An Eventful Non-event

A funny thing happened the other day. It sounds trivial on the surface, and there's probably a reasonable explanation for it. But I haven't found it.

I had two bottles of laundry soap sitting under the kitchen sink. One was almost finished, the other had just been started, so I thought to pour the one into the other. (I'd actually planned this out, but won't bore you with those truly trivial details.)

As I was pouring, I heard something strange, not far away: a soft pat, pat of drops of liquid. What was so weird about it was that it wasn't anywhere near the bottles, but in a quite different location. The drips landed in an area about 7 cm long and 1-2 cm wide, about 36 cm away from the bottle - that is, 20 cm straight ahead from my left hand. When I stopped pouring, so did the drips. The whole thing lasted maybe 10-15 seconds. Maybe: I wasn't timing it.

My first thought was "You're just being sloppy." But I wasn't. If the detergent had gone glub-glub, it would've been a simple matter making the connection. But that would've only been at the start, when the stream first hit the surface; from that point on, all would be quiet. This was an irregular but constant dripping, which stopped when the pouring was done. Besides, the pouring was smooth - easy, gradual, no spilling. Not a hint of suddenness in the action at any point.

Being right-handed, the full bottle was about 36 cm away from where the drips were landing; the bottle was about 25 cm tall, making the rim almost 44 cm away. And, as mentioned, I was careful about pouring - no shaking involved whatsoever. Perhaps it was just lumpy leftover laundry detergent? No, I've never seen laundry soap curdle. And this stuff was uniformly consistent.

Now I was pouring with one hand, and holding a cap from one of the bottles. So it would make sense to figure that the drips came from the cap. After all, I do use it to measure dosage when I do laundry. But I always rinse it when finished, because crusty caps are annoying and disgusting. And I hadn't done laundry in a couple weeks. So no, the cap was dry - and even if it weren't, how could drips travel horizontally from a cap that was being held statically, i.e. in one place?

If anyone has a plausible explanation, I'd really like to hear it. Apologies in advance: If my responses seem contentious, it's not against you. It's just that I'd like to think I've checked every possibility. Nothing seems to add up. (And no, there were no holes in either bottles or caps, as if that could explain drips of laundry soap arcing almost half a meter.) So I appeal to both of you, dear readers, giving as faithful an account as I could.

A Message for Today: "Bomb" is Bob with an M

Bob Newhart is a great comedian you never hear about today, and folks today are worse off for it. Anyone who decides to make a career as a solo straight man deserves applause; anyone who actually pulls it off, though, is a certified genius.

Evidence that we might be better off comes from strange corners. While many folks complain about how badly the war in Iraq is going, I have it on good word that things over there are actually going quite well - for a campaign. How does that support my suggestion? Apparently Catch-22 is all too real in its depiction of things military, and that sort of thing goes way back. And we postmodern civilians don't realize it.

So, with that in mind, it brings me great joy to relay a blast from the past - because things could be worse. Enjoy.

Addendum: Agent Intellect has posted something about these lines; read it here.

All's well that ends, well, soon.

My friend over at Agent Intellect pointed me to a book with a...controversial thesis. It's summed up nicely in the title: Better Not to Have Been - the Harm of Coming into Existence. I haven't read further than what's posted on the Amazon site, but it could be an interesting read when done with the dissertation. Not that I expect to agree with the author. But reading disagreeable arguments is important, as it shines a different light on things, so that we can see with a clarity we might not otherwise achieve.

From what I get out of the short reading sample, Prof. David Benatar is questioning some basic postulates about life and existence in general. The idea is that not existing is worse than existing. But murder and suicide are even worse than that, so we're stuck with doing the time. But we can do the world a favor by not having children, performing abortions wherever possible, and basically working towards total extinction of the human species. Actually, he doesn't stop with people: the more life we can take out, the better. So I think it would be most logical to eliminate plants too, even though they're not sentient: as long as life exists, it can evolve, and the potential for suffering remains.

Now I don't know anything about Prof. Benatar, who states flat out that he believes the case he's putting out for review. If he's got kids, it'll be hard to accept this claim - unless there are a lot of moments in his life like here. It's also hard to accept that he's essentially condemning the universe for making existence possible at all, not to mention any possible creator of the universe. But that's what he seems to be doing.

Aside from more direct questions pertaining to details of the argument, there are some other things I think would be worth addressing. Lest they be taken as irrelevant, I'll argue that if you're going to level such a heavy thesis as what's laid out in the book - and it is a supremely heavy charge - you can't blow off the attendant Big Questions that go along with it:

1. What if it really doesn't matter? The earth isn't going to last more than a few billion more years, meaning we'd better find another home quick. But if it turns out that there's no escape, there appears to be an upper limit to the number of future lives. And if the universe indeed simply ends, without anything beyond, there is no net gain or loss on a universal scale of goodness. So what would it matter if the actual total number of sentient beings were more or less than what it could be?
2. Do you know where we're going? If the universe evolved to the point where life and sentience appeared, and it seems to be moving in a certain direction - towards an end we know not what - it seems presumptuous to make the judgment call what that end is. (And it doesn't matter whether one holds a theistic or atheistic view: development has a direction, and there's always a certain range of possibilities for any outcome. So there seems to be an end implicit in the workings of the universe. I just don't think anyone's that far-sighted to see the ultimate telos.)
3. What grounds value and logic? To say this is overkill is to evade the issue, for the whole argument rides on a value judgment and reasoning. The anti-natal, pro-death argument supposes a certain value judgment; but the basis of value is by no means a settled issue. This means Prof. Benatar must not only justify the case on ethical grounds but also on axiological grounds. This theory of value must ground the argument itself and fit with the general logical theory, which itself carries a host of unresolved problems. In other words, the anti-natal, pro-death argument must be supported by a general theory of logic and value - and it must lead ultimately and inexorably to the thesis that existence in this world is worse than non-existence. Otherwise the argument is (at best) only a possible option, one among many.
   

There are more questions that need to be answered, but I'm just tired; let somebody else pose them.

Whoever thinks I'm treating Benatar's thesis lightly here is mistaken. I do find his conclusion repulsive, frankly, but I also see that repulsion alone is not a sufficient rebuttal. A counterargument is needed in order to meet the case on its own terms. In any case, people will vote with their feet, along with other body parts, so I don't see his argument persuading many folks. However, the philosophical discussion it stimulates make it worth considering.

A Modest Proposal: Blabbermouth Smackdown

One of these days, I'm going to post something meaningful; today, however, I'm going to kvetch about manners. Particularly when it comes to public speaking.

I was listening to a speech by Richard Rorty; it's quite interesting, and it made take a different view of his thought. (You too can listen here.) After giving the talk, Prof. Rorty took questions. One guy spent I-don't-know-how-many minutes spluttering out his question. I don't know how long it took him, because I was busy hanging laundry. But I know the question was too long, too complicated, or both, because Prof. Rorty himself was a little flummoxed. He handled it well, as expected, but it was an awkward moment. It happened again, with another questioner. What is with these guys?

Of all the things I've been accused of, meanness is not one of them. And anyone who knows me understands that I'm not a person to squash thought and inquiry. But I find myself increasingly impatient with this kind of inconsideration. It's like private and public spaces: let your own place be a pigsty if you must, but clean up after yourself when out and about. Take all the time you want when framing your thought in private, but when several people are involved at the same moment, you'd better get your question out and let the speaker field it so that others get their chance too.

If your thought is too complicated somehow to express concisely, perhaps it would be better handled in a paper - or an email, or article. That's one reason for the literature, folks, to keep a dialogue going. Complicated (or convoluted) thinking needs time to be straightened out. Don't waste anyone else's time.

The consideration of other people is a cornerstone of civilization, more so now than in years gone by. In less charitable moments like this, my mind moves to less charitable sentiments. Such as: If you forgo consideration of others, you forfeit consideration anyone should give to yourself. I'm not saying it's right.

How would I manage the situation? If I had the power, I would make a law requiring questioners to complete their thought in 20 seconds maximum. One question, 20 seconds tops. Anyone who goes overtime - whether they be professor, student, caterer, or me - would be immediately tased. At 21 seconds, bzzzzzzt! People would learn quickly, and it would liven up the scene. If somehow they evaded it, permission would be granted for a public beatdown - bystanders encouraged to join in.

What about speakers who go overtime? When delivering the talk proper, they too risk the buzz. Judging a lecture boring is too subjective; everybody can agree on time. Answering questions often takes longer than asking them, so I figure a minute is enough. Maybe two. Guest speakers should be given advance notice of the disciplinary practice, to avoid surprises. (Residents should know.) Now a taser might not be helpful - it's incapacitating. The speaker should remain cognizant to take other questions. And hey, they're guests; aren't we supposed to be hospitable? Sure we are, but still, we need to learn 'em. So I propose a Milgramesque solution: 40 volts for the first offense, 60 volts the second offense, and so on. Just imagine:

"OK, if you could please clip this microphone onto your lapel - right about there, yes. Thank you. Now for the electrodes..."

Yes, the irony is that Rorty was talking about his belief in moral progress; we do think we've made progress over the ancient Greek position on slavery, to take an example of his. True, and I'll generally go along with that. But don't you wonder sometimes - not always, but every now and then - don't you wonder if, on some fronts, we're being a bit too nice for our own good? OK, it's out of my system now.

(Image lovingly swiped from http://sheepoverboard.com/robots-heaven/index.php)

Cheap Thrills for your Inner Badass

Here's something to kill time and know thyself: the B-movie badass quiz. (Go on, you know you wanna.)

For those of you who are wondering how my score turned out - and you know you wanna - it's this:

If I may say, this is exactly right. In spirit, if not in letter. (And yes, They Live is a fantastic flick. See it - and whichever B-movie you end up being the badass of.)

So what are you doin' here? Get on with it!

(Image slyly shoplifted from www.quizilla.com. Get yours there too.)

Da capo: going around one more time

One thing about getting older (I'm not yet ready to talk about getting old) is that your habits show more. The idea of turning into a crinkly ball of hide-bound habits can lead to the fear that you're not really growing, just getting more accustomed - and crotchety. Fortunately there are moments that put the fear to rest, if only for a moment.

One of those moments concerns an interpretation of music. I grew up listening to Switched-On Bach, a wonderful album of pieces performed on the Moog synthesizer by Wendy (nee Walter) Carlos. I still love it, it truly is a great recording. The second track is "Air on the G String," a popular piece by J.S. Bach that's often found in weddings everywhere. Carlos plays it straight through, from beginning to end, from A to B, with characteristic confidence and charm. And as a kid I thought nothing of it except "This is cool."

When I heard another recording of the same piece years later, a few things went through mey head. First, of course: Oh, I love this piece. Then: the clarity of the surface was not quite like S-O B (heh-heh, get it? SOB). Also, the sound - Carlos used more reed-like tones. And it works very well. Other thoughts: the dynamics could be better...

...and then the musician repeated the first part. And I discovered: it's supposed to be played this way! And then the second part was repeated! "Air on the G String" has an A-A-B-B structure: simple, so elegant.

I'd played piano for 7 years, and percussion for about the same, but I hadn't realized the importance of repetition in music. The reason, I think, is simple: There was no rewind button in Bach's day - so it was worked into the system. And it still is, of course. A drumbeat is a rhythmic motif repeated continually, and it keeps a band together. A chorus weaves verses together.

Or, as in this piece, you get a chance to really appreciate the musical phrases; they don't just pass you by, you can take them in and remember them, savor the notes. In that respect, the parts are like soup - they get better the second time you heat it up.

So, pace Carlos, I wish they could've let you record it the right way, doing "Air" to the fullest. The move is understandable, though. Making an album has certain challenges: you're limited by the medium to how much you can play. CDs can hold almost an hour and a half, which is gigantic compared to vinyl. One LP can get some 20-24 minutes per side, tops. So I imagine they had to decide whether to record longer pieces or more - and the choice was more. In this one respect, I think the album is flawed.

Switched-On Bach is still one of my all-time favorites, and always will be, but somehow it's nice to have observed the imperfections of things known youth. What's actually nice is, I don't mind that; I even like it.

When you're a kid, you know somehow that the world's been around a lot longer than you have. And somehow the world had authority: it was big. So grown-ups are perfect because they've been around - that's why they're the teachers and you're the student. When you grow up (and that takes some of us a little longer than others), you realize that grown-ups aren't so perfect. Never were, maybe never pretended to be. They've got problems, and the world has been fucked up pretty much always. But those things and people you loved then and now, you discover you didn't love them because they're perfect. You love them for what they are - and now, probably even more. And once you realize that, being human isn't so bad after all.