As usual, the South Park guys put their reasonable assessment in Stan's mouth. In response to Richard Dawkins, he calmly utters the how/why dichotomy, that, in it's very utterance, displays both a disgusting ignorance of history and of epistemology.
Christianity and all other religions arose as HOW answers. How did the plagues befall Pharaohs people? God's will. How did humans lose their innocence? Adam and Eve? How did the fossils get deposited? God made the flood. How did various semitic populations die to the benefit of the ancient Jews? God killed them.
But, as empirical evidence has increasingly been favored over metahporic reasoning, and imperatives of the past, Religion's explanatory role has been further and further eroded to the point where it desperately clings to any gap that scientists have not yet explained.
Why questions are questions based in empirical reality, and debatable and answerable by reference to empirical reality.
The bible and all other myths were propositions of how things happened and what people ought to do in their lives. As such, it is subject to the same faculties of reasoning that the prospect of murder and fixing a car are subject to: empirical observation, falsification, and demonstrable evidence.
How VS Why? As if this atheism-theism just arose twenty years ago? Pathetic.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
NON-FICTION: Vidal on Obama and Me on Vidal
He's right that Obama is twice the intellectual that Kennedy, and, I suspect right that Obama is too delicate.
On the idea that he won't be reelected. I don't think that's likely, yet.
He also said Obama didn't have Kennedy's naval experience and thus doesn't know what it's like to have the enemy's anger directed at you and generals lying to you.
But I guess Obama must know that the military commanders are not all in agreement and not all to be trusted.
The real issue for Obama's success is whether he can get out from under the barrage he's under and step out in front as the leader.
That brings to mind another point. When I see Obama shrugging off the lies that the right is spreading, it is sufficient for me. But Vidal may be right that Obama is overestimating his audience. Although the constant fear angle has made a lot of Americans a little cynical of the kind of drama that the right is promoting, it seems to have an effect on stalling the Democrats on anything close to a public option. So maybe Obama should have been treating the congress more like the easily intimidated benefactors of coroporate patrons that they are.
Hopefully, when the bases we have all over the world start closing down, and we start becoming a country only capable of high-tech and tourism, the Rush Limbaughs and Cheney's will be relegated to minority fascist groups, or all emigrate to the military superpower.
On the idea that he won't be reelected. I don't think that's likely, yet.
He also said Obama didn't have Kennedy's naval experience and thus doesn't know what it's like to have the enemy's anger directed at you and generals lying to you.
But I guess Obama must know that the military commanders are not all in agreement and not all to be trusted.
The real issue for Obama's success is whether he can get out from under the barrage he's under and step out in front as the leader.
That brings to mind another point. When I see Obama shrugging off the lies that the right is spreading, it is sufficient for me. But Vidal may be right that Obama is overestimating his audience. Although the constant fear angle has made a lot of Americans a little cynical of the kind of drama that the right is promoting, it seems to have an effect on stalling the Democrats on anything close to a public option. So maybe Obama should have been treating the congress more like the easily intimidated benefactors of coroporate patrons that they are.
Hopefully, when the bases we have all over the world start closing down, and we start becoming a country only capable of high-tech and tourism, the Rush Limbaughs and Cheney's will be relegated to minority fascist groups, or all emigrate to the military superpower.
Friday, October 9, 2009
NON-FICTION: Obama=Reasonable, Therefore, Bad
Some of the blame is rightly put upon my own freckled shoulders, and the surrounding fatty areas. If I spent more time riding my bike instead of being unemployed, in my boxers, in front of the computer, than I would have less occasion to watch the news channels.
But, since I am already in this situation, I cannot avoid frustration at the freakish treatment of Barack Obama.
When Bush did anything reasonable, we were surprised, even if we hated him, we felt a little bit of something like pride, like when a homeless guy you always see turns up one day with an mp3 player. You can't help but think "That's not bad. Guess he lucked out."
But with Barack Obama, every thing he does occasions the question "Is the honeymoon over?" or "Is Obama's star quality fading?"
Today, everyone is talking about how bad receiving a NOBEL fucking peace PRIZE will hurt him!
He came to power and the rest of the world had a better attitude towards our country, and this creates a less hostile world, and perhaps, less hostility might someday, if the advanced technology to asess this ever becomes available through alien distribution, be equivalent to peace.
That's what Obama did, whether or not he's really evil and full of shit and overrated. He came to power through preaching unity and the betterment of people of this country. He preached that America needed more diplomacy, a little bit of humbleness, and a lot of hope.
That makes people feel better. Not only did he get rid of the whole "What ya gonna' do about it, bitch?" approach to public relations that the Bush Administration loved, he gave us a better model.
But god those freaks just gotta fucking talk. So all day they've had guys on talking about should Obama ignore it, should he accept it in person. Maybe he should have the nobel comittee renditioned and bomb the ceremonies to show that he's not arrogant enough to accept a prize.
And, for other white people, I know there has to be something else going on in their heads when they see this black guy up there and everybody likes him and he sounds like a highly reasonable and confident leader.
But, to review, the question today is: How much of a dickhead is Obama for getting an award?
A better question would be, when the fuck are we get a public option.
If we do, all this fear mongering, pseudo-fiscal assessments will whither away in fifteen years or so, and the next time some other evildoer wants to provide more security of life for the poor and disadvantaged, reactionaries will put out commercials telling people on the public option that the new reforms will take away their healthcare.
反动派被打倒， 社会主义没来更糟糕
But, since I am already in this situation, I cannot avoid frustration at the freakish treatment of Barack Obama.
When Bush did anything reasonable, we were surprised, even if we hated him, we felt a little bit of something like pride, like when a homeless guy you always see turns up one day with an mp3 player. You can't help but think "That's not bad. Guess he lucked out."
But with Barack Obama, every thing he does occasions the question "Is the honeymoon over?" or "Is Obama's star quality fading?"
Today, everyone is talking about how bad receiving a NOBEL fucking peace PRIZE will hurt him!
He came to power and the rest of the world had a better attitude towards our country, and this creates a less hostile world, and perhaps, less hostility might someday, if the advanced technology to asess this ever becomes available through alien distribution, be equivalent to peace.
That's what Obama did, whether or not he's really evil and full of shit and overrated. He came to power through preaching unity and the betterment of people of this country. He preached that America needed more diplomacy, a little bit of humbleness, and a lot of hope.
That makes people feel better. Not only did he get rid of the whole "What ya gonna' do about it, bitch?" approach to public relations that the Bush Administration loved, he gave us a better model.
But god those freaks just gotta fucking talk. So all day they've had guys on talking about should Obama ignore it, should he accept it in person. Maybe he should have the nobel comittee renditioned and bomb the ceremonies to show that he's not arrogant enough to accept a prize.
And, for other white people, I know there has to be something else going on in their heads when they see this black guy up there and everybody likes him and he sounds like a highly reasonable and confident leader.
But, to review, the question today is: How much of a dickhead is Obama for getting an award?
A better question would be, when the fuck are we get a public option.
If we do, all this fear mongering, pseudo-fiscal assessments will whither away in fifteen years or so, and the next time some other evildoer wants to provide more security of life for the poor and disadvantaged, reactionaries will put out commercials telling people on the public option that the new reforms will take away their healthcare.
反动派被打倒， 社会主义没来更糟糕
Thursday, October 8, 2009
FICTION: Darren's Perilous Journey: P.329, I try to revive Merlin.
How could I blame America, when it had done so much for me, like educated me and shown me the dreams I would someday have of boats?
This Merlin fool couldn't be down for the count. After all, was he not this fabled and legended man of magic and mystery that had withstood the tests of time and sorcery?
So I dashed back to the lounging room and grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Come on, thy liege! You still got a spark or two left inside of you yet!"
Then, just like that, without warning, he suddenly lept up pushing me back off the cushioned seat and causing me to fall over.
"Oh dear!, he sclaimed. "What sort of predicament hath we been waylaid by now? The grand Arthur abducted, and for what? and for by whom? Methinks I already know of where to for he has been grabbed away!"
He paused and swirled his wizened finger high in the air, then brought it down quickly, pointing at the ground: "The Blue Foxes!"
I did a second take, and flinched in incomprehension? What the hell was he talking about?
And then, as if he was reading my mind, he iterated the long descent into hellishness that was being spurred on by the very dastardly band that had, moments ago, absconded with the would be subject of my hagriography.
"It's like this." he explained. "The Blue Foxes are a chillingly mysterious order, shrouded in ignorance and vehemence, whose codes and rules are few. Mainly, they seek the overthrow of Arthur, and the imprisonment of all Sodomites, and those who oppose the crusades.
"My all seeing Eye tells me that they are now, at this very moment, ensconced in a hideout, way out on the far edge of the galaxy, on a planet inhabited by freaky reptiles, who lust after nothing more than the very blood of true Aryans, the light of hair and blue of eye."
"If you need no other preparation, and if you lack the cowards hesitation, than off we be, my young sire."
Aww, doulbe schnaaap! Now, after all this mayhem and callous disregard for linear progression, I was fonna check out how they hang up in space, and come face to face with a bunch of bad guys.
But, then, when all was said and done, what was I to do? What choice had I ever had in all this. In my dreams of the boat incomparable, had I not already wagered my life against the snobbish hands of fate?
A life I had, to be lost, but a boat I had, to be gained.
I gave Merlyn a dominant male sort of wink, with a sharp downward nod of my head. and he needed no further permission. He waved his wand and a shower of sprinkling stardust befell us.
No sooner had the shower descended than were we ensconced in another world, a world of empty terrain, that we looked out upon from the confines of a blue dome.
But we were not alone. There was someone else in the room. he sat behind us, at a desk. He was smoking a cigar and bouncing a bottle of pills up and down in his hand.
Merlyn said "Commander Rushbo, I presume."
What the F yo!! Did he really mean all that? Could it really be true what he was saying and shit?
I couldn't believe it. Was this fat little dude the real El Rushbo? But he had supposedly been rounded up and exo-cutted for taking part in the attack on Obama.
I was freaked out. But, you know what? I didn't even have time to stay freaked out. Cause just then Commander Rushbo lept up with ferocious energy, like a vicious animal in attack mode, and pointed an AK gloccer at us.
Merlyn didn't even flinch. With a dainty flick of his wand, El Rushbo was suddenly entwined in a Wonder Woman rope.
Then, surprisingly, at least I was surprised, I mean, he used his wand to send the gun over to me.
He gave me a look of utter inhumanity, as if suddenly he were something different.
"Do it!" he commanded. "Put the little pig out of his misery. He's the guy that's planning to kill your hagriographical subject. And, he's a racist!"
What could I do. I was sure that if I didn't peel a cap in this fool, than Merlyn was totally gone open up all over me with a can of beat down.
But did I have it in me? And, was murder ever justified? The dilemmas were many. But, whatever I was to decide, I'd better do it quick!
page 645, kill the pig.
page 331, pull the gun on Merlyn
page 32, talk Merlyn down.
This Merlin fool couldn't be down for the count. After all, was he not this fabled and legended man of magic and mystery that had withstood the tests of time and sorcery?
So I dashed back to the lounging room and grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Come on, thy liege! You still got a spark or two left inside of you yet!"
Then, just like that, without warning, he suddenly lept up pushing me back off the cushioned seat and causing me to fall over.
"Oh dear!, he sclaimed. "What sort of predicament hath we been waylaid by now? The grand Arthur abducted, and for what? and for by whom? Methinks I already know of where to for he has been grabbed away!"
He paused and swirled his wizened finger high in the air, then brought it down quickly, pointing at the ground: "The Blue Foxes!"
I did a second take, and flinched in incomprehension? What the hell was he talking about?
And then, as if he was reading my mind, he iterated the long descent into hellishness that was being spurred on by the very dastardly band that had, moments ago, absconded with the would be subject of my hagriography.
"It's like this." he explained. "The Blue Foxes are a chillingly mysterious order, shrouded in ignorance and vehemence, whose codes and rules are few. Mainly, they seek the overthrow of Arthur, and the imprisonment of all Sodomites, and those who oppose the crusades.
"My all seeing Eye tells me that they are now, at this very moment, ensconced in a hideout, way out on the far edge of the galaxy, on a planet inhabited by freaky reptiles, who lust after nothing more than the very blood of true Aryans, the light of hair and blue of eye."
"If you need no other preparation, and if you lack the cowards hesitation, than off we be, my young sire."
Aww, doulbe schnaaap! Now, after all this mayhem and callous disregard for linear progression, I was fonna check out how they hang up in space, and come face to face with a bunch of bad guys.
But, then, when all was said and done, what was I to do? What choice had I ever had in all this. In my dreams of the boat incomparable, had I not already wagered my life against the snobbish hands of fate?
A life I had, to be lost, but a boat I had, to be gained.
I gave Merlyn a dominant male sort of wink, with a sharp downward nod of my head. and he needed no further permission. He waved his wand and a shower of sprinkling stardust befell us.
No sooner had the shower descended than were we ensconced in another world, a world of empty terrain, that we looked out upon from the confines of a blue dome.
But we were not alone. There was someone else in the room. he sat behind us, at a desk. He was smoking a cigar and bouncing a bottle of pills up and down in his hand.
Merlyn said "Commander Rushbo, I presume."
What the F yo!! Did he really mean all that? Could it really be true what he was saying and shit?
I couldn't believe it. Was this fat little dude the real El Rushbo? But he had supposedly been rounded up and exo-cutted for taking part in the attack on Obama.
I was freaked out. But, you know what? I didn't even have time to stay freaked out. Cause just then Commander Rushbo lept up with ferocious energy, like a vicious animal in attack mode, and pointed an AK gloccer at us.
Merlyn didn't even flinch. With a dainty flick of his wand, El Rushbo was suddenly entwined in a Wonder Woman rope.
Then, surprisingly, at least I was surprised, I mean, he used his wand to send the gun over to me.
He gave me a look of utter inhumanity, as if suddenly he were something different.
"Do it!" he commanded. "Put the little pig out of his misery. He's the guy that's planning to kill your hagriographical subject. And, he's a racist!"
What could I do. I was sure that if I didn't peel a cap in this fool, than Merlyn was totally gone open up all over me with a can of beat down.
But did I have it in me? And, was murder ever justified? The dilemmas were many. But, whatever I was to decide, I'd better do it quick!
page 645, kill the pig.
page 331, pull the gun on Merlyn
page 32, talk Merlyn down.
Fiction: Finally, they were divorced. pt 1 a choose My own Adventure Tragedy
After some delay due to jealousy on the part of rivals such as Wallis, Jimmy's Decipheration of Speech, Pre-School Edition was published.
Conversations, thoughts, and scheduling related to publication often coincided with him discovering and figuring out how to excise little bits of Rayleen from the apartment.
When his friend called to ask him to come a party where the agent who might be interested in representing would be available to receive a good impression, Jimmy had happened to glance down behind the toilet, where the rust and barely spatters of urine gathered, to see a black hair clip. With insect wings and long curved teeth that opened on close on one's hair.
She had left so many hair clips, or scrunchees or bands. And bras too. Under the sofa of the cushion, he found the padded black one that she had brought in a state of emergency discomfort. They had been in Yiwu, going from factory to factory, with all the other vendors, buying mass produced tourist junk that would become, at it's final point of sale, a hand made craft reflecting a towns heart and soul.
One of the products they had gotten there, were little, crappy wooden swords that they had sold to an hunched old lady in communist era blue shirt and pants, up on a mountain village near Hangzhou, where you could hike through wet green leaves and clear water running down all around your feet, scurrying to the lake at the bottom.
He had tossed the wooden sword into the pile of stuff that was mostly Rayleen's. He was either going to try to contact her, wait till she contacted him and then tell her she needed to pick this stuff up, just throw it away and lete he bitch. She wouldn't really care about this stuff. she didn't care enough to take it with her.
He could just throw it away, cleaning up. Now that it was accumulated in a convenient piel. H could just bring in a large plastic bag and it would ready for the big trash barrel outside in under two minutes.
The bras were hidden around in corners, under books, behind the t.v., like they were part of an Easter egg hunt.
At the though of this, of getting rid of the last bits of Rayleen, the dull sens of loss moved around in him, like a vase teetering over a tile floor. And it made him want to turn his pain into violence. It made him feel like this was the reasonable progression from this dull pain. To swing out and kick at the legs of the table, knocking them out of their joints. To bring his fist down on the table top, fracturing, transmitting his pain onto something real, given it life.
But he just couldn't rationalize any violence. It was too late. For so long he had retained this constant need to let loose his violence. But there just weren't any deserving targets. He couldn't pretend that people deserved to be hit, or that destroying his table, sofa and refrigerator would make him better off. But he still wanted it. Wanted the simplicity of breaking, of ruined piles that could only then be thrown out, not discussed and repaired.
What do I do?
continue to mull over nature of my sadness, page 21
call Rayleen , page 322
throw her stuff out, 422
Conversations, thoughts, and scheduling related to publication often coincided with him discovering and figuring out how to excise little bits of Rayleen from the apartment.
When his friend called to ask him to come a party where the agent who might be interested in representing would be available to receive a good impression, Jimmy had happened to glance down behind the toilet, where the rust and barely spatters of urine gathered, to see a black hair clip. With insect wings and long curved teeth that opened on close on one's hair.
She had left so many hair clips, or scrunchees or bands. And bras too. Under the sofa of the cushion, he found the padded black one that she had brought in a state of emergency discomfort. They had been in Yiwu, going from factory to factory, with all the other vendors, buying mass produced tourist junk that would become, at it's final point of sale, a hand made craft reflecting a towns heart and soul.
One of the products they had gotten there, were little, crappy wooden swords that they had sold to an hunched old lady in communist era blue shirt and pants, up on a mountain village near Hangzhou, where you could hike through wet green leaves and clear water running down all around your feet, scurrying to the lake at the bottom.
He had tossed the wooden sword into the pile of stuff that was mostly Rayleen's. He was either going to try to contact her, wait till she contacted him and then tell her she needed to pick this stuff up, just throw it away and lete he bitch. She wouldn't really care about this stuff. she didn't care enough to take it with her.
He could just throw it away, cleaning up. Now that it was accumulated in a convenient piel. H could just bring in a large plastic bag and it would ready for the big trash barrel outside in under two minutes.
The bras were hidden around in corners, under books, behind the t.v., like they were part of an Easter egg hunt.
At the though of this, of getting rid of the last bits of Rayleen, the dull sens of loss moved around in him, like a vase teetering over a tile floor. And it made him want to turn his pain into violence. It made him feel like this was the reasonable progression from this dull pain. To swing out and kick at the legs of the table, knocking them out of their joints. To bring his fist down on the table top, fracturing, transmitting his pain onto something real, given it life.
But he just couldn't rationalize any violence. It was too late. For so long he had retained this constant need to let loose his violence. But there just weren't any deserving targets. He couldn't pretend that people deserved to be hit, or that destroying his table, sofa and refrigerator would make him better off. But he still wanted it. Wanted the simplicity of breaking, of ruined piles that could only then be thrown out, not discussed and repaired.
What do I do?
continue to mull over nature of my sadness, page 21
call Rayleen , page 322
throw her stuff out, 422
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