (It is also, in slightly rougher quality, embedded below.)
He visits the College Republican National Convention and asks a few questions of the eager young things who have gathered there to, apparently, root for America, hate gays, oppose abortion rights and (though this may be hearsay) drink lots of beer.
It makes for very good viewing.
The 'College Republicans' that he deals with are well known to yours truly...even, actually in the context of a war against Iraq. The one before this one, in fact. (It seems that every generation from now on may have its war in Iraq, the way things are going...)
And we certainly had a good old time back then in the late '80s and early '90s as we debated...well, pretty much the same things that are being debated today. (The more things change, eh?...)
Actually, as I recall, we debated and they just made lots of noise and threatened physical violence when they got frustrated that their stupid arguments didn't hold any water.
As Blumenthal's film makes clear, they remain the same jabbering cretins (with a latent tendency toward thuggishness when pressed) that they were back in my generation.
Blumenthal is, of course, in some ways unfair, and, of course, he has the power of the film editing room (or, more likely now, PC) to tweak things so that they look even more embarrassing and hypocritical than they undoubtedly did.
I also don't entirely buy the argument that if you think a war is just you have to automatically just head out there yourself and take part in the action. (This is, after all, perhaps the point of having a civilian controlled democracy and a professional army.)
But...I could feel more sympathy for Blumenthal's victims if they weren't quite so blindly gung ho about the whole thing and if they hadn't apparently had the same brain-chip implanted that made them spout puerile garbage like the 'We gotta fight 'em there so we don't have to fight 'em here' line so beloved of our chimp in chief.
(And, of course, if they weren't quite so fucking homophobic, religiously bigoted and arrogant).
See them for the insecure losers they are....
He visits the College Republican National Convention and asks a few questions of the eager young things who have gathered there to, apparently, root for America, hate gays, oppose abortion rights and (though this may be hearsay) drink lots of beer.
It makes for very good viewing.
The 'College Republicans' that he deals with are well known to yours truly...even, actually in the context of a war against Iraq. The one before this one, in fact. (It seems that every generation from now on may have its war in Iraq, the way things are going...)
And we certainly had a good old time back then in the late '80s and early '90s as we debated...well, pretty much the same things that are being debated today. (The more things change, eh?...)
Actually, as I recall, we debated and they just made lots of noise and threatened physical violence when they got frustrated that their stupid arguments didn't hold any water.
As Blumenthal's film makes clear, they remain the same jabbering cretins (with a latent tendency toward thuggishness when pressed) that they were back in my generation.
Blumenthal is, of course, in some ways unfair, and, of course, he has the power of the film editing room (or, more likely now, PC) to tweak things so that they look even more embarrassing and hypocritical than they undoubtedly did.
I also don't entirely buy the argument that if you think a war is just you have to automatically just head out there yourself and take part in the action. (This is, after all, perhaps the point of having a civilian controlled democracy and a professional army.)
But...I could feel more sympathy for Blumenthal's victims if they weren't quite so blindly gung ho about the whole thing and if they hadn't apparently had the same brain-chip implanted that made them spout puerile garbage like the 'We gotta fight 'em there so we don't have to fight 'em here' line so beloved of our chimp in chief.
(And, of course, if they weren't quite so fucking homophobic, religiously bigoted and arrogant).
See them for the insecure losers they are....
A sudden and sad departure
We were saddened to read today of the death of actor Ulrich Mühe, who is probably now best known around the world for his role in the Oscar-winning Das Leben der Anderen ('The Lives of Others').
We saw him in a remarkable stage production of Sarah Kane's Blasted (in German) at the Barbican earlier this year. He had remarkable presence in a role that is...not an easy one.
And he was only 54.
Die Zeit has a retrospective and a nice collection of images (text in German).
We saw him in a remarkable stage production of Sarah Kane's Blasted (in German) at the Barbican earlier this year. He had remarkable presence in a role that is...not an easy one.
And he was only 54.
Die Zeit has a retrospective and a nice collection of images (text in German).
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Free at last
This is very good news.
Six Bulgarian medics (one, a Palestinian doctor, was given Bulgarian citizenship), who were held by Libya on apparently trumped up charges of deliberately infecting hundreds of Libyan children with HIV, are now free.
Recall: they were tortured and sentenced to death, a sentence which was then confirmed before the deal had been worked out, by EU and other negotiators. And they've been imprisoned for eight years.
Most likely, for having done nothing wrong and after having come to Libya to help.
Horrendous.
Welcome home!
Six Bulgarian medics (one, a Palestinian doctor, was given Bulgarian citizenship), who were held by Libya on apparently trumped up charges of deliberately infecting hundreds of Libyan children with HIV, are now free.
Recall: they were tortured and sentenced to death, a sentence which was then confirmed before the deal had been worked out, by EU and other negotiators. And they've been imprisoned for eight years.
Most likely, for having done nothing wrong and after having come to Libya to help.
Horrendous.
Welcome home!
The unbearable slightness of being (Oprah)
I know that there are many many more important things going on in the world today than the thing I am about to talk about.
Nonetheless, I think we should all take a brief moment to consider the infinite intellectual vacuum that is Oprah Winfrey.
This may be blindingly obvious, but it hasn't stopped her from becoming jaw-droppingly wealthy and influential.
What is galling is that she's done this by showcasing precisely that version of vaguely 'spiritual' tear-stained sentimentality that is one of the worst cultural plagues besetting the land of my birth. Having now achieved enormous wealth and influence--when, in short, she is in the position of really making a difference--she's continuing to peddle the same old crap.
I suppose if you're not American, you may be wondering a bit about all this bile, particularly as her image is such a nice one.
And, yes, she has certainly been on the right side of some of the issues that she has taken up, such as gay rights and civil rights. (Very few of which causes, though, have really been controversial or involved her taking any risks.)
Moreover, I don't think that what she's promoting is necessarily very nice at all.
Having never met a bit of meaningless psychobabble that she didn't like, she has for the last couple of decades been one of the reasons that Americans have that distinct habit of blathering endlessly on about their 'issues' and 'codependencies' and inability to 'relate' to their 'significant others' and their never-ending search for 'closure'.
She is one of the reasons why American politics have become so unbearably focused on the minutiae of personality rather than the debating of policy.
And she is part of the reason why so many Americans are susceptible to the comfortably vacuous murmurs of people like Deepak Chopra. (PZ Myers has taken on the tiresome task of addressing Chopra's 'thinking' many times, on issues such as genes, evolution and religion.) Oprah's show was one of the vehicles that made Chopra such a success, so even on that simple ground, she has a lot to answer for.
Oprah-land is an odd alternate-Earth where there are no problems that cannot be solved by a nice chat involving a few tepid burblings about 'healing' and a big dose of positive--to the point of delusional--thinking. All questions have a simple, morally uplifting answer. No obstacle cannot be overcome with the right dosage of spiritualist drivel and 'belief in yourself'.
It is the sugary ease with which such trite views go down that has even made her a 'spiritual leader' of sorts, something that at least some more orthodox believers seem to be concerned about, since Oprah's version of God is rather more ecumenical than theirs. In perfectly post-modern fashion, she takes spoonfuls of yummy spiritual goodness wherever she can find it.
But what kind of message is she flogging, really?
Well, let's take a quick look.
'When you lose a loved one, you gain an angel whose name you know,' she said at a memorial service in the wake of September 11th, concluding, 'May we leave this place determined to now use every moment that we yet live to turn up the volume in our own lives, to create deeper meaning, to know what really matters.'
Oprah, you see, thinks that life always has a message for us. And that message is always, in some way, a positive one.
For Oprah, there is always a pony.
And in this, I know, she is not alone. In fact, there are apparently enough people hungry for this sort of tasteless broth to make her a billionaire.
Its popularity is what makes this kind of nutrition-free blather so bothersome.
Not only does it not, in the end, mean anything, but it is in fact a hindrance to finding meaning. The answers it provides put a stop to further thinking and shut down any possibility of recognising Very Important Things in life: the power of contingency, the essential smallness of our existence, the impossibility of reconciling the contradictions of being a human being.
Her message is the antithesis of one of the most important virtues in the world: humility.
If the main meaning she can find in the carnage of September 11th is a call for each of us to focus even more on ourselves, then I think that in some serious way she may have missed something more important.
But it is clear what Oprah thinks 'really matters'.
Consider the death of her own two-year-old golden retriever, Gracie, which Oprah writes about in the current issue of her magazine, O (and which is the thing that has caused me to go on about this at such length).
Now...in terms of one of those crucial binaries of life, I'm much more a cat person, I have to admit. But, still, I have had enough experience with dogs to know it is possible to develop an emotional attachment to them that, to all appearances, they are capable of reciprocating.
Moreover, one of the key perspectives of a naturalistic world view is the recognition of what we share as living creatures, among them the ability to suffer and feel fear.
So, I think it is difficult to read the story of Gracie's sudden death through choking on a plastic ball without feeling, in some way, moved and saddened.
And then...and then we get to the part where we all are taught The Lesson, from the big O herself.
Because, of course there must be a lesson.
Weirdly, though, it is, more-or-less the same lesson to be learned from mass death caused by terrorist atrocity.
Now, I'm not sure how Oprah knows about how much 'living' Gracie did (or about whether, maybe, she'd have preferred to go on living that pampered, raucous lifestyle for a good long time). But, OK, it was her dog, not mine, so perhaps I should not judge.
But...is it just me, or is there something not entirely nice about a dog owner kneeling over their beloved pet just after it has gone through its death throes, and, in effect, posing the following question: 'What's in it for me?'
Because, it seems to me, that is what Oprah did. And that is, in the end, the basis of the lesson she draws.
Does this story not suggest a deeply self-centred personality, the sort summed up in the line, 'Her life was a gift to me. Her death, a greater one.'?
Even worse: this is solipsism of the most tenacious and unpleasant variety being sold under the cover of sweet sentimentality.
And this, I think, is one of the keys to Oprah's success.
It's OK, she says, go ahead, see yourself as the centre of the universe. Everything that happens to you happens for a reason. And, to quote a well-known book, it is good. And it is something she 'knows for sure'. No evidence, mind you. She just knows.
Of course.
But who gave this 'gift'? Is Oprah saying the dog sacrificed herself for her owner?
If not, it never seems to occur to her that she is therefore suggesting that whatever force she thinks is guiding the universe thought it was OK to choke a dog to death to give her the simple message that she needs to chill out a bit.
Because, it would seem to me, that is what she is saying happened.
And that strikes me a very nasty world view indeed.
Sadly, it is not one held only by a dimwitted talk show host.
Nonetheless, I think we should all take a brief moment to consider the infinite intellectual vacuum that is Oprah Winfrey.
This may be blindingly obvious, but it hasn't stopped her from becoming jaw-droppingly wealthy and influential.
What is galling is that she's done this by showcasing precisely that version of vaguely 'spiritual' tear-stained sentimentality that is one of the worst cultural plagues besetting the land of my birth. Having now achieved enormous wealth and influence--when, in short, she is in the position of really making a difference--she's continuing to peddle the same old crap.
I suppose if you're not American, you may be wondering a bit about all this bile, particularly as her image is such a nice one.
And, yes, she has certainly been on the right side of some of the issues that she has taken up, such as gay rights and civil rights. (Very few of which causes, though, have really been controversial or involved her taking any risks.)
Moreover, I don't think that what she's promoting is necessarily very nice at all.
Having never met a bit of meaningless psychobabble that she didn't like, she has for the last couple of decades been one of the reasons that Americans have that distinct habit of blathering endlessly on about their 'issues' and 'codependencies' and inability to 'relate' to their 'significant others' and their never-ending search for 'closure'.
She is one of the reasons why American politics have become so unbearably focused on the minutiae of personality rather than the debating of policy.
And she is part of the reason why so many Americans are susceptible to the comfortably vacuous murmurs of people like Deepak Chopra. (PZ Myers has taken on the tiresome task of addressing Chopra's 'thinking' many times, on issues such as genes, evolution and religion.) Oprah's show was one of the vehicles that made Chopra such a success, so even on that simple ground, she has a lot to answer for.
Oprah-land is an odd alternate-Earth where there are no problems that cannot be solved by a nice chat involving a few tepid burblings about 'healing' and a big dose of positive--to the point of delusional--thinking. All questions have a simple, morally uplifting answer. No obstacle cannot be overcome with the right dosage of spiritualist drivel and 'belief in yourself'.
It is the sugary ease with which such trite views go down that has even made her a 'spiritual leader' of sorts, something that at least some more orthodox believers seem to be concerned about, since Oprah's version of God is rather more ecumenical than theirs. In perfectly post-modern fashion, she takes spoonfuls of yummy spiritual goodness wherever she can find it.
But what kind of message is she flogging, really?
Well, let's take a quick look.
'When you lose a loved one, you gain an angel whose name you know,' she said at a memorial service in the wake of September 11th, concluding, 'May we leave this place determined to now use every moment that we yet live to turn up the volume in our own lives, to create deeper meaning, to know what really matters.'
Oprah, you see, thinks that life always has a message for us. And that message is always, in some way, a positive one.
For Oprah, there is always a pony.
And in this, I know, she is not alone. In fact, there are apparently enough people hungry for this sort of tasteless broth to make her a billionaire.
Its popularity is what makes this kind of nutrition-free blather so bothersome.
Not only does it not, in the end, mean anything, but it is in fact a hindrance to finding meaning. The answers it provides put a stop to further thinking and shut down any possibility of recognising Very Important Things in life: the power of contingency, the essential smallness of our existence, the impossibility of reconciling the contradictions of being a human being.
Her message is the antithesis of one of the most important virtues in the world: humility.
If the main meaning she can find in the carnage of September 11th is a call for each of us to focus even more on ourselves, then I think that in some serious way she may have missed something more important.
But it is clear what Oprah thinks 'really matters'.
Consider the death of her own two-year-old golden retriever, Gracie, which Oprah writes about in the current issue of her magazine, O (and which is the thing that has caused me to go on about this at such length).
Now...in terms of one of those crucial binaries of life, I'm much more a cat person, I have to admit. But, still, I have had enough experience with dogs to know it is possible to develop an emotional attachment to them that, to all appearances, they are capable of reciprocating.
Moreover, one of the key perspectives of a naturalistic world view is the recognition of what we share as living creatures, among them the ability to suffer and feel fear.
So, I think it is difficult to read the story of Gracie's sudden death through choking on a plastic ball without feeling, in some way, moved and saddened.
And then...and then we get to the part where we all are taught The Lesson, from the big O herself.
Because, of course there must be a lesson.
Weirdly, though, it is, more-or-less the same lesson to be learned from mass death caused by terrorist atrocity.
So through my tears and stabbing pain and disbelief and wonder and questions about how and why this happened, I leaned over my sweet and wild and curious and mind-of-her-own Gracie, and asked, "Dear Gracie, what were you here to teach me that only your death could show me?" And this is the answer: This lovely little runt whom I'd brought home sick—on his first visit with her, the vet told me to return her and get my money back—did more living in two years than most dogs do in 12.
Now, I'm not sure how Oprah knows about how much 'living' Gracie did (or about whether, maybe, she'd have preferred to go on living that pampered, raucous lifestyle for a good long time). But, OK, it was her dog, not mine, so perhaps I should not judge.
But...is it just me, or is there something not entirely nice about a dog owner kneeling over their beloved pet just after it has gone through its death throes, and, in effect, posing the following question: 'What's in it for me?'
Because, it seems to me, that is what Oprah did. And that is, in the end, the basis of the lesson she draws.
Her life was a gift to me. Her death, a greater one.
Ten days before she died, I was getting a yearly physical, and to lower my blood pressure I'd think of Gracie's smiling face.
Just days before the "freak accident," the head of my company came into my office to have a serious talk about "taking some things off your schedule—you're doing too much." Maya Angelou called me to say the same thing. "You're doing too much. Don't make me come to Chicago," she chided. "I want you to slow down."
I'd broken a cardinal rule: The whole month of May I'd had no day off, dashing from one event to the next. But though I appreciated everyone's concern, I still had to finish the season. Wrap up the year's shows. Have foundation meetings. Meet with auditors. Review plans for a new building, and on and on. So many people on my list. I literally forgot to put myself on the list for a follow-up checkup.
When the doctor's office called, I confessed. I hadn't heeded what I know for sure. I said, "Doctor, I'm sorry. I had so many meetings with different people, I forgot to put myself on the list."
The next day, Gracie died.
Slow down, you're moving too fast. I got the message.
Thank you for being my saving Gracie. I now know for sure angels come in all forms.
Does this story not suggest a deeply self-centred personality, the sort summed up in the line, 'Her life was a gift to me. Her death, a greater one.'?
Even worse: this is solipsism of the most tenacious and unpleasant variety being sold under the cover of sweet sentimentality.
And this, I think, is one of the keys to Oprah's success.
It's OK, she says, go ahead, see yourself as the centre of the universe. Everything that happens to you happens for a reason. And, to quote a well-known book, it is good. And it is something she 'knows for sure'. No evidence, mind you. She just knows.
Of course.
But who gave this 'gift'? Is Oprah saying the dog sacrificed herself for her owner?
If not, it never seems to occur to her that she is therefore suggesting that whatever force she thinks is guiding the universe thought it was OK to choke a dog to death to give her the simple message that she needs to chill out a bit.
Because, it would seem to me, that is what she is saying happened.
And that strikes me a very nasty world view indeed.
Sadly, it is not one held only by a dimwitted talk show host.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Mother nature on the run
This...is nice.
And, somewhat oddly enough, the person who reminded me of how much I liked this song was none other than Ricky Gervais.
His--surprisingly moving--'Desert Island Discs' appearance (thanks to Anja for the tip) is available at his website, along with a delightfully foul-mouthed (and not at all sentimental) response to the criticism he has lately been receiving....
Not only having proven himself in possession of good musical taste but also now having outed himself as an atheist and childfree-by-choice, Ricky has cemented his status as one of the patron (secular) saints of Obscene Desserts.
While we're on the topic...
...here's one of our favourite moments from 'The Office':
And, somewhat oddly enough, the person who reminded me of how much I liked this song was none other than Ricky Gervais.
His--surprisingly moving--'Desert Island Discs' appearance (thanks to Anja for the tip) is available at his website, along with a delightfully foul-mouthed (and not at all sentimental) response to the criticism he has lately been receiving....
Not only having proven himself in possession of good musical taste but also now having outed himself as an atheist and childfree-by-choice, Ricky has cemented his status as one of the patron (secular) saints of Obscene Desserts.
While we're on the topic...
...here's one of our favourite moments from 'The Office':
'The spins are the most empowering.'
I have seen the future of feminism, and it is...pole dancing.
Hilarious stuff from Stephen Colbert, via Lawyers, Guns and Money.
Remember: 'Pole dancing is better than classical feminism in every way possible.'
(Presumably because it lets you 'get in touch with your sensual creature'.)
And: 'Point your toes, always.'
Laugh till, um, 'your face hurts'.
Hilarious stuff from Stephen Colbert, via Lawyers, Guns and Money.
Remember: 'Pole dancing is better than classical feminism in every way possible.'
(Presumably because it lets you 'get in touch with your sensual creature'.)
And: 'Point your toes, always.'
Laugh till, um, 'your face hurts'.
How high's the water, mama?
A new study reveals the mind-bendingly enormous glacial floods that made Britain an island.
This is fascinating.
How long will it be, I wonder, before creationists try to claim this as 'evidence' for that business with Noah and the ark? No, that'd be going too far, wouldn't it?
This is fascinating.
How long will it be, I wonder, before creationists try to claim this as 'evidence' for that business with Noah and the ark? No, that'd be going too far, wouldn't it?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The year of blogging aimlessly
Well, here we are, exactly one year since this blog began.
It seems we have a birthday of sorts.
It all started with some rather melancholy thoughts on the death of Syd Barrett. (And the mood certainly perked up the next day with some ruminations on social collapse....)
But I like to think that, as the subtitle promises, it's not all been doom and gloom and that the whole gamut of emotions and topics have found their place here.
Closing in, as we are, on 10,000 visits (though with no great rush...and in the somewhat sobering awareness that there are blogs that have this many visits a day...) it is worth pausing to spare a few thoughts for this aimless little venture's brief lifespan.
There have been some high points, certainly.
Having one of my longer and more bilious posts re-published by Butterflies and Wheels, say, or catching a glimpse of the fleeting presence of Momus in the comments to a post inspired by his thoughts on Britain.
It has also been a very fine (though somewhat rare) event to receive supportive comments (and even an award) from people who have bothered to read the letters I have so carefully set in such neat rows. (And being nominated for another award was very pleasant, if ultimately hopeless.)
There was some joy in watching the number of 'blogs that link here' rise steadily to as many as 20 (and then there has been some confusion as they equally steadily dropped to their present 14).
There was the pleasure of hosting the wisdom and wit of the world's best guest contributor.
There was, finally, the satisfaction of managing, through eagle-eyed observational skills, to effect a minor (but, I think, significant) correction in an otherwise flawless piece of journalism in New Scientist (see the comments).
Oh, and the words, yes, there have been so many of them.
There was a series of longer (and somewhat combative) essays I wrote on multiculturalism and integration in response to a debate at Sign and Sight; they were not only enjoyable to write, but also, I think, managed to generate a few worthwhile insights. (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.) And there was the needed strangling-at-birth of an insidious and dishonest neologism which--considering that it hasn't re-surfaced in a while--seems to have been effective (though I suspect that this has more to do with its inherent poor design rather than any efforts on my part).
I think, over all, I have managed some quite readable (if lengthy) prose on favoured topics here like war, consumerism, education, death and godlessness.
I've rambled a bit about travel, adored a particular polar bear, and sketched out my own somewhat random development of a historical perspective (and pointed out a few of places where you can see that thinking in action).
We've also, of course, managed to have a little fun too (since 'all work and no play' is...well, it's simply the kind of puritan drivel that is just not in our genes, man).
And I'm very pleased to have made the virtual acquaintance of good people such as Geoff, RJ, Ophelia, Ralph (via here), Sharon, Rosie and Ario.
So, not a bad year, all things considered.
And I like to think that it's been as much fun for some of you as it has been for me.
Well, there we are. There's that one candle blown out.
Onward...
It seems we have a birthday of sorts.
It all started with some rather melancholy thoughts on the death of Syd Barrett. (And the mood certainly perked up the next day with some ruminations on social collapse....)
But I like to think that, as the subtitle promises, it's not all been doom and gloom and that the whole gamut of emotions and topics have found their place here.
Closing in, as we are, on 10,000 visits (though with no great rush...and in the somewhat sobering awareness that there are blogs that have this many visits a day...) it is worth pausing to spare a few thoughts for this aimless little venture's brief lifespan.
There have been some high points, certainly.
Having one of my longer and more bilious posts re-published by Butterflies and Wheels, say, or catching a glimpse of the fleeting presence of Momus in the comments to a post inspired by his thoughts on Britain.
It has also been a very fine (though somewhat rare) event to receive supportive comments (and even an award) from people who have bothered to read the letters I have so carefully set in such neat rows. (And being nominated for another award was very pleasant, if ultimately hopeless.)
There was some joy in watching the number of 'blogs that link here' rise steadily to as many as 20 (and then there has been some confusion as they equally steadily dropped to their present 14).
There was the pleasure of hosting the wisdom and wit of the world's best guest contributor.
There was, finally, the satisfaction of managing, through eagle-eyed observational skills, to effect a minor (but, I think, significant) correction in an otherwise flawless piece of journalism in New Scientist (see the comments).
Oh, and the words, yes, there have been so many of them.
There was a series of longer (and somewhat combative) essays I wrote on multiculturalism and integration in response to a debate at Sign and Sight; they were not only enjoyable to write, but also, I think, managed to generate a few worthwhile insights. (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.) And there was the needed strangling-at-birth of an insidious and dishonest neologism which--considering that it hasn't re-surfaced in a while--seems to have been effective (though I suspect that this has more to do with its inherent poor design rather than any efforts on my part).
I think, over all, I have managed some quite readable (if lengthy) prose on favoured topics here like war, consumerism, education, death and godlessness.
I've rambled a bit about travel, adored a particular polar bear, and sketched out my own somewhat random development of a historical perspective (and pointed out a few of places where you can see that thinking in action).
We've also, of course, managed to have a little fun too (since 'all work and no play' is...well, it's simply the kind of puritan drivel that is just not in our genes, man).
And I'm very pleased to have made the virtual acquaintance of good people such as Geoff, RJ, Ophelia, Ralph (via here), Sharon, Rosie and Ario.
So, not a bad year, all things considered.
And I like to think that it's been as much fun for some of you as it has been for me.
Well, there we are. There's that one candle blown out.
Onward...
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