ACT RESPONSIBLE, BENEDICT!
"Act responsible," the idiot television advertisement admonishes us. "Act responsible" means pretend to be responsible. The ad probably intended to ask us to act responsibly, or maybe act in a responsible way. But we are even more morally ignorant than we are inguistically ignorant, so we that we probably translate "act responsible" as "pretend to be responsible" and think that we have received good advice. After all, we are a nation of liars; the highest moral achievement is to have a good "image." We don't want to be good; we want to be seen as good.
The U.S. ambassador to the Vatican tells us that the sex scandals of the Roman Catholic Church are the result of the "sexual revolution"of the 1960s. That is as stupid as anything I have hearcd in the last forty-eight hours. The Catholic Church has been hypocritical about sex from almost the beginning. Catholic priests and bishops and cardinals and popes have been abusing children
--boys--for most of two thousand years.
How many castrati is the Catholic Churxh responsible for over the past two millennia? How many centuries of holy pederasty have had to be uncovered in human detail before the Catholic Church has admitted any part of its crimes?
And who put pederast and pederast-protector Bernard Cardinal Law of Boston in charge of the basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome? St. Mary Major is the only church in Catholicism whose leader reports only to the pope. St. Mary Major is probably the home of eighty percent of the Catholic Church's pederast heirarchy by now. It was the current pope's predecessor who appointed Law to St. Mary Major; Benedect hasn't moved to replace the good Boston cardinal. Pity the poor altar boys who "serve"at St. Mary Major!
Bert
vrijdag 18 april 2008
woensdag 16 april 2008
THE THINGS PEOPLE SAY
"What abot the so-called hypothetical ticket of . . . ."
"One thing worth remembering is that it is really hard to run for president. . . ."
"They are inspecting the planes to see if they can fly, or not."
Wolf Blitzer
"Montenegro, the year-round island."
Pictures of ancient temples, a beautiful luxury hotel's swimming pool, a cafe in a pleasant town square. The slogan: "Montenegro. Come to the Wild Beauty!"
Advertisement
On the Pantheon, in Rome, "the first dome in the western world"(which it isn't; the Mycenaean tholos tombs pre-date the Pantheon by 1500-2000 years): "Byron loved this building" (which may be true, but it should also be pointed out that he loved the much more ancient and beautiful Greek temple at Sounion so much that he carved his name into the marble in letters more than inch deep andfive inches high).
BBC "Treasures of the World
"What abot the so-called hypothetical ticket of . . . ."
"One thing worth remembering is that it is really hard to run for president. . . ."
"They are inspecting the planes to see if they can fly, or not."
Wolf Blitzer
"Montenegro, the year-round island."
Pictures of ancient temples, a beautiful luxury hotel's swimming pool, a cafe in a pleasant town square. The slogan: "Montenegro. Come to the Wild Beauty!"
Advertisement
On the Pantheon, in Rome, "the first dome in the western world"(which it isn't; the Mycenaean tholos tombs pre-date the Pantheon by 1500-2000 years): "Byron loved this building" (which may be true, but it should also be pointed out that he loved the much more ancient and beautiful Greek temple at Sounion so much that he carved his name into the marble in letters more than inch deep andfive inches high).
BBC "Treasures of the World
NORTH AMERICAN GEOGRAPHY
US AIR is the product of mergers among regional carriers Lake Central, Allegheny, Mohawk, Piedmont--and Pacific Southwest.
NORTHWEST is the result of Wisconsin Central becoming North Central, which is taken over by Republic, which then merges with Northwest Orient to become Northwest.
DELTA eats Southern, Atlantic Southeast, Northeast, Western, and the remnants of Pan-American.
AMERICAN picks up Trans-Carribean, Reno Air, and the remnants of TWA; basically it is still what it was to start with.
CONTINENTAL has always been Continental, but along the way has taken over Texas International, Frontier, People Express, and NY Air.
UNITED is simply United.
Which means that though all the other major airlines are, each of them, a union of at least several parts, only the one called UNITED is actually one from its inception. US AIR put together a patchwork of regional airlines to become a national airline. AMERICAN has always been a national carrier; its regional acquisitions have all been minor.
DELTA was a regional airline, originally. But then it made the geograhical shopping rounds and became a national airline--with a regional name, still. And NORTHWEST did the same. At least DELTA's headquarters is in Atlanta; NORTHWEST's is in Minneapolis.
There's a conclusion to be drawn from all this, but I don't know what it is. Maybe it's just that names don't mean much. In Ann Arbor, Michigan, there was for many years a store called "The VACUUM Shop," and a photo-processing place called for some reason "MONOCHROME"--with each of the letters on its sign in a different color. The University of Michigan boasts asign that reads, "No Unauthorised Loitering Allowed." The Thompson Science building at Western Kentucky University has a "North Wing," a "South Wing"--and a "Central Wing." A shop in Louisville advertises "Tattoos While You Wait." There are rivers in Britain called "Avon"--which is a word for stream, and there are two towns named "Street," and another named hill three times over. There's a town on Krete, too, with a strange name: "Athanatos"--which means "un-dead." And there's a town in western Tennessee, founded in the midst of nowhere in the 1860s by five immigrant families from the West of Ireland: they named it "Paris."
US AIR is the product of mergers among regional carriers Lake Central, Allegheny, Mohawk, Piedmont--and Pacific Southwest.
NORTHWEST is the result of Wisconsin Central becoming North Central, which is taken over by Republic, which then merges with Northwest Orient to become Northwest.
DELTA eats Southern, Atlantic Southeast, Northeast, Western, and the remnants of Pan-American.
AMERICAN picks up Trans-Carribean, Reno Air, and the remnants of TWA; basically it is still what it was to start with.
CONTINENTAL has always been Continental, but along the way has taken over Texas International, Frontier, People Express, and NY Air.
UNITED is simply United.
Which means that though all the other major airlines are, each of them, a union of at least several parts, only the one called UNITED is actually one from its inception. US AIR put together a patchwork of regional airlines to become a national airline. AMERICAN has always been a national carrier; its regional acquisitions have all been minor.
DELTA was a regional airline, originally. But then it made the geograhical shopping rounds and became a national airline--with a regional name, still. And NORTHWEST did the same. At least DELTA's headquarters is in Atlanta; NORTHWEST's is in Minneapolis.
There's a conclusion to be drawn from all this, but I don't know what it is. Maybe it's just that names don't mean much. In Ann Arbor, Michigan, there was for many years a store called "The VACUUM Shop," and a photo-processing place called for some reason "MONOCHROME"--with each of the letters on its sign in a different color. The University of Michigan boasts asign that reads, "No Unauthorised Loitering Allowed." The Thompson Science building at Western Kentucky University has a "North Wing," a "South Wing"--and a "Central Wing." A shop in Louisville advertises "Tattoos While You Wait." There are rivers in Britain called "Avon"--which is a word for stream, and there are two towns named "Street," and another named hill three times over. There's a town on Krete, too, with a strange name: "Athanatos"--which means "un-dead." And there's a town in western Tennessee, founded in the midst of nowhere in the 1860s by five immigrant families from the West of Ireland: they named it "Paris."
zondag 13 april 2008
BUYING HEARTS AND MINDS
The "Sons of Iraq"are U.S. mercenaries. The U.S. has not won the "hearts and minds"of these Sunnis; we have bought--or maybe rented--their "hearts and minds" with our bribes.
Can you trust purchased hearts and minds? Of course not--and the US should know that, from previous experience. But then the U.S. knows that you can't trust information given to you as the result of torture--and yet the U.S. keeps torturing prisoners.
The "Sons of Iraq"are U.S. mercenaries. The U.S. has not won the "hearts and minds"of these Sunnis; we have bought--or maybe rented--their "hearts and minds" with our bribes.
Can you trust purchased hearts and minds? Of course not--and the US should know that, from previous experience. But then the U.S. knows that you can't trust information given to you as the result of torture--and yet the U.S. keeps torturing prisoners.
vrijdag 11 april 2008
HOME IS WHERE YOU WEAR YOUR HAT
I understand the idea of place, and the value of having a home place. But home isn’t only or necessarily a matter of place. And even in families deeply attached to their home places, one of the partners in each of the marriages in that family has probably forsaken a home place to become a member, a partner, a resident in it.
But I respect the idea of a home place, and sometimes I wish I had such a place still. But mostly I am happy this way. Home isn’t where I hang my hat; home is where I wear it.
When I visit you, you greet me saying “Take off your hat and stay a while.” You take my hat and coat and hang them up for me. And having hung my hat with the hats of those who belong to the home, you make me welcome: “Make yourself at home.”
It’s not that I would prefer to wear my hat in your house: wearing my hat has nothing to do with home. Where I wear my hat is not in the house, or on the street: I wear my hat on my head—and that’s where home is.
I left my physical home when I was seventeen, to go away to college. And I understood it in just those terms. Not many young people in my home town went to college; fewer still went away to college rather than attend the college in our little town. My grandparents were the children of immigrants. With one exception, their four children had all stayed at home. Though my grandfather had but a seventh-grade education, his children all went to the local college, and he served for nearly thirty years on its board of trustees. And my father was the college’s basketball coach. But my mother was proud that all three of her children had gone away from home to college: first my older brother, then me, and eventually my younger sister.
When I was a sophomore in college, I went home for Christmas, and then, in January, left to return to school. I was hitch-hiking. As my mother dropped me off at the edge of town, I said, “I’ll call when I get home.” My mother smiled a weak smile, and kissed me.
Throughout my life I have made my home wherever I was, by taking home with me under my hat.
Home is an attitude, not toward place but toward life. Home means being comfortably a part of where I am: comfortable in and with my surroundings. Understanding is a relationship, and it helps make relationships. To be at home I have to understand where I am, and relate myself--and everything that I carry around in my head as mind-baggage--to this new place. Home is what happens in my head as I make that relationship. Underneath my hat, I am at home.
I have been at home in a lot of places. For the last eight years I have been at home in Amsterdam, mostly. I am at home there, not just because I have a flat there, and live there year round. I am at home in Amsterdam because it is such a civilized place, and I enjoy civilization. I am home because it is peaceful, not violent; it is quiet, too, and it is very, very beautiful. And people are friendly and open and helpful. Living here, I am not involved in anything particularly bad. I am a member of a remarkably coherent society—and I am not a second-class citizen. My race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, bank balance count neither for not against me.
As I get older I sometimes think that a home place would be a good thing to have. A place to retire to. But I’m not ready to retire, and maybe won’t be until either my mind fails or I die, and I leave this home I have been making all these years now, under my hat.
Bert
I understand the idea of place, and the value of having a home place. But home isn’t only or necessarily a matter of place. And even in families deeply attached to their home places, one of the partners in each of the marriages in that family has probably forsaken a home place to become a member, a partner, a resident in it.
But I respect the idea of a home place, and sometimes I wish I had such a place still. But mostly I am happy this way. Home isn’t where I hang my hat; home is where I wear it.
When I visit you, you greet me saying “Take off your hat and stay a while.” You take my hat and coat and hang them up for me. And having hung my hat with the hats of those who belong to the home, you make me welcome: “Make yourself at home.”
It’s not that I would prefer to wear my hat in your house: wearing my hat has nothing to do with home. Where I wear my hat is not in the house, or on the street: I wear my hat on my head—and that’s where home is.
I left my physical home when I was seventeen, to go away to college. And I understood it in just those terms. Not many young people in my home town went to college; fewer still went away to college rather than attend the college in our little town. My grandparents were the children of immigrants. With one exception, their four children had all stayed at home. Though my grandfather had but a seventh-grade education, his children all went to the local college, and he served for nearly thirty years on its board of trustees. And my father was the college’s basketball coach. But my mother was proud that all three of her children had gone away from home to college: first my older brother, then me, and eventually my younger sister.
When I was a sophomore in college, I went home for Christmas, and then, in January, left to return to school. I was hitch-hiking. As my mother dropped me off at the edge of town, I said, “I’ll call when I get home.” My mother smiled a weak smile, and kissed me.
Throughout my life I have made my home wherever I was, by taking home with me under my hat.
Home is an attitude, not toward place but toward life. Home means being comfortably a part of where I am: comfortable in and with my surroundings. Understanding is a relationship, and it helps make relationships. To be at home I have to understand where I am, and relate myself--and everything that I carry around in my head as mind-baggage--to this new place. Home is what happens in my head as I make that relationship. Underneath my hat, I am at home.
I have been at home in a lot of places. For the last eight years I have been at home in Amsterdam, mostly. I am at home there, not just because I have a flat there, and live there year round. I am at home in Amsterdam because it is such a civilized place, and I enjoy civilization. I am home because it is peaceful, not violent; it is quiet, too, and it is very, very beautiful. And people are friendly and open and helpful. Living here, I am not involved in anything particularly bad. I am a member of a remarkably coherent society—and I am not a second-class citizen. My race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, bank balance count neither for not against me.
As I get older I sometimes think that a home place would be a good thing to have. A place to retire to. But I’m not ready to retire, and maybe won’t be until either my mind fails or I die, and I leave this home I have been making all these years now, under my hat.
Bert
zondag 6 april 2008
SUCCESS
Is the key to success striving? As in strife? I’m not so sure.
For some reason, in most things some level of success has always been easy for me. But with one exception I never felt compelled to excel at anything. Not in sports, or in other kinds of performance, not in academics or public honors, not in wealth or recognition. The one exception has been my profession, and from my very first day as a teacher until the very end of my career, I always strove to be the best teacher I could possibly be.
What that means, I suppose, is that I have failed at everything except my profession. I have failed as a philosopher because I have not been totally dedicated to arguing out what I believe. I have failed to influence political life as I should have because I never believed in it enough to let me commit myself to it. I have failed friends with my diffidence, and have failed to love as I should have when I should have because I was afraid, for one or another reason: afraid of the absoluteness of absolute commitment. But I have been absolutely dedicated to teaching my students about commitment to the good, in everything I have taught them, while never being able to offer myself to them as an example of such commitment.
Would it have been better—for me, or for us—has I striven hard, or harder, for success? I’m sure that striving for success would have been bad for me, except as I have striven for it in the least selfish thing I have ever done, which is teaching. I wish I had been able to love less selfishly, and thus been able to strive for success in love.
And I wish I had been a better teacher. I know enough about teaching, now, to know how to have been a better one fifty years ago—though maybe having to learn how to teach was part of being a good teacher. Sometimes I think the passion for finding out how to do it is worth just as much as knowing how to do it: but then I think of handling a hammer and driving nails, or parachuting, and I know I’m wrong—at least about driving nails and jumping out of airplanes.
I suspect we will never satisfy ourselves as to whether doing a lot of good is worth as much as doing something best—whether our ambition should be to do as much as we can that’s good or something that is the best. The jack of all trades but master of none, versus the master of mucus, or money. I suspect, however, that a wise ambition toward the impossible—that’s called idealism—generally enables us to help achieve a lot of the possible for us all along the way. A wise ambition: so we have to know what it means to be wise.
Bert
For some reason, in most things some level of success has always been easy for me. But with one exception I never felt compelled to excel at anything. Not in sports, or in other kinds of performance, not in academics or public honors, not in wealth or recognition. The one exception has been my profession, and from my very first day as a teacher until the very end of my career, I always strove to be the best teacher I could possibly be.
What that means, I suppose, is that I have failed at everything except my profession. I have failed as a philosopher because I have not been totally dedicated to arguing out what I believe. I have failed to influence political life as I should have because I never believed in it enough to let me commit myself to it. I have failed friends with my diffidence, and have failed to love as I should have when I should have because I was afraid, for one or another reason: afraid of the absoluteness of absolute commitment. But I have been absolutely dedicated to teaching my students about commitment to the good, in everything I have taught them, while never being able to offer myself to them as an example of such commitment.
Would it have been better—for me, or for us—has I striven hard, or harder, for success? I’m sure that striving for success would have been bad for me, except as I have striven for it in the least selfish thing I have ever done, which is teaching. I wish I had been able to love less selfishly, and thus been able to strive for success in love.
And I wish I had been a better teacher. I know enough about teaching, now, to know how to have been a better one fifty years ago—though maybe having to learn how to teach was part of being a good teacher. Sometimes I think the passion for finding out how to do it is worth just as much as knowing how to do it: but then I think of handling a hammer and driving nails, or parachuting, and I know I’m wrong—at least about driving nails and jumping out of airplanes.
I suspect we will never satisfy ourselves as to whether doing a lot of good is worth as much as doing something best—whether our ambition should be to do as much as we can that’s good or something that is the best. The jack of all trades but master of none, versus the master of mucus, or money. I suspect, however, that a wise ambition toward the impossible—that’s called idealism—generally enables us to help achieve a lot of the possible for us all along the way. A wise ambition: so we have to know what it means to be wise.
Bert
PASSING, PLEASE
This is part of my social argument. (For more such, see "The Wisdom in Words" at blogger.com.) It's about basketball, this time.
A team plays together, and in basketball the way you play together on defense is by switching and picking up; on offense yoyu do it by setting screens and passing.
The other night I watched the Boston Celtics beat the Chicago Bulls. The Celtics averaged 3.5 passes per possession, and sixty percent of their possessions ended with more than eight seconds to go on the clock. What that means is that the Celtics had, on average, three looks before they took a shot, and if they hadn't had a good look could have afforded to take a fourth look. Last night I watched the Sacramento Spurs win, making an average of 4.5 passes per possession. They had three possessions that ran more than twenty seconds--and rhey had 7, 9, and 10 passes. The Spurs weren't shooting well, but they were getting good, considered shots.
In the Spurs game, the reserves came in with about eight minutes to go. They played mostly a one-against-five game--which was painfully obvious after what we had been watching. The point guard would dribble, and try to drive; frustrated, he would pass, and somebody else would do the same thing. By then it would be time for somebody to try a wild three-point shot. The reserves weren't playing basketball--the game had been decided; they were playing, individually, to make the team, to earn a bigger salary, to be LeBron James. Each one of them.
The reserves were playing to make the team--in ways the team would never play. They were scrapping for more playing time--by playing in ways you wouldn't want them to play.
Today I watched an NCAA semi-final game. I was pulling for North Carolina, simply because they were making such a remarkable come-back. But then the camera panned to some North Carolina kids in sky-blue sweatshirts that said, so quietly, "TAKE EVERYTHING, GIVE UP NOTHING." And I decided I wanted Kansas to win.
The connection between the way the pros were and weren't playing with the North Carolina kids' sweatshirts is for next time.
This is part of my social argument. (For more such, see "The Wisdom in Words" at blogger.com.) It's about basketball, this time.
A team plays together, and in basketball the way you play together on defense is by switching and picking up; on offense yoyu do it by setting screens and passing.
The other night I watched the Boston Celtics beat the Chicago Bulls. The Celtics averaged 3.5 passes per possession, and sixty percent of their possessions ended with more than eight seconds to go on the clock. What that means is that the Celtics had, on average, three looks before they took a shot, and if they hadn't had a good look could have afforded to take a fourth look. Last night I watched the Sacramento Spurs win, making an average of 4.5 passes per possession. They had three possessions that ran more than twenty seconds--and rhey had 7, 9, and 10 passes. The Spurs weren't shooting well, but they were getting good, considered shots.
In the Spurs game, the reserves came in with about eight minutes to go. They played mostly a one-against-five game--which was painfully obvious after what we had been watching. The point guard would dribble, and try to drive; frustrated, he would pass, and somebody else would do the same thing. By then it would be time for somebody to try a wild three-point shot. The reserves weren't playing basketball--the game had been decided; they were playing, individually, to make the team, to earn a bigger salary, to be LeBron James. Each one of them.
The reserves were playing to make the team--in ways the team would never play. They were scrapping for more playing time--by playing in ways you wouldn't want them to play.
Today I watched an NCAA semi-final game. I was pulling for North Carolina, simply because they were making such a remarkable come-back. But then the camera panned to some North Carolina kids in sky-blue sweatshirts that said, so quietly, "TAKE EVERYTHING, GIVE UP NOTHING." And I decided I wanted Kansas to win.
The connection between the way the pros were and weren't playing with the North Carolina kids' sweatshirts is for next time.
Abonneren op:
Posts (Atom)