organization thinking while I have one last cup of coffee
hay
dirt
my new hood ornament
(also on the car, with decorations courtesy of Dan)
cooler
beer
water
pedialyte
scotch, single malt
hard boiled eggs
yogurt
watermelon, bananas, cantaloupe
ground turkey
did I say beer?
salami
truffle mousse
a sandwich
odwalla juices
ice
flannel sheets, pillow, blankey
fuzzy boots
costume
other clean clothes
jackets
knaekebrod
freeze-dried camping food, for just in case
geek light
lantern
books
air horn
no, not really
yoga mat, in case I get up and 6 and feel inspired
air mattress inflater thingie
bathroom stuff
washcloths, towel, makeup, sunscreen, noxema, toothbrush, floss, toothpaste, contacts, saline, moisturizer
camp chair & stool
pretzels
music
2 guitars
I think that should do it.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
So, how many policemen DOES it take to extract a naked man from a hot tub?
I now know, for I was at the Kiva spa place yesterday - where, allow me to say up front - according to all persons talked to, This Sort of Thing Is Not Normal.
Now, Kiva I've learned is a really sweet place just off Water Street in Santa Cruz. I'm tempted to call it a bathhouse, but being a fan of bathhouses of the Asian variety, I'd withhold that descriptor.
The bathhouses I've frequented have lots of showers and sit-down scrubbie stations where, in short, you bathe. There are also employees who, if you ante up, will obligingly scour several layers of dead skin off your body. And then there are the hot tubs and warm tubs and cold tubs and dry saunas and steam saunas. Fancier places offer massages and facials and cups of sea salt for taking into the steam room, and jugs of ice water with lemon slices and iced dishes of sliced cucumber, and low-level mellow new-agey sounding music. But to be sure, even the most basic kind of establishment fine by me. As long as the sauna is seriously hot, it's golden.
But being ever-ready for the new experience, and having heard good reviews of the Kiva, off I and the Other Michelle (the OM) went. And the reason for not wanting to call it a bathhouse, is that although there are showers there - well, a single one but big enough (and set up, plumbing wise) for 2 - that's all there is to taking-a-bath part.
One of its perks is that the tubs are outdoors, and the sensation of sitting in a huge jacuzzi tub of warm water with jasmine flowers floating in it that have fallen from the surrounding plants, on a nice cloudy chilly coastal day whose temperature caused steam to rise off the water's surface was sublime. This tub is near the exit from the changing rooms and adjacent to a station where there is hot tea and cold water. Next to is a grassy lawn, where you can sit on a bench or lay out a blanket and have a little picnic. Continue to walk back along the stone pathway, and there is a smaller hot tub and a cold tub; they both look like giant half-barrels buried down into the ground.
Always all around are these beautiful plants, and further back still is the dry sauna. It's really big, with 3 levels of seating you can choose from. It could easily hold 20 people, probably more. It smartly has a vestibule so that every time the door opens, the hot air doesn't easily escape. The shape is interesting - the ceiling is domed, and the room is round; it was quite nice. And very hot. Awesome. After getting all sweaty you can go right outside for a cold shower, or walk further to take a dip in the cold tub, or do what I did, which was to spread the towel on the grass and have a sit down in the garden and just enjoy the oxygen.
They also have private hot-tub rooms, one of which I got to enjoy because - as I remarked in the title here - there were police and a not-wanting-to-leave-naked-man in the bigger, warm tub there by the changing rooms.
When the OM and I had arrived, we were the only ones there, which was totally fabulous. But during the time we both had our massage, I could hear voices and the sounds of more people opening lockers downstairs, so I took a look outside to see what the situation was. The massage room I was in had a window affording a view of the back where the tubs and all were. And that's when I saw some uniforms. Hmmm.
They were talking to the guy in the warm tub, who was fully submerged except for his arms which were resting along the edge and his head which was resting upon his arms. He was talking to the police. Hmmmm.
You might think, "what the hell was a naked guy doing there in the first place? how did you >know< he was naked?" I should say more about how the Kiva rolls. My previous bathhouse experience always had it such that if it was co-ed, men were in one wing and women in another. Or, if there were not separate wings, then only men go on some days and only women on others. Or, if men and women attended together, then it was clothing-mandatory - an option that, to my mind at least - really doesn't enable one to reap all the benefits of going to a sauna.
Anyways, another thing that makes Kiva special is that it is co-ed, men and women share the same spaces, and clothing is optional. When I read the information on their website, I interpreted "clothing optional" as meaning that all options would be exercised. But it was indeed as my friend Jack explained last Saturday: everybody is naked.
Thus: naked man in the warm tub. Other men, too. Some not naked. Those would be the police.
(And in case you might be thinking, "what the hell were YOU doing in a place with strange, naked men in hot tubs?" I just have to say, you don't know me as well as you might think.)
It is a safe space. There are signs about warning people off of doing things like unsolicitedly massaging their neighbors, and in the women's dressing room a sign that says if anything at all happens that causes one to feel uncomfortable, to report it to the staff. So, upon viewing the scene downstairs, my first thought was that this guy had caused a woman some discomfort.
I stood up there for a few minutes, but the situation downstairs didn't look to be changing. So I wrapped myself up in my towel, and went to the dressing room where the door was open to the outside and I could hear a little better. The guy in the tub was saying something like, "I have as much right to be here as anybody," and "If you want me out, you have to come in here and get me."
Hmmmm.
So I went out into the lobby. The receptionist was profusely apologetic. This guy had come in, didn't pay the admission fee, and went and stationed himself after undressing in the big tub. So she called the cops. Good move.
It just seemed the cops didn't know quite what to do.
The receptionist offered to let me use one of the private rooms, until the situation resolved. I didn't know where the OM had gone to; I looked around inside for a bit, but then took the receptionist up on her offer for the private room, which was pretty cool. It's also open, up top, to the outside, with its own hot tub and a steam shower.
But after a few minutes I got bored. And right there, just a few feet away, was something pretty bizarre that really deserved to be checked out.
So off I trotted, back to the women's changing room, where I had a big bag of sliced up fruit stored in a locker. I grabbed me a little snack, and stationed myself there by the exit door to take in the show.
There seemed to be more uniforms. Some were outside, and some inside, on the men's changing room side. They were all wearing these blue latex gloves. Two of the fellows outside were helping the man who had been in the warm tub down the steps from the deck. There was one on either side of him, and he slipped on the stairs. I heard a few moments later one of them say, "the ground is level here, you can walk safely."
I thought, "Is he blind?" How on earth does a blind man manage to evade a receptionist, undress, find the jacuzzi, get in, find and harass a woman all before the police arrive? The policeman right next to the women's door leading outside caught sight of me, and asked me to go in and close the door. I guess that was the decent thing to do. So I did. But the dressing rooms are right next to each other, and they're open to one another along the top, so you can hear everything that goes on next door. The police were asking this fellow which locker was his. He thought it was the third from the left on the bottom. They'd know it was his if they found the candy and cigarettes.
Candy and cigarettes? This is not getting any less weird.
But by this point, I figured the show was pretty much over, so I took my bag o' fruit and went back to the private room, and shortly after was joined by the OM. She had been braver than I, and after her massage had towelled up and walked around the scene outside and back to the sauna where folks were all a-twitter about the situation. One person had said, "Can you imagine if this was the first time you had ever come to the Kiva?", and Michelle was, "uh, yeh, I can!" And then they were all apologetic about it, too, stressing that This is Not Normal, and Michelle was, like, no worries.
She had heard the police asking if the receptionist could drain the hot tub. They were trying to figure out a way to get the naked (and possibly blind?) man out, without any of them having to get in. The receptionist declined. Hence the bunch of standing around - what, it took on the order of 30 to 45 minutes? - before he was extracted. The naked man had also, it seems, acted to fend them off by throwing candy at them from his stronghold there in warm tub. There were, as I found later, indeed several multi-colored bits all over the ground, kind of like confetti. I think they were Nerds.
The rest of the time there was just dandy. The people were all really friendly and nice. It would probably be traumatic if you went in full of body-image issues, but then maybe it's a good place to go if you are, to get a lesson on just being, and not hiding behind multiple layers of baggy clothes. There was more eye contact there, than if clothed in a low-cut dress.
But now to the answer you've been waiting for: it takes 7 policemen, and a bottle of pepper spray, to get a recalcitrant naked man out of a hot tub. So: he wasn't blind after all; they had sprayed him to be able to incapacitate him, and that's why he couldn't see. And he hadn't harassed any women, but just had refused to pay the entry fee.
Now, Kiva I've learned is a really sweet place just off Water Street in Santa Cruz. I'm tempted to call it a bathhouse, but being a fan of bathhouses of the Asian variety, I'd withhold that descriptor.
The bathhouses I've frequented have lots of showers and sit-down scrubbie stations where, in short, you bathe. There are also employees who, if you ante up, will obligingly scour several layers of dead skin off your body. And then there are the hot tubs and warm tubs and cold tubs and dry saunas and steam saunas. Fancier places offer massages and facials and cups of sea salt for taking into the steam room, and jugs of ice water with lemon slices and iced dishes of sliced cucumber, and low-level mellow new-agey sounding music. But to be sure, even the most basic kind of establishment fine by me. As long as the sauna is seriously hot, it's golden.
But being ever-ready for the new experience, and having heard good reviews of the Kiva, off I and the Other Michelle (the OM) went. And the reason for not wanting to call it a bathhouse, is that although there are showers there - well, a single one but big enough (and set up, plumbing wise) for 2 - that's all there is to taking-a-bath part.
One of its perks is that the tubs are outdoors, and the sensation of sitting in a huge jacuzzi tub of warm water with jasmine flowers floating in it that have fallen from the surrounding plants, on a nice cloudy chilly coastal day whose temperature caused steam to rise off the water's surface was sublime. This tub is near the exit from the changing rooms and adjacent to a station where there is hot tea and cold water. Next to is a grassy lawn, where you can sit on a bench or lay out a blanket and have a little picnic. Continue to walk back along the stone pathway, and there is a smaller hot tub and a cold tub; they both look like giant half-barrels buried down into the ground.
Always all around are these beautiful plants, and further back still is the dry sauna. It's really big, with 3 levels of seating you can choose from. It could easily hold 20 people, probably more. It smartly has a vestibule so that every time the door opens, the hot air doesn't easily escape. The shape is interesting - the ceiling is domed, and the room is round; it was quite nice. And very hot. Awesome. After getting all sweaty you can go right outside for a cold shower, or walk further to take a dip in the cold tub, or do what I did, which was to spread the towel on the grass and have a sit down in the garden and just enjoy the oxygen.
They also have private hot-tub rooms, one of which I got to enjoy because - as I remarked in the title here - there were police and a not-wanting-to-leave-naked-man in the bigger, warm tub there by the changing rooms.
When the OM and I had arrived, we were the only ones there, which was totally fabulous. But during the time we both had our massage, I could hear voices and the sounds of more people opening lockers downstairs, so I took a look outside to see what the situation was. The massage room I was in had a window affording a view of the back where the tubs and all were. And that's when I saw some uniforms. Hmmm.
They were talking to the guy in the warm tub, who was fully submerged except for his arms which were resting along the edge and his head which was resting upon his arms. He was talking to the police. Hmmmm.
You might think, "what the hell was a naked guy doing there in the first place? how did you >know< he was naked?" I should say more about how the Kiva rolls. My previous bathhouse experience always had it such that if it was co-ed, men were in one wing and women in another. Or, if there were not separate wings, then only men go on some days and only women on others. Or, if men and women attended together, then it was clothing-mandatory - an option that, to my mind at least - really doesn't enable one to reap all the benefits of going to a sauna.
Anyways, another thing that makes Kiva special is that it is co-ed, men and women share the same spaces, and clothing is optional. When I read the information on their website, I interpreted "clothing optional" as meaning that all options would be exercised. But it was indeed as my friend Jack explained last Saturday: everybody is naked.
Thus: naked man in the warm tub. Other men, too. Some not naked. Those would be the police.
(And in case you might be thinking, "what the hell were YOU doing in a place with strange, naked men in hot tubs?" I just have to say, you don't know me as well as you might think.)
It is a safe space. There are signs about warning people off of doing things like unsolicitedly massaging their neighbors, and in the women's dressing room a sign that says if anything at all happens that causes one to feel uncomfortable, to report it to the staff. So, upon viewing the scene downstairs, my first thought was that this guy had caused a woman some discomfort.
I stood up there for a few minutes, but the situation downstairs didn't look to be changing. So I wrapped myself up in my towel, and went to the dressing room where the door was open to the outside and I could hear a little better. The guy in the tub was saying something like, "I have as much right to be here as anybody," and "If you want me out, you have to come in here and get me."
Hmmmm.
So I went out into the lobby. The receptionist was profusely apologetic. This guy had come in, didn't pay the admission fee, and went and stationed himself after undressing in the big tub. So she called the cops. Good move.
It just seemed the cops didn't know quite what to do.
The receptionist offered to let me use one of the private rooms, until the situation resolved. I didn't know where the OM had gone to; I looked around inside for a bit, but then took the receptionist up on her offer for the private room, which was pretty cool. It's also open, up top, to the outside, with its own hot tub and a steam shower.
But after a few minutes I got bored. And right there, just a few feet away, was something pretty bizarre that really deserved to be checked out.
So off I trotted, back to the women's changing room, where I had a big bag of sliced up fruit stored in a locker. I grabbed me a little snack, and stationed myself there by the exit door to take in the show.
There seemed to be more uniforms. Some were outside, and some inside, on the men's changing room side. They were all wearing these blue latex gloves. Two of the fellows outside were helping the man who had been in the warm tub down the steps from the deck. There was one on either side of him, and he slipped on the stairs. I heard a few moments later one of them say, "the ground is level here, you can walk safely."
I thought, "Is he blind?" How on earth does a blind man manage to evade a receptionist, undress, find the jacuzzi, get in, find and harass a woman all before the police arrive? The policeman right next to the women's door leading outside caught sight of me, and asked me to go in and close the door. I guess that was the decent thing to do. So I did. But the dressing rooms are right next to each other, and they're open to one another along the top, so you can hear everything that goes on next door. The police were asking this fellow which locker was his. He thought it was the third from the left on the bottom. They'd know it was his if they found the candy and cigarettes.
Candy and cigarettes? This is not getting any less weird.
But by this point, I figured the show was pretty much over, so I took my bag o' fruit and went back to the private room, and shortly after was joined by the OM. She had been braver than I, and after her massage had towelled up and walked around the scene outside and back to the sauna where folks were all a-twitter about the situation. One person had said, "Can you imagine if this was the first time you had ever come to the Kiva?", and Michelle was, "uh, yeh, I can!" And then they were all apologetic about it, too, stressing that This is Not Normal, and Michelle was, like, no worries.
She had heard the police asking if the receptionist could drain the hot tub. They were trying to figure out a way to get the naked (and possibly blind?) man out, without any of them having to get in. The receptionist declined. Hence the bunch of standing around - what, it took on the order of 30 to 45 minutes? - before he was extracted. The naked man had also, it seems, acted to fend them off by throwing candy at them from his stronghold there in warm tub. There were, as I found later, indeed several multi-colored bits all over the ground, kind of like confetti. I think they were Nerds.
The rest of the time there was just dandy. The people were all really friendly and nice. It would probably be traumatic if you went in full of body-image issues, but then maybe it's a good place to go if you are, to get a lesson on just being, and not hiding behind multiple layers of baggy clothes. There was more eye contact there, than if clothed in a low-cut dress.
But now to the answer you've been waiting for: it takes 7 policemen, and a bottle of pepper spray, to get a recalcitrant naked man out of a hot tub. So: he wasn't blind after all; they had sprayed him to be able to incapacitate him, and that's why he couldn't see. And he hadn't harassed any women, but just had refused to pay the entry fee.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Fearsome mindfulness, part the second
When last I was rambling, I was thinking about folks' resistance to explore their minds for reasons justifying the things they believe. Bracketing aside mundane laziness, I speculate that maybe it's because of timidity, or perhaps it's because of excessive confidence in one's own prima facie intuitions.
To the latter, I'm reminded of a fantastic line from Hobbes' "Leviathan" (there are so many good lines in that book!): "For such is the nature of men that howsoever they may acknowledge many others to be more witty, or more eloquent or more learned, yet they will hardly believe there be many so wise as themselves; for they see their own wit at hand, and other men's at a distance. But this proveth rather that men are in that point equal, than unequal. For there is not ordinarily a greater sign of the equal distribution of anything than that every man is contented with his share."
In these cases, the harsh pill the student has to learn how to swallow - and sometimes in conversation after an assignment has been graded, I've worked with the resistance to take this bitter medicine - is that their thumbs up or thumbs down is not good enough. "I'm sorry, but in order for that kind of "argument" to pass muster, I have to assume you're some kind of expert on the subject such that your intuitions as such are stand-alone reasons. But even if you WERE a philosophical expert, your intuitions alone would not be sufficient. You have to go deeper."
Now maybe this thinking exercise getting somewhere. For I think part of the difficulty is that it's just >hard< to work through the justification for our thoughts and intuitions. I think it's true the adage that there's nothing so ridiculous that some philosopher hasn't said it, and in that vein I think that many people approach the subject - or process or whatever it is you want to call "philosophy" - as though it's a matter of saying any old thing, and that's good enough. But of course that's not good enough. For any crazy-sounding thing a philosopher has said or written, that comes with a retinue of reasons which - ta da! - are the argument for that crazy position. So it goes, too, for the "it agrees with me/doesn't." There are some folks who take deep umbrage at their say-so not being good enough.
At bottom, though, I wonder if the timid writer who thinks there's nothing left to say, and the one confident in her intuitions, actually share a common core? The core element I have in mind is fear: fear that there is nothing there, an abyss, no reasons, no justification, no anything. The timid soul worries about it more immediately, whereas perhaps the other masks that fear behind an unreflective confidence?
Ah, but you see, to my mind at least - and I don't think I'm bizarre in thinking this - exploring that worrisome place is where the philosophy can really get started. There is not nothing there behind the intuition, but it is true that maybe what you find is not as veritable or as convincing as one would like to think. But we are all improved, I believe, by confronting that space and seeing it for what it is. And if our reasonable space is not as we would prefer, then it's incumbent upon us make it better. Not muffle it or ignore it or bewail its insufficiency.
Why do you believe X? What is its source? Your parents? Your church? Your teachers? Fox "news"? The Daily Show? The internet? What are the merits of the source? What is their track record? Was the belief beaten into your head, or did it come with a justification? What was the justification? Is it any good? What now?
It is a far better thing to fumble inelegantly through these questions, and be prepared to subject the answers to critique, than to rest contended on beliefs where one never questions why they're held. Hmm. Is that proposition an intuition of my own? No, I've got my reasons, but the idea is noted down as bloggedy-note topic to pursue another time.
To the latter, I'm reminded of a fantastic line from Hobbes' "Leviathan" (there are so many good lines in that book!): "For such is the nature of men that howsoever they may acknowledge many others to be more witty, or more eloquent or more learned, yet they will hardly believe there be many so wise as themselves; for they see their own wit at hand, and other men's at a distance. But this proveth rather that men are in that point equal, than unequal. For there is not ordinarily a greater sign of the equal distribution of anything than that every man is contented with his share."
In these cases, the harsh pill the student has to learn how to swallow - and sometimes in conversation after an assignment has been graded, I've worked with the resistance to take this bitter medicine - is that their thumbs up or thumbs down is not good enough. "I'm sorry, but in order for that kind of "argument" to pass muster, I have to assume you're some kind of expert on the subject such that your intuitions as such are stand-alone reasons. But even if you WERE a philosophical expert, your intuitions alone would not be sufficient. You have to go deeper."
Now maybe this thinking exercise getting somewhere. For I think part of the difficulty is that it's just >hard< to work through the justification for our thoughts and intuitions. I think it's true the adage that there's nothing so ridiculous that some philosopher hasn't said it, and in that vein I think that many people approach the subject - or process or whatever it is you want to call "philosophy" - as though it's a matter of saying any old thing, and that's good enough. But of course that's not good enough. For any crazy-sounding thing a philosopher has said or written, that comes with a retinue of reasons which - ta da! - are the argument for that crazy position. So it goes, too, for the "it agrees with me/doesn't." There are some folks who take deep umbrage at their say-so not being good enough.
At bottom, though, I wonder if the timid writer who thinks there's nothing left to say, and the one confident in her intuitions, actually share a common core? The core element I have in mind is fear: fear that there is nothing there, an abyss, no reasons, no justification, no anything. The timid soul worries about it more immediately, whereas perhaps the other masks that fear behind an unreflective confidence?
Ah, but you see, to my mind at least - and I don't think I'm bizarre in thinking this - exploring that worrisome place is where the philosophy can really get started. There is not nothing there behind the intuition, but it is true that maybe what you find is not as veritable or as convincing as one would like to think. But we are all improved, I believe, by confronting that space and seeing it for what it is. And if our reasonable space is not as we would prefer, then it's incumbent upon us make it better. Not muffle it or ignore it or bewail its insufficiency.
Why do you believe X? What is its source? Your parents? Your church? Your teachers? Fox "news"? The Daily Show? The internet? What are the merits of the source? What is their track record? Was the belief beaten into your head, or did it come with a justification? What was the justification? Is it any good? What now?
It is a far better thing to fumble inelegantly through these questions, and be prepared to subject the answers to critique, than to rest contended on beliefs where one never questions why they're held. Hmm. Is that proposition an intuition of my own? No, I've got my reasons, but the idea is noted down as bloggedy-note topic to pursue another time.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Fearsome mindfulness, part the first
It's the time of year in the college teaching market when job announcements start sprouting for the next academic year. Reading over their teaching requirements reminds me of being up there in the classroom, and for whatever reason this morning I recall one of the more difficult things to accomplish in the philosophy classroom. Particularly in the intro philosophy classroom.
In those places, there are a great many young minds being introduced to formulating a meritable argument for the very first time. Of course, by 'argument' here I don't mean shouting and screaming, or all-capping and multiple exclamation-pointing. Everyone knows how to do that already.
The assignments I'd give would usually have two primary elements: first, that the writer shows that (a) he or she can recognize an argument given by another author, and (b) that he or she understands it by putting it into their own words. Second, that the student shows a basic mastery of argumentative principles by defending or rejecting the point of view previously discussed.
I don't know if you'd believe how often I'd get the defense: "X's point of view is right because it agrees with what I believe," and the rejection, "X's point of view is wrong because it goes against what I believe."
Le sigh. Seeing it show up repeatedly breaks a thinking person's heart. And regrettably, although I won't take the time to explore it here, I think it's like a small mirror reflecting the level of public debate and discourse that is prevalent in our culture. I'm thinking things like Mr. Limbaugh's "ditto-heads" and folks hollering "you're wrong because you don't think like I do."
Most unsatisfactory. But how to counter it? That is the difficult thing.
An instructor can spend hours going over how to connect ideas up together in a logical fashion, how to recognize cogency, and basic but easy-to-slip-into fallacies to avoid. Encouraging the student to actually employ those tools is another matter altogether. It's the ol' leading a horse to water thing.
So I try to parse it down to motivation: what is so compelling about the "it agrees/disagrees with what I believe already," such that it shows up so often? If I can but figure out how that works, then perhaps I can short-circuit the process and try and re-route the thinking strategy.
A straightforward motivation is that it's easy, and here I'm thinking especially about the ever-recurring-paper-written-the-night-before-it's-due. We've all been there. And from a teacher's point of view, these essays are often, but not always, detectable by a variety of symptoms, this being one of them. It's 3 in the morning, you're tired, it has all the appearance of a reason, there - done! But these kinds of essays typically have other factors working against them - such as extensive copy/pastes from the internet - so the presence of the "it agrees with me/doesn't agree" is usually the least of its problems.
I'm considering more the kind of written work that evidences the occurrence of thoughts. What is going on in the student's mind, that she (or he - I'm gonna drop the disjunction now) is seemingly incapable of scouring up her own independent reasons?
The best I've come up with is the following. One one hand, maybe the writer thinks that the author she's covering has said everything brilliant that exists in defense of the argument at hand, such that her intuitive agreement (or disagreement) is all she has left? Alternatively, perhaps the writer takes her own confidence in her intuitions as the sine qua non for her intuitions' strength? These are two different vectors, and I'll talk about how I analyze them anon.
In those places, there are a great many young minds being introduced to formulating a meritable argument for the very first time. Of course, by 'argument' here I don't mean shouting and screaming, or all-capping and multiple exclamation-pointing. Everyone knows how to do that already.
The assignments I'd give would usually have two primary elements: first, that the writer shows that (a) he or she can recognize an argument given by another author, and (b) that he or she understands it by putting it into their own words. Second, that the student shows a basic mastery of argumentative principles by defending or rejecting the point of view previously discussed.
I don't know if you'd believe how often I'd get the defense: "X's point of view is right because it agrees with what I believe," and the rejection, "X's point of view is wrong because it goes against what I believe."
Le sigh. Seeing it show up repeatedly breaks a thinking person's heart. And regrettably, although I won't take the time to explore it here, I think it's like a small mirror reflecting the level of public debate and discourse that is prevalent in our culture. I'm thinking things like Mr. Limbaugh's "ditto-heads" and folks hollering "you're wrong because you don't think like I do."
Most unsatisfactory. But how to counter it? That is the difficult thing.
An instructor can spend hours going over how to connect ideas up together in a logical fashion, how to recognize cogency, and basic but easy-to-slip-into fallacies to avoid. Encouraging the student to actually employ those tools is another matter altogether. It's the ol' leading a horse to water thing.
So I try to parse it down to motivation: what is so compelling about the "it agrees/disagrees with what I believe already," such that it shows up so often? If I can but figure out how that works, then perhaps I can short-circuit the process and try and re-route the thinking strategy.
A straightforward motivation is that it's easy, and here I'm thinking especially about the ever-recurring-paper-written-the-night-before-it's-due. We've all been there. And from a teacher's point of view, these essays are often, but not always, detectable by a variety of symptoms, this being one of them. It's 3 in the morning, you're tired, it has all the appearance of a reason, there - done! But these kinds of essays typically have other factors working against them - such as extensive copy/pastes from the internet - so the presence of the "it agrees with me/doesn't agree" is usually the least of its problems.
I'm considering more the kind of written work that evidences the occurrence of thoughts. What is going on in the student's mind, that she (or he - I'm gonna drop the disjunction now) is seemingly incapable of scouring up her own independent reasons?
The best I've come up with is the following. One one hand, maybe the writer thinks that the author she's covering has said everything brilliant that exists in defense of the argument at hand, such that her intuitive agreement (or disagreement) is all she has left? Alternatively, perhaps the writer takes her own confidence in her intuitions as the sine qua non for her intuitions' strength? These are two different vectors, and I'll talk about how I analyze them anon.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Me and ANTM: WTF?
I guess I'm thankful for all the folks who, when they hear I've got a thing for watching ANTM, they sound a bit shocked. I wouldn't think I'd be the kind of person to watch it, either. But for goodness' sake, as Dan commented to something I wrote earlier, if I'm home when there's a marathon series of re-runs on a weekend afternoon, I'll happily let it play while I'm doing whatever else, and take breaks to (re)watch it here and there.
But good lord, why? Thusly I have my morning write and see what happens as I put words down.
Firstly, I'll point out the parts I'll readily mute or walk away from: the great moments of truth that Tyra pronounces, and the idiotic junior high school level of drama among the girls. But hey, it's Tyra's show, and from what I've read she had to fight hard to get it off the ground and now it's become sweepingly popular all over the place, so if she wants to stand up and be all-knowing, then you go, girl. And for the drama, meh. Maybe I'll endure all these elements on the first view, but they certainly aren't worth repeating.
That means there's a good 50% - maybe as much as 70%? - of the show that I usually tune out. Works out really well, then, as something to have playing as I clean, because going elsewhere in the house for half an hour means I'm not missing anything.
So what's the hook, then?
I think part of it, is in learning about the technique involved in doing a fancy, modelley photo shoot. What's involved in translating an abstract concept into an attractive or interesting visual form? For all I usually see is the end result, and it's kinda cool to see what it takes to get there. That's in keeping with other things I like to watch, like "How It's Made," and "Dirty Jobs," "Project Runway" - I like getting seeing what happens behind finished products.
I >would< say, to agree with another woman who I know watches the show whose intelligence I respect, to learn more about what to keep in mind when in front of the camera to make a pretty picture. And she has very good reasons for finding that information useful. And I enjoy this aspect as well - about how the camera perceives big and small (such as, even if you don't have a big feet, if that's the closest thing to the lens, you're gonna wind up looking as though your feet are bigger than your head). About the use of light and angles. It's kinda cool.
But unlike the friend of whom I speak above, I'm not really much - I dunno, either able or inclined - to put that information to work for me. It's always a surprise when a picture of me gets taken, where I don't look like I'm being shocked. Maybe if I practiced and took a bazillion pictures of myself I'd finally realize THAT'S what I need to do in order to not give myself a double chin, or THIS is how to look at the camera so I'm not all bug-eyed. But I don't have the patience. So, I'm not watching it in order for me to learn how to get the camera to love me.
I think another big part of the interest in watching it, is that for sure I was never the pretty girl when I was these kids' age, and it's interesting to see a sort of day-in-the-life of what it is like to be that girl. I know the scenarios are to some extent scripted or directed. But it manages to capture my voyeuristic curiosity all the same.
I think another draw, is seeing for however pretty these young women are, that it's not straightforward to get a good picture. It was earlier in the series, I believe, that they'd show more of how things looked before and after touch-ups and photoshop (this probably goes to getting an insight to behind-the-scenes techniques mentioned before). But also, it is interesting to see that sometimes for the shoots, for the TV camera the ladies look plain freaky with the hair and makeup, but for the photo, it works. Which goes to suggest the (maybe?) interesting point, that for whatever it is that counts for pretty or beauty, it's not always something that is copied straight up from the World, to film or pixels, to the eye.
And finally, I guess perhaps because there is something to the show that is so polar opposite to me, I am like a magnet attracted. In the main, for this show, success revolves around what one wears, and one's hair, and spending countless hours in front of a mirror. But it's curious - there are a plethora of other shows similarly diametrically opposed to my outlook, such as "Real Housewives" and "Bad Girls' Club" to name a few. I've watched an episode or two of these, just to see what they're about. I'm positively repelled. Maybe its because, at least in my imagination, I conceive that the product that often is used for judging for ANTM, is some kind of attempt to reach the level of art, that puts it above them in my mind.
But good lord, why? Thusly I have my morning write and see what happens as I put words down.
Firstly, I'll point out the parts I'll readily mute or walk away from: the great moments of truth that Tyra pronounces, and the idiotic junior high school level of drama among the girls. But hey, it's Tyra's show, and from what I've read she had to fight hard to get it off the ground and now it's become sweepingly popular all over the place, so if she wants to stand up and be all-knowing, then you go, girl. And for the drama, meh. Maybe I'll endure all these elements on the first view, but they certainly aren't worth repeating.
That means there's a good 50% - maybe as much as 70%? - of the show that I usually tune out. Works out really well, then, as something to have playing as I clean, because going elsewhere in the house for half an hour means I'm not missing anything.
So what's the hook, then?
I think part of it, is in learning about the technique involved in doing a fancy, modelley photo shoot. What's involved in translating an abstract concept into an attractive or interesting visual form? For all I usually see is the end result, and it's kinda cool to see what it takes to get there. That's in keeping with other things I like to watch, like "How It's Made," and "Dirty Jobs," "Project Runway" - I like getting seeing what happens behind finished products.
I >would< say, to agree with another woman who I know watches the show whose intelligence I respect, to learn more about what to keep in mind when in front of the camera to make a pretty picture. And she has very good reasons for finding that information useful. And I enjoy this aspect as well - about how the camera perceives big and small (such as, even if you don't have a big feet, if that's the closest thing to the lens, you're gonna wind up looking as though your feet are bigger than your head). About the use of light and angles. It's kinda cool.
But unlike the friend of whom I speak above, I'm not really much - I dunno, either able or inclined - to put that information to work for me. It's always a surprise when a picture of me gets taken, where I don't look like I'm being shocked. Maybe if I practiced and took a bazillion pictures of myself I'd finally realize THAT'S what I need to do in order to not give myself a double chin, or THIS is how to look at the camera so I'm not all bug-eyed. But I don't have the patience. So, I'm not watching it in order for me to learn how to get the camera to love me.
I think another big part of the interest in watching it, is that for sure I was never the pretty girl when I was these kids' age, and it's interesting to see a sort of day-in-the-life of what it is like to be that girl. I know the scenarios are to some extent scripted or directed. But it manages to capture my voyeuristic curiosity all the same.
I think another draw, is seeing for however pretty these young women are, that it's not straightforward to get a good picture. It was earlier in the series, I believe, that they'd show more of how things looked before and after touch-ups and photoshop (this probably goes to getting an insight to behind-the-scenes techniques mentioned before). But also, it is interesting to see that sometimes for the shoots, for the TV camera the ladies look plain freaky with the hair and makeup, but for the photo, it works. Which goes to suggest the (maybe?) interesting point, that for whatever it is that counts for pretty or beauty, it's not always something that is copied straight up from the World, to film or pixels, to the eye.
And finally, I guess perhaps because there is something to the show that is so polar opposite to me, I am like a magnet attracted. In the main, for this show, success revolves around what one wears, and one's hair, and spending countless hours in front of a mirror. But it's curious - there are a plethora of other shows similarly diametrically opposed to my outlook, such as "Real Housewives" and "Bad Girls' Club" to name a few. I've watched an episode or two of these, just to see what they're about. I'm positively repelled. Maybe its because, at least in my imagination, I conceive that the product that often is used for judging for ANTM, is some kind of attempt to reach the level of art, that puts it above them in my mind.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Vampires don't sparkle!
I enjoy writings that bash "Twilight" because its rabid fan base is a sad testimony to an apparently low IQ rampant among readers (but bless them, there at least ARE people reading). But it's not all disdain; I'm sorry for the die-hards' lack of luster and sizzle in their lived experiences, such that this dreck that passes for a story so successfully captures their imaginations.
I ran across the comment "vampires don't sparkle!" earlier this morning, and it recalled other times I've seen the assertion posted, sometimes with lengthy elaboration (because it tends to come up in the midst of "Twilight"-bashing). Without pretending to intuit the mind of any person who holds to the truth of that assertion, I just have to wonder: is this any kind of real critique? And, believe it or not, I'm going to take a few moments out of my morning to stand in Ms. Meyer's defense, and support the oh-so-shiney-ones.
Well, I guess I should start out by saying I don't think anyone who makes the "vampires don't sparkle!" observation, and holding it to be true, is making it from the point of view that there >really< are vampires, such that as a possibly abbreviated but kind of real critique, it's not "real" in the sense that there is some Truth about how Real Vampires are. Yanno? Rather, I conceive it's an assertion drawn from a background in the folklore. It's as, if someone were to represent a unicorn with 2 horns, the response "unicorns don't have two horns!" doesn't mean one believes that unicorns really exist. Not that there aren't people on the fringe who believe they really are vampires, or that vampires really do exist. I'm talking within 3 standard deviations here. Okay, that being said.
I've been a sort of a gothy-vampire fan from way back in the days of kid-dom watching reruns of "Dark Shadows." Not a HUGE fan. I haven't read much of the literature. Just some of Anne Rice's novels, until I couldn't stand seeing the word 'preternatural' one more time - which means I think I made it through maybe 2 books. And, in the satisfaction of a morbid perverted sense of curiosity, the Twilight series which, although ridiculous in terms of page length, is quite short in terms of time needed to scan.
I think I've been more drawn to visual representations, so when I googled up "vampires film tv" and got a run-down of different productions, I was a little surprised to see how long my viewing list is:
Nosferatu
Blade 1-3
Buffy (some)
Lost Boys
Dark Shadows
Dracula
The Munsters
Interview/Queen of the Damned
Bram Stokers Dracula
30 Days of Night
Van Helsing
True Blood (some)
There might be things I missed, like something with Boris Karloff in the cast. But to the point, there are, all throughout these media, places where someone might go "vampires don't X!": vampires aren't attractive! vampires don't have a guilty conscience! vampires don't have cool, orgiastic rave-like parties! And so on. I mean, have you seen the vampire in Nosferatu? Sure don't want to dance with that guy.
I don't pretend to be familiar or chattable with the psychological archetypes or repressed fantasies or suppressed fears that vampire lore is spun out to vent or satisfy. I just, for whatever superficial reason, enjoy it - in its creepy manifestations because it's scary, or in its sexy portrays because it's, well, hot. Unfortunately, the Twilight series is a huge fail on both those grounds, but whatever.
But what seems to be a constant across the different representations I've encountered, is that people take artistic liberties with how the vampire is portrayed. Maybe, at a very glancing level of analysis, the only thing that runs constant across them is that they all drink blood. And Ms. Meyer took the liberty of introducing, for whatever the fuck reason, that they sparkle in sunlight. And maybe other liberties too, I don't know, I'm not that committed to the what and how of vampire portrayal. I say: let a thousand flowers bloom. Let there be sparkley vampires. Why the hell not!
I ran across the comment "vampires don't sparkle!" earlier this morning, and it recalled other times I've seen the assertion posted, sometimes with lengthy elaboration (because it tends to come up in the midst of "Twilight"-bashing). Without pretending to intuit the mind of any person who holds to the truth of that assertion, I just have to wonder: is this any kind of real critique? And, believe it or not, I'm going to take a few moments out of my morning to stand in Ms. Meyer's defense, and support the oh-so-shiney-ones.
Well, I guess I should start out by saying I don't think anyone who makes the "vampires don't sparkle!" observation, and holding it to be true, is making it from the point of view that there >really< are vampires, such that as a possibly abbreviated but kind of real critique, it's not "real" in the sense that there is some Truth about how Real Vampires are. Yanno? Rather, I conceive it's an assertion drawn from a background in the folklore. It's as, if someone were to represent a unicorn with 2 horns, the response "unicorns don't have two horns!" doesn't mean one believes that unicorns really exist. Not that there aren't people on the fringe who believe they really are vampires, or that vampires really do exist. I'm talking within 3 standard deviations here. Okay, that being said.
I've been a sort of a gothy-vampire fan from way back in the days of kid-dom watching reruns of "Dark Shadows." Not a HUGE fan. I haven't read much of the literature. Just some of Anne Rice's novels, until I couldn't stand seeing the word 'preternatural' one more time - which means I think I made it through maybe 2 books. And, in the satisfaction of a morbid perverted sense of curiosity, the Twilight series which, although ridiculous in terms of page length, is quite short in terms of time needed to scan.
I think I've been more drawn to visual representations, so when I googled up "vampires film tv" and got a run-down of different productions, I was a little surprised to see how long my viewing list is:
Nosferatu
Blade 1-3
Buffy (some)
Lost Boys
Dark Shadows
Dracula
The Munsters
Interview/Queen of the Damned
Bram Stokers Dracula
30 Days of Night
Van Helsing
True Blood (some)
There might be things I missed, like something with Boris Karloff in the cast. But to the point, there are, all throughout these media, places where someone might go "vampires don't X!": vampires aren't attractive! vampires don't have a guilty conscience! vampires don't have cool, orgiastic rave-like parties! And so on. I mean, have you seen the vampire in Nosferatu? Sure don't want to dance with that guy.
I don't pretend to be familiar or chattable with the psychological archetypes or repressed fantasies or suppressed fears that vampire lore is spun out to vent or satisfy. I just, for whatever superficial reason, enjoy it - in its creepy manifestations because it's scary, or in its sexy portrays because it's, well, hot. Unfortunately, the Twilight series is a huge fail on both those grounds, but whatever.
But what seems to be a constant across the different representations I've encountered, is that people take artistic liberties with how the vampire is portrayed. Maybe, at a very glancing level of analysis, the only thing that runs constant across them is that they all drink blood. And Ms. Meyer took the liberty of introducing, for whatever the fuck reason, that they sparkle in sunlight. And maybe other liberties too, I don't know, I'm not that committed to the what and how of vampire portrayal. I say: let a thousand flowers bloom. Let there be sparkley vampires. Why the hell not!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Thanks, I needed that!
It's been a kind of peculiar set of days lately. You know how you can have days where every sensation comes to you brimming over with hope and possibility and beauty. And then there are days where things are, well, not. The sort of days where everything is just what it is. No pointing outward to something meaningful. Nothing insanely weird or captivating.
A series of these, and it threatens to induce a bovine-like mentality, that if left unchecked could conceivably lead a person to afternoons in front of the TV during the times of day when the commercials are targeted to the unemployed or terminally ill. And a person watches the trainwrecks unfold on "Jerry Springer" or whatever the hell idiotic programming is on, I imagine, because those people on the screen at least have a spark, they are animated. Even though it's about something nuts, like, a guy's cousin who swore she loved him but then ran off with his best friend.
I digress somewhat. More to the point, that sensation of life being a series of going-through-the-motions: that's the kind everyday darkness I confront as personally embattling. As a good existentialist, I acknowledge that there isn't any ultimate meaning and magic to it all, but I also can, and do, affirm that we can create our own sense of it through how we consciously choose to engage. But sometimes, it's simply difficult. The world seems to be deliberately resistant to being perceived as hopeful or promising, and trying to find a way to perceive it so through a tidal wave of mundanity is simply tiring. It would be so easy to succumb to it and become just another thing, acting and reacting to what's going on around, without reflection or passion or hope or love.
I think there's something about these feelings that are key. Because the conscious choice part is only part. Choosing something, and feeling something are two different things. My moment viewing the aftereffects of the tragic accident yesterday took me to chose to see life in all its everydayness as precious and fragile. But I didn't feel it; the day still felt mundane and uninspired. Maybe it's partly due to being in the middle of a couple of projects, where the onus of effort is on doing a bunch of bookish and electronic leg-work, and that can get to feeling like being in a limbo-like state.
But what joy. Even in the midst of typing this note an event happened, the drama of which I'll spare any reader save that nothing life-threatening is involved, that has thrown the preciousness of everyday mundane experience into sharp relief.
On, however, a more exuberant note, I have a clip from a column by one of my most favoritest writers that I'll share here below. Thanks, Mark Morford! I needed to hear that from a voice outside my own head. You rock:
[...]
Or maybe not. I prefer to think of these fine denizens of dumb as the darker, skankier parts of our individual consciousness, the red flags of the soul. Should we not be grateful they exist? That they are here to remind us to be ever vigilant and wary? Hell yes we should.
After all, the Fred Phelps, the Glenn Becks, the Terry Jones of the world are but our basest natures made manifest, the bleakest, most paranoid, lazily ignorant parts of each and every one of us. Deny it at your peril. As Joseph Conrad once wrote, "the bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion." He should know.
These wretched little demons, they are eternal. They have always been here. And they exist to deliver but one message: If you're not conscious, if you don't pay attention, if you don't fill your cup to brimming every single day with laughter and paradox, love and possibility, if you don't deeply appreciate the madhouse irony of this completely gorgeous, impossibly ruthless human experiment, well, they will but fester like a sore on your big toe, and you'll no longer be able to dance.
###
Let us dance, then!
A series of these, and it threatens to induce a bovine-like mentality, that if left unchecked could conceivably lead a person to afternoons in front of the TV during the times of day when the commercials are targeted to the unemployed or terminally ill. And a person watches the trainwrecks unfold on "Jerry Springer" or whatever the hell idiotic programming is on, I imagine, because those people on the screen at least have a spark, they are animated. Even though it's about something nuts, like, a guy's cousin who swore she loved him but then ran off with his best friend.
I digress somewhat. More to the point, that sensation of life being a series of going-through-the-motions: that's the kind everyday darkness I confront as personally embattling. As a good existentialist, I acknowledge that there isn't any ultimate meaning and magic to it all, but I also can, and do, affirm that we can create our own sense of it through how we consciously choose to engage. But sometimes, it's simply difficult. The world seems to be deliberately resistant to being perceived as hopeful or promising, and trying to find a way to perceive it so through a tidal wave of mundanity is simply tiring. It would be so easy to succumb to it and become just another thing, acting and reacting to what's going on around, without reflection or passion or hope or love.
I think there's something about these feelings that are key. Because the conscious choice part is only part. Choosing something, and feeling something are two different things. My moment viewing the aftereffects of the tragic accident yesterday took me to chose to see life in all its everydayness as precious and fragile. But I didn't feel it; the day still felt mundane and uninspired. Maybe it's partly due to being in the middle of a couple of projects, where the onus of effort is on doing a bunch of bookish and electronic leg-work, and that can get to feeling like being in a limbo-like state.
But what joy. Even in the midst of typing this note an event happened, the drama of which I'll spare any reader save that nothing life-threatening is involved, that has thrown the preciousness of everyday mundane experience into sharp relief.
On, however, a more exuberant note, I have a clip from a column by one of my most favoritest writers that I'll share here below. Thanks, Mark Morford! I needed to hear that from a voice outside my own head. You rock:
[...]
Or maybe not. I prefer to think of these fine denizens of dumb as the darker, skankier parts of our individual consciousness, the red flags of the soul. Should we not be grateful they exist? That they are here to remind us to be ever vigilant and wary? Hell yes we should.
After all, the Fred Phelps, the Glenn Becks, the Terry Jones of the world are but our basest natures made manifest, the bleakest, most paranoid, lazily ignorant parts of each and every one of us. Deny it at your peril. As Joseph Conrad once wrote, "the bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion." He should know.
These wretched little demons, they are eternal. They have always been here. And they exist to deliver but one message: If you're not conscious, if you don't pay attention, if you don't fill your cup to brimming every single day with laughter and paradox, love and possibility, if you don't deeply appreciate the madhouse irony of this completely gorgeous, impossibly ruthless human experiment, well, they will but fester like a sore on your big toe, and you'll no longer be able to dance.
###
Let us dance, then!
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