Many years ago, I accompanied a restaurant critic colleague to a research breakfast at a downtown restaurant whose name I've forgotten. We made our way into a cavernous basement filled with a sea of empty tables, and were greeted by a friendly and personable manager who was very pleased to have customers break the disquieting silence of his establishment.
The menu included traditional American breakfast items along with some dilutedly Jewish-ish touches. I think I recall blintzes, smoked salmon, and various applications of challah bread. It was a perfectly commendable breakfast, really; we were pleased with the discovery when, over a final cup of coffee, a conversation was struck up with the manager, whose name was Djelali (juh-LAH-lee). He spoke with a hard-to-pin-down accent, so we asked where he was from, and he replied that he was Afghan - in fact, the entire restaurant was staffed by Afghans. We launched into a happy conversation about Afghan cuisine, name dropping all our favorite dishes and trading tales of pumpkin fritters and leek turnovers.
As you might imagine, this was mind-blowing for Djelali, who hadn't expected New Yorkers to know his cuisine - much less New Yorkers scarfing down buckwheat pancakes and cherry cheese blintzes right there in his restaurant (which had nary an Afghan dish on its menu). He rhapsodized about food back home, explaining the mechanics of proper yogurt sauce and toothsome kebabs, proud and delighted to have met a tableful of Afghanopiles.
The other critic and I caught a glint in each other's eyes. We knew, and we knew we both knew, that we simply had to arrange for Djelali and his kitchen staff of repressed Afghan cooks to prepare us some serious Afghan food. We asked if he'd consider throwing us a special dinner if we brought a reasonable number of people and paid him whatever price he asked. Djelali stood up tall and straight and set his jaw and solemnly promised to cook us an unparalleled repast, given sufficient advance notice. The restaurant usually closed at 3 p.m., but they'd reopen after-hours to accommodate us. He took the offer so seriously that it seemed akin to a patriotic oath.
My friend put the review on hold. Sure, we'd enjoyed terrific omelettes, grits, and french toast, but the story wouldn't be complete until we'd also dug into aushak, bandanjan burani, and dough (pronounced like Homer Simposon choking).
It's harder than you might think for food critics to find companions. People get busy, they go on diets, they grow jaded and unwilling to investigate unproven venues. As a result, overbooking is de rigueur; you invite ten to be certain of four. To make the banquet worth Djelali's while, we aimed for ten or fifteen by calling practically everyone we knew.
Of course, everyone said yes, so Djelali was informed that we'd be bringing 30 to dinner.
We'd neglected to settle price in advance, having expansively offered the gracious Djelali free reign. The newspaper's expense budget would be badly strained, but a major discovery like this would surely be worth the cost. Anyone who could create such magic with pumpernickel toast would surely prepare us an Afghan feast of unimaginable quality. It would be the story of the year.
The appointed day arrived, as did our 28 guests. The throng was seated, Last Supper-style, at a single very very long table. Djelali seemed different; the confidant breakfast manager, so charming and assured as we'd sipped mimosas, seemed awkward and nervous at 8:30 p.m.. He and his staff, probably there since 4:30 a.m., were exhausted. And embarrassed. And we soon learned why.
It wasn't the worst meal we'd ever had in our lives. But it was close. The hoped-for Afghan repast was literally as bad as if we'd asked the staff at Denny's to whip us up a kaiseki meal. We were served a hallucinatory hodgepodge of 1. leftover breakfast and lunch items, and 2. leftover breakfast and lunch items primitively shaped into a flimsy semblance of Afghan food. It was a joke, a hoax. As the meal progressed and stony silence fell over the crowd, the mortified Djelali appeared to be drenched in flop sweat, complete with facial tics. My critic friend had yet more sweating to do when the check came - I believe it totalled nearly a grand. We'd not had a single bite of real Afghan food. We'd not had a single bite of real ANY food.
The restaurant closed soon thereafter, even though they'd been given a good review for their breakfast offerings (without any mention whatsoever of the disastrous dinner). It was as if the shame of this meal had sucked all the life out of the place and they'd crumbled up and blown away. We'd killed them.
It was a lesson I'd actually learned several times before, but never as dramatically. Since that night, the inflictees and I have used the term "djelali" generically to describe any foolhardy attempt to persuade restaurateurs to do something other than what their operations are explicitly set up to do. Believe me: you don't want the Mexican broiler guy at the French bistro to fix your party something special for Cinco De Mayo. Let the Greek-owned diner serve you their standard moussaka and pastitsio, but don't even imagine requesting a special octopus or baby lamb dinner. Most of all, never assume inauthentic restaurants hide secret authentic wonderfulness back in their kitchens. I promise you: shlock is all they know how to do, and attempts to plumb depths will lead to the heartbreak of a djelali. Sorry, the suburban Chinese place with moo-shoo everything is never going to whip you up a serious Hong Kong banquet. In the resultant djelali, you'll lose all your money, anger all your friends, and eat food likely to forever shake your faith in deliciousness.
I'm doomed to keep attempting djelalis, though. I never learn. A few years later, I dragged thirty five people to a djelali in a touristy Chinese restaurant which I'd heard rumored to be the NYC venue of choice for state dinners by the People's Republic of China. We told the owners, when reserving, that we wanted only serious Chinese food - no Americanized dishes. Upon arrival, I glimpsed, with abject horror, little dishes of mustard and duck sauce atop each table. It went downhill from there; I'll spare you the details about the spare ribs, the canned shrimp and peas, the whole nightmarish event. It was bad, very bad.
It says something about chowhound nature that I'm irresistibly drawn to repeat this mistake. Since we hounds constantly angle and strategize - operating with the assumption (I call it "defensive eating") that everyone is trying to feed us all the wrong stuff for all the wrong reasons - we get over-enthused when we glimpse an end run to treasure, even when it requires an impossible degree of restaurant deconstructionism.
Reign in that impulse. Don't let a djelali happen to you.
[Note: the first law of djelalis - if you, too, are hopelessly doomed to keep trying this sort of thing - is to always pay ahead. Restaurants budget their food very carefully, and special orders wreak havoc with the system. If a restaurateur isn't positive you'll really show up for the djelali, s/he'll be less inclined to buy the proper fixings. Shower advance money and they may at least make an effort to have provisions on hand. But, really, just don't do it.]
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
SIGA's Frozen Winter
For background, see my first posting on SIGA, and the zillions of follow-ups
Oral arguments in SIGA's appeal will begin in early January. The soonest we'll hear a verdict is June. Meanwhile, SIGA will continue to play possum. The company that's suing, Pharmathene, has precious little going for it besides this lawsuit, so its stock price is closely linked to SIGA's. And so SIGA has taken steps to keep its stock price as low as possible (via insider selling, dismal conference calls, no press releases, no pipeline announcements, no foreign sales action, and a very relaxed timetable re: delivery of current contract to BARDA...which pushes back payments). Hence this ridiculously low price, which keeps Pharmathene starved and much more amenable to settlement and much cheaper to buy out.
In the absurdly long view, nothing's changed. Smallpox is still the worst bioterror threat, and there's still nothing to rival the safety and effectiveness of SIGA's drug. And their R&D staff may be making great quiet headway with the pipeline - we wouldn't hear a peep if they were. And there are reasons to think the fake political cloud has cleared (it had been whipped up by a competitor, Chimerix, and its lobbyist, McKenna, Long, and Aldrigde, but there's been a regime change at Chimerix, they no longer seem to be using ML&A, and they appear to have abandoned their government-alienating strategy of continual SIGA harassment). So, within the glacial slowness, amid the stark silence, and under a stock price chart evoking Edward Munch's "The Scream", everything's weirdly good to go, once the legal cloud's eliminated. Except, that is, for my aggravation level and yours.
I believe SIGA will be successful in its appeal. If so, we stand a chance of an eventual stock price of $30-50. If not, Pharmathene will keep 50% of profits from the smallpox drug, and we could see $15-25 (higher if there's success with the pipeline, which is untouched by the lawsuit). Hell, if the pipeline's entirely a dud, the appeal fails, and the smallpox drug fails to pick up foreign orders but just continues to sell to the US government (including the portion of the original contract not yet awarded), we're still worth at least $10! So the current stock price is a tremendous opportunity for investors with saintly patience (as plentiful as snakes in Hawaii?).
But what to do meanwhile? Unless there's a settlement with or buyout of Pharmathene, we won't see any stock action until June 2013 at the earliest (appeals in this system almost always take six months or more). So one strategy would be to sell and reenter next spring. But a settlement/buyout could be announced at any time, changing everything. So while I haven't yet replaced the shares I sold for tax balancing last winter, I'll hold onto my current SIGA investment, and buy some more next May.
Meanwhile, as always, it's best to disregard the day-to-day low volume ups and downs. And I'll continue to have little to say - but don't read desperation in my silence. Just patient waiting....
Oral arguments in SIGA's appeal will begin in early January. The soonest we'll hear a verdict is June. Meanwhile, SIGA will continue to play possum. The company that's suing, Pharmathene, has precious little going for it besides this lawsuit, so its stock price is closely linked to SIGA's. And so SIGA has taken steps to keep its stock price as low as possible (via insider selling, dismal conference calls, no press releases, no pipeline announcements, no foreign sales action, and a very relaxed timetable re: delivery of current contract to BARDA...which pushes back payments). Hence this ridiculously low price, which keeps Pharmathene starved and much more amenable to settlement and much cheaper to buy out.
In the absurdly long view, nothing's changed. Smallpox is still the worst bioterror threat, and there's still nothing to rival the safety and effectiveness of SIGA's drug. And their R&D staff may be making great quiet headway with the pipeline - we wouldn't hear a peep if they were. And there are reasons to think the fake political cloud has cleared (it had been whipped up by a competitor, Chimerix, and its lobbyist, McKenna, Long, and Aldrigde, but there's been a regime change at Chimerix, they no longer seem to be using ML&A, and they appear to have abandoned their government-alienating strategy of continual SIGA harassment). So, within the glacial slowness, amid the stark silence, and under a stock price chart evoking Edward Munch's "The Scream", everything's weirdly good to go, once the legal cloud's eliminated. Except, that is, for my aggravation level and yours.
I believe SIGA will be successful in its appeal. If so, we stand a chance of an eventual stock price of $30-50. If not, Pharmathene will keep 50% of profits from the smallpox drug, and we could see $15-25 (higher if there's success with the pipeline, which is untouched by the lawsuit). Hell, if the pipeline's entirely a dud, the appeal fails, and the smallpox drug fails to pick up foreign orders but just continues to sell to the US government (including the portion of the original contract not yet awarded), we're still worth at least $10! So the current stock price is a tremendous opportunity for investors with saintly patience (as plentiful as snakes in Hawaii?).
But what to do meanwhile? Unless there's a settlement with or buyout of Pharmathene, we won't see any stock action until June 2013 at the earliest (appeals in this system almost always take six months or more). So one strategy would be to sell and reenter next spring. But a settlement/buyout could be announced at any time, changing everything. So while I haven't yet replaced the shares I sold for tax balancing last winter, I'll hold onto my current SIGA investment, and buy some more next May.
Meanwhile, as always, it's best to disregard the day-to-day low volume ups and downs. And I'll continue to have little to say - but don't read desperation in my silence. Just patient waiting....
Monday, September 10, 2012
Two Obstructions to Learning
The same recognition arises whenever I watch a beginner learn something I'm good at, or whenever I myself try to learn something new:
Why do kids learn so much faster/better/easier than adults? They learn via play (i.e. the application of concentration for pure pleasure).
It's not as difficult as you think....and it requires a great deal more concentration than you were expecting to apply.Always, those same two contradictory missteps in bizarre tandem: fraught insecurity and blithe overconfidence.
Why do kids learn so much faster/better/easier than adults? They learn via play (i.e. the application of concentration for pure pleasure).
My 5.01 Curse (and The Flavor of America)
I was driving around doing errands one night last week when I realized I'd skipped dinner. Not much was open nearby, so I decided to hit a dive bar that had caught my attention. A rickety cabin in an industrial zone, the place has a sign over the door touting "The Best Hamburger You Ever Had". Who wouldn't want that?
I've been in some pretty primordial bars, but this set a new standard for soul-sucking bleakness. The room was done up in moldering 1950's rec room paneling, the booze sat not on a shelf but in a cheap cabinet low on the floor, and the bartender emerged only a few times per hour from a back room where she indulges her video poker addiction. Somehow she always appeared on cue, though. They apparently have a video surveillance system allowing her to monitor for empty glasses and new arrivals.
On TV was a show called "America's Got Talent (sic)", which I could only stare at in numb disbelief. A few others sat at the far end of the bar, but I couldn't make out their faces, as their features were pixelated. When I asked for a bourbon, the bartender stared blankly and asked whether Jack Daniels is bourbon. So I did something I hadn't done in fifteen years: I ordered a Bud draft.
I'd like to tell you what a traumatic experience it was, but I was shocked at how non-awful I found it. It certainly wasn't good. There wasn't an iota of worth. But I could swallow it without feeling offended.
In my system for rating foods on a one-to-ten scale, a 5 is "utterly neutral. No particular urge to eat...or to stop eating." I had remembered Bud being more of a 3 ("lousy food you might eat if very hungry and without alternatives"), but I was finding my glass startlingly fivey. Actually, it was a tad better than that. While I felt no serious desire to imbibe, it was ever-so-slightly preferable to sip than not to. It just barely tipped the scale. It was a "5.01".
And the burger was a 5.01. As was the TV show. As was the bar itself. Walking out to a parking lot strewn with cat feces, it hit me like a shockwave: the flavor of America, outside my bubble, is 5.01. Just barely good enough to keep going.
But then it got scary. The following day, I had a chance to sample two rare and acclaimed beers: Firestone Walker's "Wookey Jack" and Two Brothers' "Cane & Ebel" rye beer. I eagerly sidled up to the bar for a half pint of each, but the beers filled me with ennui. They seemed barely worth sipping. Horrified, I realized I experienced them as firm "5.01"s - exactly like Bud. Something had gone deeply wrong. Something was broken.
The next night I was scheduled to meet some beer geek buddies at my "local" pub (which you won't be surprised to hear is a 45 minute drive) where a cask of Thornbridge's "Raven" had recently arrived. One of my favorites! On cask!!
Too trepidatious to chance an upsetting scene with the Raven, I figured I'd ease in with a merely good-not-great beer. But I felt nary a twinge. Hoo boy. I switched to sangria and, amid much anguish and gnashing of teeth, filled in my friends about my ordeal (consensus advice: I need to travel to California to seek beer therapy from Vinny, head brewer/visionary of the illustrious Russian River Brewery).
At the end of the night, with no one watching, I asked for a small sample squirt of Thornbridge Raven. I took a sip. And felt like crying. I could taste everything acutely, but there was no joy in it.
My friend Pierre, who knows everything, posits a behavioral underpinning. It's common to continue an activity, out of habit, long after that activity has failed to bring pleasure, without consciously registering the falloff. In a flash, one realizes one no longer likes that activity, and it feels like a sudden change of preference even though the progression was gradual.
For instance, you might watch a TV show for many weeks before realizing you dislike it. Certainly, relationships can work this way. And this explains how Pepperidge Farm has managed to degrade those large-sized cookies so steeply over the years....it's been so gradual that consumers haven't consciously noticed they no longer like them. This also explains the state of slice pizza in NYC.
But, no, I don't think that's it. I really liked beer (well, great beer, anyhow) just a short week ago, I'm sure of it. Beer and I weren't locked in joyless marriage. We were still in torrid honeymoon. I mean, just two weeks ago I wrote this!
No, something about my unsettlingly tolerable encounter with the King of Beers profoundly reset my baseline....and pinned me tightly to that baseline. I don't know how it happened or how long it will last.
Yesterday someone asked me how I'm doing with food. Truth is, I'm terrified to eat anything delicious.
I've been in some pretty primordial bars, but this set a new standard for soul-sucking bleakness. The room was done up in moldering 1950's rec room paneling, the booze sat not on a shelf but in a cheap cabinet low on the floor, and the bartender emerged only a few times per hour from a back room where she indulges her video poker addiction. Somehow she always appeared on cue, though. They apparently have a video surveillance system allowing her to monitor for empty glasses and new arrivals.
On TV was a show called "America's Got Talent (sic)", which I could only stare at in numb disbelief. A few others sat at the far end of the bar, but I couldn't make out their faces, as their features were pixelated. When I asked for a bourbon, the bartender stared blankly and asked whether Jack Daniels is bourbon. So I did something I hadn't done in fifteen years: I ordered a Bud draft.
I'd like to tell you what a traumatic experience it was, but I was shocked at how non-awful I found it. It certainly wasn't good. There wasn't an iota of worth. But I could swallow it without feeling offended.
In my system for rating foods on a one-to-ten scale, a 5 is "utterly neutral. No particular urge to eat...or to stop eating." I had remembered Bud being more of a 3 ("lousy food you might eat if very hungry and without alternatives"), but I was finding my glass startlingly fivey. Actually, it was a tad better than that. While I felt no serious desire to imbibe, it was ever-so-slightly preferable to sip than not to. It just barely tipped the scale. It was a "5.01".
And the burger was a 5.01. As was the TV show. As was the bar itself. Walking out to a parking lot strewn with cat feces, it hit me like a shockwave: the flavor of America, outside my bubble, is 5.01. Just barely good enough to keep going.
But then it got scary. The following day, I had a chance to sample two rare and acclaimed beers: Firestone Walker's "Wookey Jack" and Two Brothers' "Cane & Ebel" rye beer. I eagerly sidled up to the bar for a half pint of each, but the beers filled me with ennui. They seemed barely worth sipping. Horrified, I realized I experienced them as firm "5.01"s - exactly like Bud. Something had gone deeply wrong. Something was broken.
The next night I was scheduled to meet some beer geek buddies at my "local" pub (which you won't be surprised to hear is a 45 minute drive) where a cask of Thornbridge's "Raven" had recently arrived. One of my favorites! On cask!!
Too trepidatious to chance an upsetting scene with the Raven, I figured I'd ease in with a merely good-not-great beer. But I felt nary a twinge. Hoo boy. I switched to sangria and, amid much anguish and gnashing of teeth, filled in my friends about my ordeal (consensus advice: I need to travel to California to seek beer therapy from Vinny, head brewer/visionary of the illustrious Russian River Brewery).
At the end of the night, with no one watching, I asked for a small sample squirt of Thornbridge Raven. I took a sip. And felt like crying. I could taste everything acutely, but there was no joy in it.
My friend Pierre, who knows everything, posits a behavioral underpinning. It's common to continue an activity, out of habit, long after that activity has failed to bring pleasure, without consciously registering the falloff. In a flash, one realizes one no longer likes that activity, and it feels like a sudden change of preference even though the progression was gradual.
For instance, you might watch a TV show for many weeks before realizing you dislike it. Certainly, relationships can work this way. And this explains how Pepperidge Farm has managed to degrade those large-sized cookies so steeply over the years....it's been so gradual that consumers haven't consciously noticed they no longer like them. This also explains the state of slice pizza in NYC.
But, no, I don't think that's it. I really liked beer (well, great beer, anyhow) just a short week ago, I'm sure of it. Beer and I weren't locked in joyless marriage. We were still in torrid honeymoon. I mean, just two weeks ago I wrote this!
No, something about my unsettlingly tolerable encounter with the King of Beers profoundly reset my baseline....and pinned me tightly to that baseline. I don't know how it happened or how long it will last.
Yesterday someone asked me how I'm doing with food. Truth is, I'm terrified to eat anything delicious.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
New Tag Word: "Creativity"
The Slog now has a new label (aka tag word): creativity. I've gone through previous entries, tagging where appropriate. Here's a list (note: you can click any of the labels in the long list on the left to see all entries so tagged).
The Golden Opportunity of Horrible Suggestions
Danny Rubin, writer of my favorite film, Groundhog Day, sporadically maintains an interesting blog. One entry offers advice about coping when non-creative people make inane changes to work you've polished to a tee.
Most such discussion analyzes the psychology of Suits, and how, being uncreative themselves, their place in the system is to torment and disrespect creatives (old joke: studio exec reads a script and says “I love it! Who can we get to rewrite it?”). Others suggest learning to let go, and be less hung up on your creation (indeed, resigned indifference is a time-honored means of getting along and getting ahead...and of enabling the forces that make things suck).
But Rubin makes a very good and non-obvious point: whenever someone makes a really stupid change to something you've created, the smart move isn't to go ballistic about the alteration, but, rather, to examine the problem they're clumsily trying to solve. Because there inevitably is a bona fide problem! Then solve it yourself...better. And be grateful for having had the problem pointed out for you!
Most such discussion analyzes the psychology of Suits, and how, being uncreative themselves, their place in the system is to torment and disrespect creatives (old joke: studio exec reads a script and says “I love it! Who can we get to rewrite it?”). Others suggest learning to let go, and be less hung up on your creation (indeed, resigned indifference is a time-honored means of getting along and getting ahead...and of enabling the forces that make things suck).
But Rubin makes a very good and non-obvious point: whenever someone makes a really stupid change to something you've created, the smart move isn't to go ballistic about the alteration, but, rather, to examine the problem they're clumsily trying to solve. Because there inevitably is a bona fide problem! Then solve it yourself...better. And be grateful for having had the problem pointed out for you!
Friday, September 7, 2012
Two Great Anti-Anti-Stimulus Lines
I'm rerunning this golden oldie from 2009:
Nice comment by one Mark W. Budwig on Andrew Tobias' blog, regarding the stimulative effect of the Republican's proposed slashing of corporate tax rates:
Also, Jon Stewart got in some good lines in his Daily Show interview with John Sununu last night:
Nice comment by one Mark W. Budwig on Andrew Tobias' blog, regarding the stimulative effect of the Republican's proposed slashing of corporate tax rates:
"Can’t you just hear the boardroom conversation? ‘People are losing jobs by the millions! Demand is in the toilet! But now we have a real chance to hire workers we don’t need to produce goods we can’t sell, all because of the lower taxes on the profits we won’t have!’”
Also, Jon Stewart got in some good lines in his Daily Show interview with John Sununu last night:
Sununu: "We shouldn't be increasing the deficit even though we've got economic challenges....This is a trillion dollar stimulus plan. A trillion dollars!"
Stewart: "I know, but we spent $700 billion dollars in Iraq. Why can't we build our country? Here's an idea. I have weapons of mass destruction. Invade me!"
Sununu: "You have to answer the question: where is the money going to come from? We have to borrow every single penny....and a future generation is going to be asked to pay that back. You have to be honest about that. We'll increase the deficit by a trillion dollars, and that...."
Stewart: "But isn't a future generation going to have to pay off the Iraq war money, too? Isn't a future generation going to have to pay back the [Bush] 1.2 trillion dollar tax cut? All of a sudden it's, like, 'Hey, we've gotta pay this back!' Why have they decided to suddenly...it's like history starts now!
Jazz European Style
This is such a perfect illustration of the stark difference between jazz in Europe and jazz in America. From the perspective of an American jazz musician, everything in this video is upside down:
In America, the two attractive young women would be either ignoring or glaring at the band. And the musicians would be competent. And unpretentious. And, for that matter, paid a fraction of what these guys are likely getting.
Note: there are some great, unpretentious jazz musicians in Europe, and some terrible, pretentious ones here (and, somewhere, uninhibitedly dancing young people). But, still...
In America, the two attractive young women would be either ignoring or glaring at the band. And the musicians would be competent. And unpretentious. And, for that matter, paid a fraction of what these guys are likely getting.
Note: there are some great, unpretentious jazz musicians in Europe, and some terrible, pretentious ones here (and, somewhere, uninhibitedly dancing young people). But, still...
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The Delusion of Tolerance and The Hypocrisy of Exceptionalism
Spectacular work by the Daily Show correspondents last night on the delusion behind Democrats' proud self-image as the party of inclusion and tolerance:
You don't get to lavish tolerance on stuff you like, and withhold it from stuff you don't like, and still feel smugly tolerant! In fact, that's the precise definition of intolerance!
And it's a foundational fallacy for the left. To be sure, Republicans have their delusions, too; lots of them! Both build vapid self-righteousness upon blind hypocrisy (hypocrisy's always easier to spot in others!), and it's this symmetrical nuttiness that's inflamed our national contretemps.
There is a uniquely American brand of hypocrisy which stems from our long tradition of national exceptionalism. One problem with exceptionalism is that the mindset is infectious. At this point, most every group in America has fervidly adopted it for their own. And exceptionalism and hypocrisy go hand in hand. The two are made for each other, and that poses dangers far darker than political fractionalization. The following is a brilliant, clear-eyed plumbing of those murky depths - once again via a Daily Show bit, this one from shortly after the Abu Ghraib prison scandal:
That's it, right there. The distilled gist of exceptionalistic hypocrisy:
| Hope and Change 2 - The Party of Inclusion | |
You don't get to lavish tolerance on stuff you like, and withhold it from stuff you don't like, and still feel smugly tolerant! In fact, that's the precise definition of intolerance!
And it's a foundational fallacy for the left. To be sure, Republicans have their delusions, too; lots of them! Both build vapid self-righteousness upon blind hypocrisy (hypocrisy's always easier to spot in others!), and it's this symmetrical nuttiness that's inflamed our national contretemps.
There is a uniquely American brand of hypocrisy which stems from our long tradition of national exceptionalism. One problem with exceptionalism is that the mindset is infectious. At this point, most every group in America has fervidly adopted it for their own. And exceptionalism and hypocrisy go hand in hand. The two are made for each other, and that poses dangers far darker than political fractionalization. The following is a brilliant, clear-eyed plumbing of those murky depths - once again via a Daily Show bit, this one from shortly after the Abu Ghraib prison scandal:
| Prison Abuse Scandal | |
That's it, right there. The distilled gist of exceptionalistic hypocrisy:
"We shouldn't be judged on actions. It's our principles that matter; our inspiring abstract notions. Remember, just because torturing prisoners is something we did doesn't mean it's something we would do."
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Moronic Step Shlepping
By age 35 or so, stairs become an enemy. Perky 35 year olds may choose stairs over escalators while out and about, their metabolisms cranking. But put them on the ground floor of their home and simmer them down to television-watching pace, and the prospect of a trip up the stairs will elicit a long sigh, followed by hasty calculation of avoidance strategies. The staircase might as well be a mountain. Ascension is strictly a last resort, much loathed.
As a kid, I saw grown-ups as big, sluggish creatures with tight crusty tendons and creaky joints. They lacked spring, and that's just how it was. They were sort of disabled.
But I'm now well past 35, and, as a fervid yogi with supple tendons and fully functional joints, I have the same spring as I did at half my age. Yet, now that I live in a place with an upstairs, I inexplicably suffer from the same damned syndrome. I can't avoid the micro-dread whenever need arises for a quick trip upstairs. Shoulders slump as I desperately weigh procrastinatory options. If absolutely necessary, I'll drag myself mournfully up the steps with that aggrieved face grown-ups make when forced to do, like...anything.
And it's insane. It's a put-on. It's like I'm pretending. And it does not need to be this way!
I've written a lot about preferences. Our preferences are far more arbitrary - and thus more malleable - than we realize. So here's what I do about the staircase thing. Whenever I feel that sense of aggrieved resignation re: the latest death march to the second floor, I've conditioned myself to announce "I like going up stairs!". I then bound up the staircase with glee, my day completely un-ruined by the trifling exertion.
It's really that easy.
When I typed this sentence:
Here's the thing: what's real is what you tell yourself is real. We spend our days telling ourselves stories about how we feel about this or that. And we assume these stories stem from some sort of real experience. But the truth is that the stories precede the experience. We endlessly repeat them in order to hypnotize ourselves into feeling this way or that. And that feeling is nearly always negative. I can only conclude that this is because Earth is where they put the morons.
This realization makes me feel a bit less moronic when I, a grown man, chirpily announce to no one in particular, 'I like going up stairs!'". Cuz if I'm gonna be a frigging moron, I'd rather be Stimpy than Ren. I'll tell myself the story that makes me bound up steps, rather than the story that makes me calcify into a morose lump. This strikes me as a moron's best move.
Kids can easily recognize how malleable preference is, but part of growing up involves casting aside whimsical, detached views of our nature. So we allow ourselves, in the name of maturity, to be ratcheted more and more solidly into stuckedness and stress.
To change the experience, all you've got to do is flip the story.
As a kid, I saw grown-ups as big, sluggish creatures with tight crusty tendons and creaky joints. They lacked spring, and that's just how it was. They were sort of disabled.
But I'm now well past 35, and, as a fervid yogi with supple tendons and fully functional joints, I have the same spring as I did at half my age. Yet, now that I live in a place with an upstairs, I inexplicably suffer from the same damned syndrome. I can't avoid the micro-dread whenever need arises for a quick trip upstairs. Shoulders slump as I desperately weigh procrastinatory options. If absolutely necessary, I'll drag myself mournfully up the steps with that aggrieved face grown-ups make when forced to do, like...anything.
And it's insane. It's a put-on. It's like I'm pretending. And it does not need to be this way!
I've written a lot about preferences. Our preferences are far more arbitrary - and thus more malleable - than we realize. So here's what I do about the staircase thing. Whenever I feel that sense of aggrieved resignation re: the latest death march to the second floor, I've conditioned myself to announce "I like going up stairs!". I then bound up the staircase with glee, my day completely un-ruined by the trifling exertion.
It's really that easy.
When I typed this sentence:
"I've conditioned myself to announce 'I like going up stairs!'"...I was going to note that I actually really do like going up steps. But wait a minute. Which do I really feel? Aggrieved or exhilarated? Which is real??
Here's the thing: what's real is what you tell yourself is real. We spend our days telling ourselves stories about how we feel about this or that. And we assume these stories stem from some sort of real experience. But the truth is that the stories precede the experience. We endlessly repeat them in order to hypnotize ourselves into feeling this way or that. And that feeling is nearly always negative. I can only conclude that this is because Earth is where they put the morons.
This realization makes me feel a bit less moronic when I, a grown man, chirpily announce to no one in particular, 'I like going up stairs!'". Cuz if I'm gonna be a frigging moron, I'd rather be Stimpy than Ren. I'll tell myself the story that makes me bound up steps, rather than the story that makes me calcify into a morose lump. This strikes me as a moron's best move.
Kids can easily recognize how malleable preference is, but part of growing up involves casting aside whimsical, detached views of our nature. So we allow ourselves, in the name of maturity, to be ratcheted more and more solidly into stuckedness and stress.
To change the experience, all you've got to do is flip the story.
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