or however many the Pope can spare.
By now, everyone worth quoting has weighed in on the Starbucks Red Scare cups. I don't frequent Starbucks because I don't drink coffee. I used to go and get a hot chocolate when I had a Mother's day out, but with the advent of a Keurig in our home, it isn't a need or even a want. That being said, I've seen a lot of internet ink spilled explaining how it isn't a war on Christmas, that no one should be offended, and that anyone who is offended, is being a goofball, making a tempest in a Venti cup. As an opening salvo in this year's "War on Christmas" cry, it doesn't even merit a bah humbug. So Starbucks have red cups without special snowflakes for this season. Personally, the only reason to be upset with Starbucks for this decision, is if you have a grudge against Alabama. (Roll tide). It's nuts.
Ultimately, the internet always plays to the smallest heart, the smallest mind, and the most clickbaitable of responses. Ergo, the people who thought BOYCOTT because of red cups become the poster spokes children for all Christians. Most people will either not drink the coffee and go about their lives, or will drink the coffee and go about their lives. Their faith will not be shaken by the container of the beverages though the beverages contained might cause the shakes.
How did we get to this point, that people hear dog whistles all the time to respond with a Pavlovian outrage? We've lost something crucial to society, crucial to being Christian, to being human. We presume ourselves, regardless of the stimuli, the persecuted, and the other, whatever the other is, the persecutor. We may in fact suffer indignities, countless ones from other people, from the news, from the internet, from opposing political parities, from pundits, from songs on the radio, from popular entertainment, from whatever it is that offends. The important element in such experiences, is how we respond, both to the offenses, and to the persons, and to all we encounter after the injury.
Which brings me to Pope Francis' proclamation of the "Year of Mercy."
It starts December 8, 2016, on The Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception. What does showing mercy look like?
It is forbearance in the face of actual grievances.
It is forgiveness for past pains.
It is generosity of spirit toward others.
It is healing rather than harsh.
It opts for the kindest rather than cleverest response.
It doesn't go looking to be irritated.
It doesn't presume bad faith or bad motive.
It does not expect reciprocity. It is a gift.
It heals the giver, even as it offers healing to the recipient.
Mercy cannot be given in wrath, or to prove a point. It is uniquely personal. It is from one person, to another. It is a hand, offering aid.
Mercy is never what we deserve. Mercy is always a gift beyond what is merited.
It's a funny thing, mercy, because we all hope for it for ourselves, and even when we receive it, we often do not recognize it for what it is. We think, we lucked out, we squeezed by, or things worked out as they should be.
It will not make the papers, it will seem invisible. Why? Because when we are merciful, we are the most fully human we can be, the most in God's image, we can manage.
So spend this year, and in particular, the upcoming Advent, practicing the mercy you want to see in the world.
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Friday, February 19, 2010
Coffee Free Zone*
Driving my kids to school, my daughter proceeded to tell me about the water cycle as discussed on a "How Stuff Works" video. The theory is that because there are so many trillions of water molecules in a cup of coffee, that some of the molecules from President Abraham Lincoln's coffee on the day he was sworn in, could have followed the water cycle all around the world, through the sewers, the treatment plants, into the oceans and streams, across continents, back into clouds to rain into the local reservoir and thus return through the sinks of the nearby Starbucks into a cup for you.
Sounds tasty doesn't it?
While mathematically, it is statistically possible that old Abe's cup of Joe became a current overpriced cup of java; I've taken statistics and know that what can be illustrated cannot necessarily be proven. There are lies, damn lies and statistics as Twain once said.
For instance, remember Reach Mouth Wash? When it first came out, they touted the fact that they reduced plaque by 300% and they did, when compared to doing nothing. But when compared to gargling with water or brushing one's teeth, they did only 10% against the former. Reach sales plummeted when the scam of statistics was exposed. Having learned the statistical possibility of Lincoln's ahem, "coffee in its distilled by the body form" might be in my water, I predict a Reach mouth wash comeback at least in this household.
But my daughter insisted the water cycle proved it. Feeling really glad I stuck to diet coke at the moment, I pointed out that in some cases, like wines, water is taken out of the cycle for decades. I privately wondered if I should switch to that vice at that moment, it sounded more palatable. There is some knowledge that just isn't very useful for everyday life; or at the very least, for enjoying living. "We don't KNOW know." I countered.
"But the math proves that there's a 100% chance of water molecules from the coffee having come from President Lincoln's the day he took office!"
I pointed out that it isn't like one can Marlin Perkins style tag individual water molecules and release them back into the wild as it were. I also pointed out that water can get stuck, frozen on the mountains of Tibet, absorbed into a deep river inside the Earth, mingling in the ocean deep off South America, bottled in Fiji and sent here to sit on a 7-11 store shelf. Some of the water might have been absorbed by the woman who drank it, who then had a baby who took in those water molecules as part of his development and be walking around now with Honest Abe's water vapors as part of his DNA!For that matter, the rogue H20 could be absorbed by a jelly fish or drunk by a pig or mixed with other chemicals to make shampoo or concentrated orange juice or toothpaste.
Besides, we don't know if the President went to the facilities on Inauguration day after drinking coffee, so it might be a day younger. The very discussion itself was enough to put me off drinking water period.
She asked who Marlin Perkins was.
"Let me put it this way," I answered. "If your theory is correct, you probably brushed your teeth with him."
* Video of "How Stuff Works" on water cycle is linked in the title if you want to watch.
Sounds tasty doesn't it?
While mathematically, it is statistically possible that old Abe's cup of Joe became a current overpriced cup of java; I've taken statistics and know that what can be illustrated cannot necessarily be proven. There are lies, damn lies and statistics as Twain once said.
For instance, remember Reach Mouth Wash? When it first came out, they touted the fact that they reduced plaque by 300% and they did, when compared to doing nothing. But when compared to gargling with water or brushing one's teeth, they did only 10% against the former. Reach sales plummeted when the scam of statistics was exposed. Having learned the statistical possibility of Lincoln's ahem, "coffee in its distilled by the body form" might be in my water, I predict a Reach mouth wash comeback at least in this household.
But my daughter insisted the water cycle proved it. Feeling really glad I stuck to diet coke at the moment, I pointed out that in some cases, like wines, water is taken out of the cycle for decades. I privately wondered if I should switch to that vice at that moment, it sounded more palatable. There is some knowledge that just isn't very useful for everyday life; or at the very least, for enjoying living. "We don't KNOW know." I countered.
"But the math proves that there's a 100% chance of water molecules from the coffee having come from President Lincoln's the day he took office!"
I pointed out that it isn't like one can Marlin Perkins style tag individual water molecules and release them back into the wild as it were. I also pointed out that water can get stuck, frozen on the mountains of Tibet, absorbed into a deep river inside the Earth, mingling in the ocean deep off South America, bottled in Fiji and sent here to sit on a 7-11 store shelf. Some of the water might have been absorbed by the woman who drank it, who then had a baby who took in those water molecules as part of his development and be walking around now with Honest Abe's water vapors as part of his DNA!For that matter, the rogue H20 could be absorbed by a jelly fish or drunk by a pig or mixed with other chemicals to make shampoo or concentrated orange juice or toothpaste.
Besides, we don't know if the President went to the facilities on Inauguration day after drinking coffee, so it might be a day younger. The very discussion itself was enough to put me off drinking water period.
She asked who Marlin Perkins was.
"Let me put it this way," I answered. "If your theory is correct, you probably brushed your teeth with him."
* Video of "How Stuff Works" on water cycle is linked in the title if you want to watch.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
President Wikipedia
In blogging, you never know what will resonate, but you keep throwing things out there, hoping that something will catch people's attention and tickle their hearts or move them. Sometimes, you lavish time over a piece, crafting it to your own perception of perfection. No hits. No interest. In blogging as in life, you can pitch what you perceive as a perfect game and still lose. But once one attains viral attention, it's hard to lose that hold on the public. Perception trumps reality.
And so it is, that we can have amazing deficit spending, high unemployment, stagnant house sales, declining 401k's, lost jobs, lost opportunities, and homes that are underwater, owing more than the mortgage demands, but according to the editor of Newsweek, the President is sort of God.
We've seen Brian Williams bowing to the Commander in Chief. We've heard about tinglies in the leg. We've seen women faint and men gasp with shock and awe at his presence. He's historic; he's beyond Jefferson, JFK, Martin Luther King, Lincoln and the Roosevelt’s historic. And yet, everything that was before him is prequel. We shall have the P.B.O. (Pre-you know who) era, with the new chronology beginning with 2009.
He's the first athiest president, and the most religious but ecumenical, understanding nuance in a way that men who confine themselves to one practice of faith Can't be.
He's metro-sexual, he takes off his shirt when he swims and has a date night. He's hot. He's cool. He's like jazz that everyone likes and knows, but that isn't so overly familiar as to be pedestrian. He can spend more money than we ever have before, percentage wise or absolutely, and then preach that we must become more fiscally responsible. What can't this man say or do?
He can preach at Notre Dame and the University of Cairo. He can claim we're not a nation of Christians and be understood to mean we're bigger than just one orientation of faith, and we're a nation of Muslims and be known to be talking to a specific audience about the lack of citation of the gifts and contributions of Islam.
Pointing out any over glossing or exaggeration about anything historical or factual is just pettiness, partisan or envy. You shouldn't do that you know; it's not good for you.
And so we waft along sipping our overpriced Grande Starbucks coffee, knowing we can't afford it, enjoying how cool we look for having it, and fiercely resisting and resenting any attempt to point out, "It's just coffee in a paper cup."
Because we have our President, our emotional teleprompter, who shall tell us when to get up and when to sleep, how much to work and what to eat, what to drive, how much we should earn and how we should live, so that one day, maybe, we might ...well wait a minute..He’s never said what the reward was for doing all this stuff.
Think maybe we should ask?
And so it is, that we can have amazing deficit spending, high unemployment, stagnant house sales, declining 401k's, lost jobs, lost opportunities, and homes that are underwater, owing more than the mortgage demands, but according to the editor of Newsweek, the President is sort of God.
We've seen Brian Williams bowing to the Commander in Chief. We've heard about tinglies in the leg. We've seen women faint and men gasp with shock and awe at his presence. He's historic; he's beyond Jefferson, JFK, Martin Luther King, Lincoln and the Roosevelt’s historic. And yet, everything that was before him is prequel. We shall have the P.B.O. (Pre-you know who) era, with the new chronology beginning with 2009.
He's the first athiest president, and the most religious but ecumenical, understanding nuance in a way that men who confine themselves to one practice of faith Can't be.
He's metro-sexual, he takes off his shirt when he swims and has a date night. He's hot. He's cool. He's like jazz that everyone likes and knows, but that isn't so overly familiar as to be pedestrian. He can spend more money than we ever have before, percentage wise or absolutely, and then preach that we must become more fiscally responsible. What can't this man say or do?
He can preach at Notre Dame and the University of Cairo. He can claim we're not a nation of Christians and be understood to mean we're bigger than just one orientation of faith, and we're a nation of Muslims and be known to be talking to a specific audience about the lack of citation of the gifts and contributions of Islam.
Pointing out any over glossing or exaggeration about anything historical or factual is just pettiness, partisan or envy. You shouldn't do that you know; it's not good for you.
And so we waft along sipping our overpriced Grande Starbucks coffee, knowing we can't afford it, enjoying how cool we look for having it, and fiercely resisting and resenting any attempt to point out, "It's just coffee in a paper cup."
Because we have our President, our emotional teleprompter, who shall tell us when to get up and when to sleep, how much to work and what to eat, what to drive, how much we should earn and how we should live, so that one day, maybe, we might ...well wait a minute..He’s never said what the reward was for doing all this stuff.
Think maybe we should ask?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Forty-one and Awaiting Maturation
At my age, I’m supposed to be educated, sophisticated and worldly wise.
There is a stack of books that educated people are supposed to have read, important things like the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare, The Ancient Art of War, Das Kapital, the Federalist papers and Moby Dick. I am waiting for retirement to get to this list, when not reading them will be chucked up to old age and poor eyesight.
Adults are also supposed to like things like coffee and wine, sushi and blue cheese not accompanied by super hot Buffalo wings and beer. They can watch documentaries on war and read the serious sections of the paper with total recall. They wear jeans and sneakers for gardening and football games only, and they don’t voluntarily choose to dine at places that wrap the food in paper. As I understand it, some of them even listen to and love opera.
I am waiting for those chemical enzymes to kick in and transform me from a fairy tale loving, French fry noshing comic book reading plebian into a character out of a Henry James novel; who coifs her hair and wears dark form fitting frocks and speaks in mysteriously compelling short phrases that bewilder and bewitch those around her as she passes through the heathers without stepping into a gopher hole.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to mature. I dutifully checked out Bleak House from the library and read a play each summer from Shakespeare. I keep ordering wine at restaurants but I never finish a glass. I know how to talk about tannins and the deepening flavors and all that, but what I really think when I drink wine is, why didn’t I order a diet coke? I have eaten sushi with friends who love it and survived, but can’t figure out why no one doesn’t just say, “Hey this is a great piece of fish, just give it five minutes in a pan with garlic and olive oil.” I think they’re just trying to avoid doing the pots and pans in the kitchen.
My sister has bought me CD’s of opera, explaining which pieces were her favorites. She has also taken me to drink my first Starbucks, I got a violent headache after three sips. I had a similar reaction to the opera. My husband buys tickets to the symphony. We go. He shuts his eyes to listen. If I shut my eyes, I snore. My music tastes haven’t ever left the early 80’s and high school.
I have taught myself to read the editorial section before I hit up the funnies and the sports, but it’s rather like sitting through math class in High School before lunch. I do it, but only because I ought, and much of the front section just rolls past my brain which is fixated on what happened today in “For Better or Worse.”
So here I am at 41 and I still want big parties on my birthday with wrapped presents and a frosted cake with all the candles. I know the Saturday morning line up my kids watch, and I sneak my TV viewing under the responsible adult headline of “Parental Supervision.” I change the channel if I don’t like the cartoon or its animation. I read comic books inside of real books like “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People” and wear jeans or shorts 350 days out of the year. I don’t own a form fitting frock and I talk in breathless longwinded excited loud sentences. It’s not that I don’t like wine, opera and all things sophisticated; they just aren’t my first preference.
Given the fact that much of my life is lived like a stone that just perpetually skips on the water (never slowing or stopping to sink below the surface), introspection is not one of my strong suits. It requires a quieter mind and spirit than my temperament allows. Yesterday, my son was invited to take a course on manners and etiquette, designed to teach freshmen of high school how to act like the adults they will some day become. As I looked at the requirements that the boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls, dresses and gloves I wondered if one day my kids would grow out of their childhood tastes. I’d be left to go to McDonald’s, watch Disney movies and listen to Duran Duran on my own.
But then I remember, my husband prefers burgers to fois gras, and chocolate shakes to champagne. The other day, he came home with tickets for a baseball game and proposed a camping trip for the 4th of July weekend. After dinner, he asked for ice cream. So I stopped by the bookstore today, and even though, the complete works of Evelyn Waugh were on sale near the front of the store, I picked up the latest Fantastic Four comic for him, and tonight, we’re going to see Kung Fu Panda. Maturity can wait, at least until it feels fun and not like an assignment to eat my broccoli.
I will say though, some of that opera isn’t so bad. Thanks sis.
There is a stack of books that educated people are supposed to have read, important things like the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare, The Ancient Art of War, Das Kapital, the Federalist papers and Moby Dick. I am waiting for retirement to get to this list, when not reading them will be chucked up to old age and poor eyesight.
Adults are also supposed to like things like coffee and wine, sushi and blue cheese not accompanied by super hot Buffalo wings and beer. They can watch documentaries on war and read the serious sections of the paper with total recall. They wear jeans and sneakers for gardening and football games only, and they don’t voluntarily choose to dine at places that wrap the food in paper. As I understand it, some of them even listen to and love opera.
I am waiting for those chemical enzymes to kick in and transform me from a fairy tale loving, French fry noshing comic book reading plebian into a character out of a Henry James novel; who coifs her hair and wears dark form fitting frocks and speaks in mysteriously compelling short phrases that bewilder and bewitch those around her as she passes through the heathers without stepping into a gopher hole.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to mature. I dutifully checked out Bleak House from the library and read a play each summer from Shakespeare. I keep ordering wine at restaurants but I never finish a glass. I know how to talk about tannins and the deepening flavors and all that, but what I really think when I drink wine is, why didn’t I order a diet coke? I have eaten sushi with friends who love it and survived, but can’t figure out why no one doesn’t just say, “Hey this is a great piece of fish, just give it five minutes in a pan with garlic and olive oil.” I think they’re just trying to avoid doing the pots and pans in the kitchen.
My sister has bought me CD’s of opera, explaining which pieces were her favorites. She has also taken me to drink my first Starbucks, I got a violent headache after three sips. I had a similar reaction to the opera. My husband buys tickets to the symphony. We go. He shuts his eyes to listen. If I shut my eyes, I snore. My music tastes haven’t ever left the early 80’s and high school.
I have taught myself to read the editorial section before I hit up the funnies and the sports, but it’s rather like sitting through math class in High School before lunch. I do it, but only because I ought, and much of the front section just rolls past my brain which is fixated on what happened today in “For Better or Worse.”
So here I am at 41 and I still want big parties on my birthday with wrapped presents and a frosted cake with all the candles. I know the Saturday morning line up my kids watch, and I sneak my TV viewing under the responsible adult headline of “Parental Supervision.” I change the channel if I don’t like the cartoon or its animation. I read comic books inside of real books like “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People” and wear jeans or shorts 350 days out of the year. I don’t own a form fitting frock and I talk in breathless longwinded excited loud sentences. It’s not that I don’t like wine, opera and all things sophisticated; they just aren’t my first preference.
Given the fact that much of my life is lived like a stone that just perpetually skips on the water (never slowing or stopping to sink below the surface), introspection is not one of my strong suits. It requires a quieter mind and spirit than my temperament allows. Yesterday, my son was invited to take a course on manners and etiquette, designed to teach freshmen of high school how to act like the adults they will some day become. As I looked at the requirements that the boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls, dresses and gloves I wondered if one day my kids would grow out of their childhood tastes. I’d be left to go to McDonald’s, watch Disney movies and listen to Duran Duran on my own.
But then I remember, my husband prefers burgers to fois gras, and chocolate shakes to champagne. The other day, he came home with tickets for a baseball game and proposed a camping trip for the 4th of July weekend. After dinner, he asked for ice cream. So I stopped by the bookstore today, and even though, the complete works of Evelyn Waugh were on sale near the front of the store, I picked up the latest Fantastic Four comic for him, and tonight, we’re going to see Kung Fu Panda. Maturity can wait, at least until it feels fun and not like an assignment to eat my broccoli.
I will say though, some of that opera isn’t so bad. Thanks sis.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Mental Tapas Served
With eight children and version 9.0 on the way in September, there are always opportunities for articles, some more coherent than others. I keep a notepad for jotting down potential ideas. The following were all created by my loving offspring, for you, before 9 am Friday. While none of them flowered into a full fledged piece without seeming trite, overwritten or tired, I feel an obligation to keep trying so these are the mental tapas under consideration.
Witnessing the Lawn Mower man on his new tractor...Boo (newly four year old son)expressed his concern rather eloquently. "That man is scary, he freaked out my toes."
Cupie Doll (age 2 and impossibly cute), thinks pull ups make the perfect head accessory. We have even let her wear one into the car, on the theory we could pull it off when we arrived at our destination. So far, I haven't forgotten.
Taxes. Free Starbucks. Coincidence? I think not. Both normally cost a lot. Both take an inordinate amount of time, both will leave you shaking for hours in the aftermath.
Toilets: It's a bad day when the plunger makes an appearance before breakfast.
Bugs and Bathrooms: It's a really bad day when your daughter takes a shower and finds millipedes. Explaining it could be worse --mice, snakes, bees...doesn't help.
Sins of Omission: When a child alters his gate to step over a paper plate that has somehow made it to the floor, it is time to assign chores.
It's a really rough day...when the broom breaks in half in my hands, the washing machine starts smelling like burnt rubber and the vacuum quits on the same day, it is time to call the maids and order out.
Finally: When my infant daughter's sucking on her empty bottle at 4 a.m. translates to me as a metaphor for how writing works --the shell of an idea encasing something great which may or may not be empty...it's clear 1)I need more sleep 2)my world is a little bit tiny and 3)I should really get up and get her a new bottle.
MEMO to Mom and any public officials from child protective services reading this, I did.
Witnessing the Lawn Mower man on his new tractor...Boo (newly four year old son)expressed his concern rather eloquently. "That man is scary, he freaked out my toes."
Cupie Doll (age 2 and impossibly cute), thinks pull ups make the perfect head accessory. We have even let her wear one into the car, on the theory we could pull it off when we arrived at our destination. So far, I haven't forgotten.
Taxes. Free Starbucks. Coincidence? I think not. Both normally cost a lot. Both take an inordinate amount of time, both will leave you shaking for hours in the aftermath.
Toilets: It's a bad day when the plunger makes an appearance before breakfast.
Bugs and Bathrooms: It's a really bad day when your daughter takes a shower and finds millipedes. Explaining it could be worse --mice, snakes, bees...doesn't help.
Sins of Omission: When a child alters his gate to step over a paper plate that has somehow made it to the floor, it is time to assign chores.
It's a really rough day...when the broom breaks in half in my hands, the washing machine starts smelling like burnt rubber and the vacuum quits on the same day, it is time to call the maids and order out.
Finally: When my infant daughter's sucking on her empty bottle at 4 a.m. translates to me as a metaphor for how writing works --the shell of an idea encasing something great which may or may not be empty...it's clear 1)I need more sleep 2)my world is a little bit tiny and 3)I should really get up and get her a new bottle.
MEMO to Mom and any public officials from child protective services reading this, I did.
Monday, February 4, 2008
College Post Modernist Thinking Students declare Disagreement only the result of Ignorance on the part of Others
It happened at the University the other day, when a group of very hip modernists who understood that no truth is knowable but were smart enough to declare anyone who pointed out that such a statement could be perceived as a statement of a universal truth were just being clever, decided that debate itself indicates ignorance, misunderstanding and stupidity on the part of anyone who advocates any “traditional” position about knowledge. (Truth being identifiable, knowable, and even transferable via such an unwieldy tool as language).
When asked if they weren’t simply adopting a Berkley stance, being is perception, they scoffed at such a simplistic understanding of the universe. “No, what we understand is that all information is biased and therefore innately untrustworthy as accurate or even valid. No actual reality can be verified as actual, as 100 people seeing the same accident will each see the accident differently and no one person saw the whole accident.”
Additionally, another young slim woman sipping Starbucks offered, “The consensus of a large group of people in one proximity or even across a nation or over time, is not a validation of a reality, only the result of collective norms, societal pressures and the clumsiness of our own English Language to provide sufficient levels of nuance to everyday observations.”
“But,” offered one hapless professor, attempting to provide a touch of guidance based on his own study, something the students considered inadequate to substantiate his authority on things over theirs, regardless of the extent of his research, “If I hold up an apple, you know it is an apple, and 100 or 1000 people looking at it would know that it is an apple.”
“Hah!” up jumped one of the more gothic looking youths with multiple piercings, his appearance and quick action made the professor startle, something which gave the clever young bohemians present a great bit of glee, “But an alien arriving here would not know it is an apple unless you told them, and a Frenchman would not call it an apple, but a pomme, and someone who never before seen an apple would not know what that object in your hand was. Further, a blind man would not know appleness from your hand holding it, and a color blind man would not know the red quality of that apple, and therefore see an apple as meaning something different than you. You cannot claim the apple would be known to all, because it would not be perceived by all or comprehended by all. We believe all perception is all we can know and that all perception is deceptive in nature.”
“But then you believe nothing is knowable.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know nothing is knowable?”
“We can’t know, that would be proving it and that would go against our central thesis.”
“So you can’t even know if anything is knowable? Why learn anything then?”
“Exactly!” the slim girl smiled. The other students nodded their heads in demur affirmation of the professor's sudden enlightenment.
And the professor smiled as his goth student teacher praised how he had finally come to comprehend the ignorance of his own ignorance, the prejudice that prevented him from understanding how to deconstruct everything into meaninglessness. “Now you’re getting it man. Have a Starbucks.” and handed him a Venti Mocha Latte.
For thinking that is even more post modern than the most post modern deconstructionist theories of deconstruction, and humor that allows us to cope with such nonsense, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
When asked if they weren’t simply adopting a Berkley stance, being is perception, they scoffed at such a simplistic understanding of the universe. “No, what we understand is that all information is biased and therefore innately untrustworthy as accurate or even valid. No actual reality can be verified as actual, as 100 people seeing the same accident will each see the accident differently and no one person saw the whole accident.”
Additionally, another young slim woman sipping Starbucks offered, “The consensus of a large group of people in one proximity or even across a nation or over time, is not a validation of a reality, only the result of collective norms, societal pressures and the clumsiness of our own English Language to provide sufficient levels of nuance to everyday observations.”
“But,” offered one hapless professor, attempting to provide a touch of guidance based on his own study, something the students considered inadequate to substantiate his authority on things over theirs, regardless of the extent of his research, “If I hold up an apple, you know it is an apple, and 100 or 1000 people looking at it would know that it is an apple.”
“Hah!” up jumped one of the more gothic looking youths with multiple piercings, his appearance and quick action made the professor startle, something which gave the clever young bohemians present a great bit of glee, “But an alien arriving here would not know it is an apple unless you told them, and a Frenchman would not call it an apple, but a pomme, and someone who never before seen an apple would not know what that object in your hand was. Further, a blind man would not know appleness from your hand holding it, and a color blind man would not know the red quality of that apple, and therefore see an apple as meaning something different than you. You cannot claim the apple would be known to all, because it would not be perceived by all or comprehended by all. We believe all perception is all we can know and that all perception is deceptive in nature.”
“But then you believe nothing is knowable.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know nothing is knowable?”
“We can’t know, that would be proving it and that would go against our central thesis.”
“So you can’t even know if anything is knowable? Why learn anything then?”
“Exactly!” the slim girl smiled. The other students nodded their heads in demur affirmation of the professor's sudden enlightenment.
And the professor smiled as his goth student teacher praised how he had finally come to comprehend the ignorance of his own ignorance, the prejudice that prevented him from understanding how to deconstruct everything into meaninglessness. “Now you’re getting it man. Have a Starbucks.” and handed him a Venti Mocha Latte.
For thinking that is even more post modern than the most post modern deconstructionist theories of deconstruction, and humor that allows us to cope with such nonsense, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
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