It's come to my attention that not a lot of people care what I think. This is, of course, a severe blow to someone as opinionated and narcissistic as I. And since the House passed the health care bill this Saturday, I'm taking a break from ranting about something I actually care passionately about--ensuring that poor sick people don't die--and returning to something that is, let's face it, just a little bit more fun: reviewing the silly movies I've seen via netflix in the last month or so.
Prime 6 Stars
After recovering from my initial disappointment in learning that this has nothing to do with math, I was able to relax and enjoy it. It’s a cute romantic comedy. It would probably have made for a good date movie, back when it was in the theatres, but if you are seeing it now, it’s most likely going to be at home, watching the DVD from the comfort of your couch, so you are probably past the dating stage by now, or if not: tonight’s the night, you lucky dog. Don’t forget the condoms.
The Namesake 7.5 Stars
Netflix created a category for me, based on my choices and preferences: father/son bonding movies. Apparently, I watch a lot of these. This is definitely one of the better ones. Touching. Funny. Sad. All that stuff. Moving, but not heartbreaking. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t cry. But I grinned and got a little misty, ok?
Afropunk 6 Stars
An interesting documentary about African-American punk rockers. Most punk rockers are upper-middle class suburban white kids who lead cushy lives of comfort and privilege, and shove safety pins through their faces to illustrate just how angry they are about this intolerable state of affairs. Quite a lot of African American kids live in cities, and a significant percentage of them have very real things to worry or be angry about, like drugs, gangs, violence, crime, etc., so it’s little wonder that few of them are drawn to a culture that is rebelling against mommy and daddy and all their money. Pretty much all of them are interviewed here. They all sound exactly like upper middle class suburban white kids, though slightly more alienated and with a little bit more substance to their angst. The take home message for me: Bad brains is a damn good punk band.
The Taking of Pelham 123 4 Stars
No, not the new one with Denzel Washington and John Travolta. The original, with Walter Matheau and Robert Shaw. Netflix suggested it after I got Charley Varrick, reasoning, in its Netflixy way, that I have an obsession with 70’s action flicks starring Walter Matheau. I assure you: I do not. But if you want to try one out, definitely go with Charley Varrick. It’s so much better than this. The villains here are two-dimensional. Their motivations unrealistic and contrived. The plot is absurd. One can only assume the only reason they remade this is that the filmmakers figured they could probably do a better job the second time around, which would have been as easy as 1, 2, 3.
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold 2 Stars
I have heard that some MI-6, CIA, and NSA agents spend their time piecing through bits of shredded documents they find in garbage. Spy movies usually tend to romanticize the world of international espionage and present it as slightly more exciting than that. This took the opposite approach and managed to make it even more boring. It stars off with a scene at Checkpoint Charlie, where I visited last year, so that was exciting for me, but it just goes downhill from there. I was hoping for some action, suspense, intrigue and, if at all possible, just a little bit of actual espionage. Maybe they get to some of that stuff an hour or so into the film, but I never made it that far. He was still out in the cold when I turned this snoozer off.
Before Sunrise 6.5 Stars
A cute romantic film, which you’ll enjoy even more if you’ve ever been in Europe or fallen ever so briefly in love with someone you met on a train. It was recommended to me, but only as a set up for the sequel, Before Sunset. I’ll get back to you after I’ve seen that.
I Know What You Did Last Summer 4 Stars
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: Homicidal killer attempts, mostly successfully, to skewer a series of attractive young people. In the end, at least one of them escapes and temporarily thwarts his sociopathic ambitions, just long enough for her to recruit new friends to get butchered in the sequel. Can’t the new friends see what’s coming? Hot girl. All her friends brutally murdered. A year has passed. Now she wants to be your friend. Run away. Has experience taught you nothing? This is a pretty generic slasher movie. Nothing too inventive or surprising. I’m going to watch the sequel anyway. I don’t learn from experience either.
The Lives of Others 8 Stars
Why, my beautiful German-speaking girlfriend asked, is every German film either about Nazis or the oppressive secret police of the DDR during the Cold War? Because, I answered, Germans are far more entertaining when they are evil, and they do it so well. Ooooh! Clocks! Green technology! Bratwurst! Yes, that’s right: good Germans are boring. Bring on the scowling, scheming commandants! In spite of the dark subject matter, this film gives us a few laughs, and some hope. Hope that an individual can stand up to an evil system and make a difference. I’m not giving anything away, I trust, by telling you that the wall comes down at the end (1). In the sequel, of course, I expect our hero is no longer the subject of a secret evil government surveillance project, and his major obstacle to happiness will be when he has to wait for a bus that runs a full 45 seconds late. This is considered tragic in modern Germany. Sigh. Don’t you miss the bad old days?
(1) Note: It was twenty years ago today!
Heavenly Creatures 3 Stars
Peter Jackson of Lord of the Rings fame directed this, and that’s why I rented it. I was disappointed. And not just because there were no hobbits, though that certainly didn’t help matters. It’s based on a compelling true crime story, but the characters were caricatures, lacking substance but compensating by overacting. Jackson went on to have me believe in elves and trolls, but I didn’t believe in these two giggling, psychotic girls. It just seemed unreal and fantastic, which is, again, pretty surprising when I completely and without reservation accepted that the fate of the world rested on the destruction of an evil piece of jewelry by a pair of midgets.
The Yes Men 6 Stars
I love the idea of the Yes Men, but to make a really great, hilarious film, they should have gotten more footage and mercilessly edited it down to its comic quintessence. I certainly recommend it to anyone curious about what’s wrong with the world or just looking for something on which to focus ambient rage and angst. As far as making the world a better place, the Yes Men are on the vanguard. But the film just isn’t as funny as I thought it would be. I think this is because they are attempting to embarrass the evil men who run our world and who, on a regular basis, do horrible, despicable things. The fact that the evil ones don’t seem to notice that they are being satirized just makes it all the more tragic.
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button 6 Stars
I heard that this would be a life-changing cinematic experience, and it turned out to be just a pretty good movie. Such is life. Life, by the way, is what this is about. Setting aside eastern mysticism for a moment, we only get one of these, and that, I think, is the point. The very best part of the film is an earnest reflection on this very idea. Here you are. Barring tragic inconvenience, you’ve got a few decades to kill. Make the most of them.
Discworld: The Wyrd Sisters. 3 Stars
I simply adore Terry Pratchett’s novels. They are Fantastic. Brilliant. Comic genius. In movie form, though, the magic is gone. Like Discworld itself, wherein almost all of his hilarious stories are set, they fall flat, or this one did, anyway. Don’t bother putting this in your queue. Get one of his books. Any one of his books. Choose randomly in some entertaining fashion. Leave it to the gods of chance. They will not steer you wrong. Picked one? Good. Um, now read it. Turn off your DVD player and read the book. Pretty good, eh? There’s a few dozen more where that came from. Who needs a stupid movie?
Gonzo 9 Stars
A good film will make me laugh. A better one will make me cry. A superb one will do both. And a truly great one will force me to get raging drunk in a fit of depression. Hunter S Thompson is, I think, one of the most wildly misunderstood artists ever. His zany antics, his ostentatious persona, always larger than life and twice as high, eclipsed the fact that he was an astoundingly good writer, and a passionate voice for justice. This side of Hunter is brought front and center in this excellent documentary, without for a moment ignoring the undeniably true, but non-character defining fact that he was a drug crazed maniac as well. It renewed my own calling to use my writing to speak truth to power, and, occasionally, to reality. But first, as mentioned, it inspired me to get wasted. I’m not sure which is a more earnest tribute to the late great Dr. Thompson.
The Prize Winner of Defiance Ohio 8 Stars
I love everything Julianne Moore is in. Even if it’s a crappy movie, I just like watching her. Fortunately, this was easy to love. Regular readers of my reviews may note that I have a thing for the hot-babes-who-kick-ass genre of films, and I think this qualifies, although in contrast to shooting, punching, and slicing up evil men, as typified by many of my other favorites, she kicks ass with her pen. She’s a brilliant writer, trapped in an oppressive male-dominated society, stifled by her asshole husband, saddled with fulfilling her duty as housewife and mother. Nonetheless: she kicks ass. Angelina Jolie, eat your heart out.
28 Days Later 2 Stars
This is a zombie movie with a twist. It sucks! Bet you didn’t see that coming! I certainly didn’t, what with all the buzz and acclaim surrounding it. Looking on Netflix, I see that close to half the people who reviewed it gave it five out of five stars, which I find utterly astounding. Although I did not enjoy it, and would not recommend it, nor, for example, wish it upon my worst enemy, I suppose I could imagine, hypothetically, under the right circumstances, on the right drugs, finding it somewhat entertaining. But I could not even conceive of ranking it among the best films that I’d ever seen, even if my tastes were not so intimidatingly refined and even if I actually liked shitty movies, which, of course, I don’t. I got this around Halloween to get into the holiday spirit. But it’s not scary. It’s just stupid. Right-wing nutjobs, notwithstanding, stupidity just isn’t scary.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
You say you want a Revolution? Seriously, I totally can't hear you when you mumble like that.
On September 12th, this year, our nation witnessed the largest gathering of misspelled protest signs ever assembled in one place. I’m talking about the tea-baggers, who only recently figured out what that term means. (Ha! Ha! Stupid teabaggers!) They gathered en masse, chanted insane bullshit, said unbelievably stupid things very loudly, and got international attention in the process, thus further firing up their base: the politically key clueless stupid asshole voting bloc.
I went to an event yesterday organized by their opponents, the people who are trying to get healthcare reform passed. They were the opposite in every possible way. The tea-baggers are stupid, mean, totally misinformed, and loud. These folks were intelligent, compassionate, factually accurate, and quiet to the point of being soporific. They could be behind you right now and you wouldn’t know it! Watch out! They might sneak up on you and give you healthcare!
H.R. 3200, which is how the healthcare bill is known to its really close friends, is 1017 pages long, and has been scientifically proven to be the most boring document in existence. Imagine Beowolf with all the good parts taken out and replaced with what was left of your organic chemistry textbook after you cut the good parts out of that. This would still be more exciting than our good friend, H.R. 3200, bless its well meaning but painfully dull soul.
The idea behind this event was that we were going to read it. Yup, read the entire thing, all 1017 pages, all day long. Sound pretty boring? But wait! It’s not even as exciting as that! Because not only were people taking turns reading the most uninteresting and tedious document you could imagine in all your mildest dreams, they were doing so without amplification.
There was a bullhorn provided, but nobody was using it. I pedaled up on my bike about fifteen minutes before my own appointed reading slot, and mistook the person doing the reading, who sat unobtrusively behind a desk and appeared to mumbling under her breath, for the person with whom I was supposed to sign in.
“Hey there! I’m here for the . . .”
She looks up from the mammoth document from which she is reading “aloud.”
“”Oh, sorry,” I say and find the proper person to sign in with.
After her, another gentleman went up to read. I was sitting ten feet away and could not hear a word. People on the street passed by without comment or interest. He was about five minutes into it when two alleged "journalists" came up to ask him . . . about the Phillies. I am not kidding. He was in the middle of speaking at a political event and they interrupted him, during his “speech” to ask him about the Phillies.
When my turn came, I picked up the bullhorn. I tried to spice it up. I shouted and inflected my words as if there were passionate oratory behind them.
What I was actually reading was:
"Paragraph (74) of section
1902(a) of such Act (42 U.S.C. 1396a(a)), as added
by section 1631(b)(1), is amended—
(A) by inserting ‘‘or subsection (b) of such
section (relating to disclosure requirements)’’
before ‘‘, and that the State’’; and!!
(B) by inserting before the period the following: ‘‘and apply any enhanced safeguards,
with respect to a provider or supplier described!"
Bitches!
(I did not add ‘bitches!’)
Still: I shouted and gestured and pretended I was in a frothy lather. But then when I was done, the next person read quietly, to herself, as if trying to ensure that she did not bother anyone. As if that were not the entire point.
Zzzzzzz . . . . oh, what was that? A revolution? Wake me up for that when it comes arounnnnn zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I went to an event yesterday organized by their opponents, the people who are trying to get healthcare reform passed. They were the opposite in every possible way. The tea-baggers are stupid, mean, totally misinformed, and loud. These folks were intelligent, compassionate, factually accurate, and quiet to the point of being soporific. They could be behind you right now and you wouldn’t know it! Watch out! They might sneak up on you and give you healthcare!
H.R. 3200, which is how the healthcare bill is known to its really close friends, is 1017 pages long, and has been scientifically proven to be the most boring document in existence. Imagine Beowolf with all the good parts taken out and replaced with what was left of your organic chemistry textbook after you cut the good parts out of that. This would still be more exciting than our good friend, H.R. 3200, bless its well meaning but painfully dull soul.
The idea behind this event was that we were going to read it. Yup, read the entire thing, all 1017 pages, all day long. Sound pretty boring? But wait! It’s not even as exciting as that! Because not only were people taking turns reading the most uninteresting and tedious document you could imagine in all your mildest dreams, they were doing so without amplification.
There was a bullhorn provided, but nobody was using it. I pedaled up on my bike about fifteen minutes before my own appointed reading slot, and mistook the person doing the reading, who sat unobtrusively behind a desk and appeared to mumbling under her breath, for the person with whom I was supposed to sign in.
“Hey there! I’m here for the . . .”
She looks up from the mammoth document from which she is reading “aloud.”
“”Oh, sorry,” I say and find the proper person to sign in with.
After her, another gentleman went up to read. I was sitting ten feet away and could not hear a word. People on the street passed by without comment or interest. He was about five minutes into it when two alleged "journalists" came up to ask him . . . about the Phillies. I am not kidding. He was in the middle of speaking at a political event and they interrupted him, during his “speech” to ask him about the Phillies.
When my turn came, I picked up the bullhorn. I tried to spice it up. I shouted and inflected my words as if there were passionate oratory behind them.
What I was actually reading was:
"Paragraph (74) of section
1902(a) of such Act (42 U.S.C. 1396a(a)), as added
by section 1631(b)(1), is amended—
(A) by inserting ‘‘or subsection (b) of such
section (relating to disclosure requirements)’’
before ‘‘, and that the State’’; and!!
(B) by inserting before the period the following: ‘‘and apply any enhanced safeguards,
with respect to a provider or supplier described!"
Bitches!
(I did not add ‘bitches!’)
Still: I shouted and gestured and pretended I was in a frothy lather. But then when I was done, the next person read quietly, to herself, as if trying to ensure that she did not bother anyone. As if that were not the entire point.
Zzzzzzz . . . . oh, what was that? A revolution? Wake me up for that when it comes arounnnnn zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Wave
I just watched a documentary about Hunter S. Thompson, one of the greatest writers of the 20th century, who is, sadly, often misunderstood and pigeonholed as a psychotic drug fiend. Which he was, of course, and proudly so, but he was so much more than that.
One of the passages from his staggeringly brilliant Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas struck me as particularly apropos today.
Hunter was bemoaning the collapse of the social movement he witnessed throughout the 1960s, when, it seemed, real and lasting change was possible. Hope was alive and well and thriving. Peace and justice in our time was within reach. And then it all turned to shit overnight. Yanked out of our collective grasp like the grapes of Tantalus.
I was born in 1968, when, many would say, this disintegration began. This is entirely a coincidence. There were far more significant tragedies in that dreadful year. The assassination of two of the era’s shining beacons of hope, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, ripped the soul right out of the progressive cause, leaving a generation stunned and impotent.
When I was in my mid-20s and filled with the irrational exuberance of youth, I canvassed door-to-door for social change. I vividly remember meeting a few former 60s activists, who told me they once thought that they could change the world, make it better, achieve that fabled thing called justice, but then it all fell apart in 1968, their final drops of hope draining away as the blood leaked out of Bobby Kennedy’s lifeless body.
Hope twitched a little last year and it seemed to be emerging from its coma, but then it closed its eyes and went back to its dreamless sleep. And there was nothing so dramatic as an assassination responsible. Hope was killed by the lies and stupidity of a vicious pack of rabid bigots and the apathy and indifference of everyone else.
In a recent book review in Dusted, Kevan Harris writes:
Harris later notes that Obama understandably felt that there was a movement behind him, and has been scrambling to drum up the energy to keep moving forward in its absence. With a forthright and honest pessimism Harris then comments: “Frankly, the movement is already gone, so someone should let him down easy.”
Back in 1968, there was nothing activists could do to bring their fallen heroes back to life. The Kennedy’s were gone, Dr. King had passed, and all their prayers and hopes and vigils and tears could never do a thing about it. Right now, the hopes of another generation are vanishing before our eyes, and what makes it all the more tragic is that we could do something about it. It is not irreversible. We could make it happen. Although we could never undo the evil wrought by an assassin’s bullet, we could turn around the lies of the right, if only we wanted to. If only we tried.
We came so close, so very close to real and lasting change this time around, but now that wave has crashed and is receding. Like Dr. Thompson, I feel that I can almost see the high-water mark.
One of the passages from his staggeringly brilliant Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas struck me as particularly apropos today.
And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .
So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.
Hunter was bemoaning the collapse of the social movement he witnessed throughout the 1960s, when, it seemed, real and lasting change was possible. Hope was alive and well and thriving. Peace and justice in our time was within reach. And then it all turned to shit overnight. Yanked out of our collective grasp like the grapes of Tantalus.
I was born in 1968, when, many would say, this disintegration began. This is entirely a coincidence. There were far more significant tragedies in that dreadful year. The assassination of two of the era’s shining beacons of hope, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, ripped the soul right out of the progressive cause, leaving a generation stunned and impotent.
When I was in my mid-20s and filled with the irrational exuberance of youth, I canvassed door-to-door for social change. I vividly remember meeting a few former 60s activists, who told me they once thought that they could change the world, make it better, achieve that fabled thing called justice, but then it all fell apart in 1968, their final drops of hope draining away as the blood leaked out of Bobby Kennedy’s lifeless body.
Hope twitched a little last year and it seemed to be emerging from its coma, but then it closed its eyes and went back to its dreamless sleep. And there was nothing so dramatic as an assassination responsible. Hope was killed by the lies and stupidity of a vicious pack of rabid bigots and the apathy and indifference of everyone else.
In a recent book review in Dusted, Kevan Harris writes:
After all, given what has occurred in the U.S. between January and now, it seems we are experiencing the fastest unraveling of a liberal consensus since the Weimar Republic. In 2008, the Obama campaign was astonishingly able to get 18-24 year olds from around the country to knock on doors in poor neighborhoods, engage strangers in debate, go sleepless nights occupied with political action that many had told them was futile and impossibly naïve.
Harris later notes that Obama understandably felt that there was a movement behind him, and has been scrambling to drum up the energy to keep moving forward in its absence. With a forthright and honest pessimism Harris then comments: “Frankly, the movement is already gone, so someone should let him down easy.”
Back in 1968, there was nothing activists could do to bring their fallen heroes back to life. The Kennedy’s were gone, Dr. King had passed, and all their prayers and hopes and vigils and tears could never do a thing about it. Right now, the hopes of another generation are vanishing before our eyes, and what makes it all the more tragic is that we could do something about it. It is not irreversible. We could make it happen. Although we could never undo the evil wrought by an assassin’s bullet, we could turn around the lies of the right, if only we wanted to. If only we tried.
We came so close, so very close to real and lasting change this time around, but now that wave has crashed and is receding. Like Dr. Thompson, I feel that I can almost see the high-water mark.
Monday, October 12, 2009
An Apology.
In the midst of the healthcare debate a few weeks ago, Democratic Representative Alan Grayson said that the Republican party’s plan for healthcare was for the sick to “die quickly.” Republicans immediately demanded that he apologize for such a highly offensive true statement. Grayson responded with an apology, but it wasn’t an apology to the Republicans. He apologized to the dead and their families for not acting sooner. If you haven’t heard it yet, you should. It’s brilliant.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YoITVLWpKB8
This is an apology, and, like Grayson’s apology, its main thrust is to reinforce the original message. But unlike Grayson, I am offering a genuine and sincere apology directly to those I may have offended.
I’ve been ranting and raving about healthcare and I know that some people might not appreciate my acerbic manner. And I really and truly don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, nor do I feel that most people, and in fact any of the people who are friends with me on facebook, for example, are bad people. They are all actual friends of mine and they wouldn’t be my friends if I didn’t like them and think well of them. But I cannot help but try to use every and any means necessary to inspire people to raise their voices and take action on this issue, because I believe that this is the greatest moment of political crisis that has come about during my lifetime. I cannot keep my mouth shut in the interest of decorum. I can’t keep my mouth shut when I’m chewing food, either, and that’s something else I’ve been working on.
My friend Jacob, who is nearly 70 years old, was recently arrested in an act of civil disobedience. Getting arrested is not polite. Chaining yourself to the entrance of an institution with whom you disagree is not polite, and it’s not something to be undertaken lightly. Both civil disobedience and irate ranting are unproductive if used constantly. Circumstances have to be extreme for this type of “impolite” activism to be effective. I feel that they are. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be mean. I just can’t help it.
I’m not a big fan of facebook culture. I do not, for example, give a rat’s ass “what 80’s pop star” or “what breakfast cereal” I am.(1) I do not feel compelled to let everyone know “Andy Breslin just ate a bagel and it was pretty good,” or “Andy Breslin just let out a wicked fart.” (This is an exaggeration for dramatic purposes. It was rather mild as far as my flatulence goes.) Some people are into this stuff, and that’s fine. Not everyone enjoys the same distractions and forms of entertainment.
By no means am I spending every spare moment of my day working to make the world a better place. I indulge. I hang out with friends and drink beer. I watch movies. I play my banjo. I ride my bike. So I have no right to criticize people for having their fun. None whatsoever. I’m a jerk. A big, mean, hypocritical jerk and I’m sorry.
Note: my admission of being a jerk does not mean that I’m going to stop.
For example:
If you have not yet contacted your elected representatives to let them know that you support a public option(2), then you are singlehandedly responsible for the downfall of western civilization.
And
If you have enough time to fill out some asinine survey to determine “what polyhedron are you?”(3) or keep everyone updated about your soul searching deliberations concerning what you are going to make for dinner, but can’t be bothered to speak up about healthcare reform, then you are clearly no better than the illegitimate love child of Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin.
Or maybe
Jesus H fucking Christ on a goddamn stick! How fucking hard is it to contact your elected representatives? You are personally blowing Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck, aren’t you? You are in bed with the devil. You are getting paid directly by the insurance companies to subvert all progress toward a better world, and you eat babies. Non-organically grown babies! Admit it!!!
Wow, did I say that? That was just plain mean. Believe me—and I am being 100% sincere now: I’m really sorry.
Peace and love to all.
1) For the record: Froot Loops and Weird Al Yankovic
2) If you have, by the way, you are off the hook. Ignore all my abuse. But hey, how about letting other people know what an upstanding citizen you are and lead by example? Ha! Even my footnotes are preachy!
3) I’m a Rhombic triacontahedron
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YoITVLWpKB8
This is an apology, and, like Grayson’s apology, its main thrust is to reinforce the original message. But unlike Grayson, I am offering a genuine and sincere apology directly to those I may have offended.
I’ve been ranting and raving about healthcare and I know that some people might not appreciate my acerbic manner. And I really and truly don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, nor do I feel that most people, and in fact any of the people who are friends with me on facebook, for example, are bad people. They are all actual friends of mine and they wouldn’t be my friends if I didn’t like them and think well of them. But I cannot help but try to use every and any means necessary to inspire people to raise their voices and take action on this issue, because I believe that this is the greatest moment of political crisis that has come about during my lifetime. I cannot keep my mouth shut in the interest of decorum. I can’t keep my mouth shut when I’m chewing food, either, and that’s something else I’ve been working on.
My friend Jacob, who is nearly 70 years old, was recently arrested in an act of civil disobedience. Getting arrested is not polite. Chaining yourself to the entrance of an institution with whom you disagree is not polite, and it’s not something to be undertaken lightly. Both civil disobedience and irate ranting are unproductive if used constantly. Circumstances have to be extreme for this type of “impolite” activism to be effective. I feel that they are. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be mean. I just can’t help it.
I’m not a big fan of facebook culture. I do not, for example, give a rat’s ass “what 80’s pop star” or “what breakfast cereal” I am.(1) I do not feel compelled to let everyone know “Andy Breslin just ate a bagel and it was pretty good,” or “Andy Breslin just let out a wicked fart.” (This is an exaggeration for dramatic purposes. It was rather mild as far as my flatulence goes.) Some people are into this stuff, and that’s fine. Not everyone enjoys the same distractions and forms of entertainment.
By no means am I spending every spare moment of my day working to make the world a better place. I indulge. I hang out with friends and drink beer. I watch movies. I play my banjo. I ride my bike. So I have no right to criticize people for having their fun. None whatsoever. I’m a jerk. A big, mean, hypocritical jerk and I’m sorry.
Note: my admission of being a jerk does not mean that I’m going to stop.
For example:
If you have not yet contacted your elected representatives to let them know that you support a public option(2), then you are singlehandedly responsible for the downfall of western civilization.
And
If you have enough time to fill out some asinine survey to determine “what polyhedron are you?”(3) or keep everyone updated about your soul searching deliberations concerning what you are going to make for dinner, but can’t be bothered to speak up about healthcare reform, then you are clearly no better than the illegitimate love child of Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin.
Or maybe
Jesus H fucking Christ on a goddamn stick! How fucking hard is it to contact your elected representatives? You are personally blowing Rush Limbaugh and Glen Beck, aren’t you? You are in bed with the devil. You are getting paid directly by the insurance companies to subvert all progress toward a better world, and you eat babies. Non-organically grown babies! Admit it!!!
Wow, did I say that? That was just plain mean. Believe me—and I am being 100% sincere now: I’m really sorry.
Peace and love to all.
1) For the record: Froot Loops and Weird Al Yankovic
2) If you have, by the way, you are off the hook. Ignore all my abuse. But hey, how about letting other people know what an upstanding citizen you are and lead by example? Ha! Even my footnotes are preachy!
3) I’m a Rhombic triacontahedron
Dissing Chris
This appeared a few years ago in the fine publication, QECE. I'm reposting here in honor of Columbus Day. :)
* * *
“I celebrated Columbus Day by breaking into my neighbors’ house, declaring the occupants savages, and claiming everything they had as my own.”
~ Dennis Miller
“Christopher Columbus was a slave-trading, murdering rapist scumbag.”
Thus read the placard on my chest. Sometimes you have to come straight to the point.
So there it was, Columbus Day. In the words on a T-shirt I wore underneath the placard, “A celebration of genocide.” (I deemed the T-shirt far too subtle.) A day on which millions of people pay tribute to a selfish evil slave trader who invaded another land and initiated perhaps the greatest crime one group of people has ever perpetrated upon another..
Maybe I’m overstating the case. Not with regard to Columbus, who is everything I’ve said, and much more that I won’t say, lest I lapse into long streams of barely articulate profanity, but only with regard to the “millions of people paying tribute.” For most people it is a three-day weekend and thoughts of honor or repulsion for some Italian conquistador dead almost 500 years are lost amidst the joy of sleeping late on a Monday and yet another excuse for thousands of stores to have sales of things nobody really needs anyway.
Not me though. I get consumed by righteous rage every October. (The rest of the year, I’m calm and content, you know. Hunky and dory.) I can’t stand idly by and let people enjoy their silly little sales knowing that, even if they don’t realize it or give a tinker’s dam, they are actually honoring one of the filthiest, slimiest murderous scum sucking bastards in all of history.
So I was walking around with this placard of my own creation across my chest, spreading a little holiday cheer. I’d made some fliers outlining the atrocities of Mr. Columbus, as well as his utter ineptitude as a geographer. (He was evil, and stupid!) These I proceeded to pass out to anyone who would take one.
One chap was not at all pleased with the placard.
“What the fuck does that say?” he inquired. I was uncertain whether this was a rhetorical question. The concept seemed beyond him, but I made no presumptions.
“It says ‘Christopher Columbus was a slave-trading, murdering, rapist scumbag,’ ” I replied, truthfully.
He sneered, “You just don’t like Italians.”
I boggled uselessly for a few moments. Was this some strange Zen koan? It seemed to make no sense whatsoever. There was absolutely no logic to it.
Finally I recovered. I struggled to reason with this individual to whom reason itself was so obviously as foreign as Columbus was to this continent I’m sitting on. “That’s not true and it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Columbus was a slave trader. That’s just a fact. It’s uncontestable. It wouldn’t matter what his lineage was, he was a slave-trader, and an agent of genocide . . .”
“Ah you just don’t like Italians. Get the fuck out of here, you asshole,” he refuted.
It was clear that he was terminally stupid. A lost cause. One can only remain an ignoramus for so long in one’s life before the condition becomes inoperable, even to a skilled surgeon such as myself, so I abandoned him to wallow in his ignorance, and I quickly exited to avoid becoming unduly affected by his idiocy. People saying outrageously stupid things tend to make me yell for some reason. It has never been effective. Write that down in your book of wisdom: Don’t waste your breath yelling at stupid people. They aren’t hard-of-hearing. They are stupid. Volume will accomplish nothing. Save your energy. Move on to someone who will listen.
I walked down to Penn’s landing, overlooking the Delaware river on the eastern edge of Philadelphia, where sits the most appalling monument in the entire city. It is a large phallus-shaped monolithic monstrosity dedicated to Christopher Columbus. It begs for TNT every time I see it. It is a travesty. It makes me sick. It fills me with revulsion. Am I making the point here? Can I go on?
So I handed out fliers at the base of this horrible monument. People took them. They may have thought they were promotional materials outlining yet another sale. I had nothing to sell. Truth is free, but no one wants it. Lies and trash cost money, but people are happy to pay. Go figure.
Eventually a little man on a little motorized scooter drove up and swaggered officiously.
“What are you doing there?”
“Teaching people about Columbus,” I replied, again as honest as water is wet.
“You can’t do that here,” he said shaking his head, clearly shocked that there was unsanctioned education occurring on his beat.
“But what about the first amendment?” I asked, “What about free speech?”
He continued to shake his head. “This is private property. There is no first amendment here.”
I was feeling a little dejected. I’d given out many fliers and maybe I’d raised an eye or two, but overall I was just disgusted with everything. I began to walk home where I could stew in my melancholy and cynicism. Along the way, I passed a couple of young boys, roughly 12 or 13, I’d guess. They were tossing a football and having fun. I smiled at them. “How’s it going?” I said.
“Hi!” they said. Very friendly kids. I like that.
“Hey, I guess you got school off because of Columbus day, huh?”
“Uh huh.,” they replied.
“Tell me, do you think Columbus was a good man?”
They actually stopped tossing the ball at this point. I’d drawn them in. I savored the moment. These are the moments social activists must savor, for they are few and far between. These are the occasions where you can actually watch a mind open.
“Well, sure, um . . . he discovered America,” one of them suggested.
“Well, how could he discover it, I mean there were already people living here, right? You know that right? You learned that in school.”
“Uh huh! The Indians!” the other offered with enthusiasm.
“Those people and their ancestors had been living here for thousands of years, right?’
“Yeah, I guess so . . .” one of them said.
“Well, what do you think happened after Columbus came?”
Puzzled confused silence. They didn’t know it, but they were experiencing their very first disillusionment. I only hope it was the first of many.
“Do you know that he packed thousands of those people into boats and sent them back to Spain to sell as slaves?”
Silence again. Sparks of thought gleaming in their eyes. This could be the birth of two radical malcontents. I gloried.
“And do you know that soon after Christopher Columbus arrived, millions of those people were dead and that people from Spain, where he came from followed him to take what Christopher Columbus had claimed in the name of Spain, to take the homes away from all those people who’d been living on the land for generations. And wave after wave of other Europeans followed. The native people were just robbed of everything and almost all of them were killed.
“So do you still think Christopher Columbus was a good man?” I asked.
They both shook their heads.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Tell your friends.”
They smiled and said, “OK,” then went back to tossing the ball.
I waved good-bye and walked away.
“Thank you,” one of them said.
It was the best “thank you.” I ever got.
* * *
“I celebrated Columbus Day by breaking into my neighbors’ house, declaring the occupants savages, and claiming everything they had as my own.”
~ Dennis Miller
“Christopher Columbus was a slave-trading, murdering rapist scumbag.”
Thus read the placard on my chest. Sometimes you have to come straight to the point.
So there it was, Columbus Day. In the words on a T-shirt I wore underneath the placard, “A celebration of genocide.” (I deemed the T-shirt far too subtle.) A day on which millions of people pay tribute to a selfish evil slave trader who invaded another land and initiated perhaps the greatest crime one group of people has ever perpetrated upon another..
Maybe I’m overstating the case. Not with regard to Columbus, who is everything I’ve said, and much more that I won’t say, lest I lapse into long streams of barely articulate profanity, but only with regard to the “millions of people paying tribute.” For most people it is a three-day weekend and thoughts of honor or repulsion for some Italian conquistador dead almost 500 years are lost amidst the joy of sleeping late on a Monday and yet another excuse for thousands of stores to have sales of things nobody really needs anyway.
Not me though. I get consumed by righteous rage every October. (The rest of the year, I’m calm and content, you know. Hunky and dory.) I can’t stand idly by and let people enjoy their silly little sales knowing that, even if they don’t realize it or give a tinker’s dam, they are actually honoring one of the filthiest, slimiest murderous scum sucking bastards in all of history.
So I was walking around with this placard of my own creation across my chest, spreading a little holiday cheer. I’d made some fliers outlining the atrocities of Mr. Columbus, as well as his utter ineptitude as a geographer. (He was evil, and stupid!) These I proceeded to pass out to anyone who would take one.
One chap was not at all pleased with the placard.
“What the fuck does that say?” he inquired. I was uncertain whether this was a rhetorical question. The concept seemed beyond him, but I made no presumptions.
“It says ‘Christopher Columbus was a slave-trading, murdering, rapist scumbag,’ ” I replied, truthfully.
He sneered, “You just don’t like Italians.”
I boggled uselessly for a few moments. Was this some strange Zen koan? It seemed to make no sense whatsoever. There was absolutely no logic to it.
Finally I recovered. I struggled to reason with this individual to whom reason itself was so obviously as foreign as Columbus was to this continent I’m sitting on. “That’s not true and it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Columbus was a slave trader. That’s just a fact. It’s uncontestable. It wouldn’t matter what his lineage was, he was a slave-trader, and an agent of genocide . . .”
“Ah you just don’t like Italians. Get the fuck out of here, you asshole,” he refuted.
It was clear that he was terminally stupid. A lost cause. One can only remain an ignoramus for so long in one’s life before the condition becomes inoperable, even to a skilled surgeon such as myself, so I abandoned him to wallow in his ignorance, and I quickly exited to avoid becoming unduly affected by his idiocy. People saying outrageously stupid things tend to make me yell for some reason. It has never been effective. Write that down in your book of wisdom: Don’t waste your breath yelling at stupid people. They aren’t hard-of-hearing. They are stupid. Volume will accomplish nothing. Save your energy. Move on to someone who will listen.
I walked down to Penn’s landing, overlooking the Delaware river on the eastern edge of Philadelphia, where sits the most appalling monument in the entire city. It is a large phallus-shaped monolithic monstrosity dedicated to Christopher Columbus. It begs for TNT every time I see it. It is a travesty. It makes me sick. It fills me with revulsion. Am I making the point here? Can I go on?
So I handed out fliers at the base of this horrible monument. People took them. They may have thought they were promotional materials outlining yet another sale. I had nothing to sell. Truth is free, but no one wants it. Lies and trash cost money, but people are happy to pay. Go figure.
Eventually a little man on a little motorized scooter drove up and swaggered officiously.
“What are you doing there?”
“Teaching people about Columbus,” I replied, again as honest as water is wet.
“You can’t do that here,” he said shaking his head, clearly shocked that there was unsanctioned education occurring on his beat.
“But what about the first amendment?” I asked, “What about free speech?”
He continued to shake his head. “This is private property. There is no first amendment here.”
I was feeling a little dejected. I’d given out many fliers and maybe I’d raised an eye or two, but overall I was just disgusted with everything. I began to walk home where I could stew in my melancholy and cynicism. Along the way, I passed a couple of young boys, roughly 12 or 13, I’d guess. They were tossing a football and having fun. I smiled at them. “How’s it going?” I said.
“Hi!” they said. Very friendly kids. I like that.
“Hey, I guess you got school off because of Columbus day, huh?”
“Uh huh.,” they replied.
“Tell me, do you think Columbus was a good man?”
They actually stopped tossing the ball at this point. I’d drawn them in. I savored the moment. These are the moments social activists must savor, for they are few and far between. These are the occasions where you can actually watch a mind open.
“Well, sure, um . . . he discovered America,” one of them suggested.
“Well, how could he discover it, I mean there were already people living here, right? You know that right? You learned that in school.”
“Uh huh! The Indians!” the other offered with enthusiasm.
“Those people and their ancestors had been living here for thousands of years, right?’
“Yeah, I guess so . . .” one of them said.
“Well, what do you think happened after Columbus came?”
Puzzled confused silence. They didn’t know it, but they were experiencing their very first disillusionment. I only hope it was the first of many.
“Do you know that he packed thousands of those people into boats and sent them back to Spain to sell as slaves?”
Silence again. Sparks of thought gleaming in their eyes. This could be the birth of two radical malcontents. I gloried.
“And do you know that soon after Christopher Columbus arrived, millions of those people were dead and that people from Spain, where he came from followed him to take what Christopher Columbus had claimed in the name of Spain, to take the homes away from all those people who’d been living on the land for generations. And wave after wave of other Europeans followed. The native people were just robbed of everything and almost all of them were killed.
“So do you still think Christopher Columbus was a good man?” I asked.
They both shook their heads.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Tell your friends.”
They smiled and said, “OK,” then went back to tossing the ball.
I waved good-bye and walked away.
“Thank you,” one of them said.
It was the best “thank you.” I ever got.
The number of possible different games of chess
I'm taking a short break from ranting about healthcare reform to digress briefly on my other passion: mathematical geekdom. This was at the request of my brother. Some years ago he asked me a question and this was my reply. He recently asked me to send it to him again, so I decided to just bloggify it.
Q: Is it true that the number of possible different games of chess is larger than the number of atoms in the universe?
Indeed. It is true. Hard to believe, yes, but true nevertheless. I shall endeavor to explain the phenomenon in a clear and concise fashion. I shall fail. I shall then lower my standards and settle for clear. If you want concise, then I’m going to need more money.
To avoid burdensome repetition of a long and unwieldy phrase, the number of possible different games of chess shall henceforth be designated by “c#.” This symbol will be used a little further in this discussion. Don’t be alarmed when it does.
Discussions of the number of possible chess games inevitably include “Shannon’s number,” named after the information theorist Claude Shannon who published an influential 1950 paper titled “Programming a Computer for Playing Chess,” the subject of which was, one hopes, self evident.(1) This number is 10^120. Contrary to popular misconception(2) , c# is almost inconceivably larger than Shannon’s number, which estimates a lower bound for chess games of no more than 40 moves on each side. Just so we’re clear: standard convention defines a “move” as one move on each side, so when we say “40 moves” that means 40 moves on each side. (One move on a side is called a “ply” for some unfathomable reason.)
While most games that people actually play are finished within 40 moves, a game could, in theory, last much longer. But let’s just take a look at what a mammoth beast Shannon’s number is before we try to show it up with even bigger numbers.
The number of atoms in the observable universe is about 10^80. Shannon’s Number is, therefore, 10^40 times bigger than this. In other words, for every atom in the universe, you could associate 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 separate and distinct possible chess games. Why you would want to do this is beyond me, but you could, in theory. In practice, you would constantly be dropping the atoms and losing count. It would get old so fast.
Here’s how Shannon calculated this estimation: He (3) looked at a large number of master games and determined the total number of legal moves in each position of the game. In any one of those many positions, there were probably no more than two or three moves that the masters were even considering, but there were, on average, about 30 legal moves(4). So from any given position, on average, I can make any one of thirty different moves. You can make any of thirty different replies. That’s 900 right there (30x30). Then I have thirty more choices and you have thirty replies. That’s 810,000. (30 x 30) x (30 x30). By the third move we’re at (30x30) x (30x30) x (30x30) or, if you prefer 30^6, or, more dramatically, which I prefer: 729,000,000. 30^80 (an average of 30 possible moves for 40 moves for each player, or 30 multiplied by itself 80 times) works out to 1.47 x 10^118 which we can just round up to 10^120. That’s big. As noted: much bigger than the number of atoms in the universe. But the true c# is even bigger. Much much bigger.
* * *
Without certain rules, chess would have not merely a mind-bogglingly large number of possible move sequences, but it would actually be infinite. (5)
These rules are as follows:
1) When a board position has repeated 3 times, the game is a draw.
2) When 50 moves have been made on each side without the exchange of a piece or the advancement of a pawn, the game is a draw.
Without these rules, any individual game could last an infinite number of moves and thus there would be an infinite number of possible different games. Using these rules, we can determine a reasonably low (and reasonably precise) number for the longest possible game: 5,899 moves(6) . No chess game that has ever actually been played by two players who were both trying to win and not set some sort of stupid record has ever lasted anywhere remotely close to this long for the simple reason that one of them would have slashed his wrists with a sharpened bishop to escape from the mind numbing tedium.
Assuming (7) that there are an average of 30 possible moves on each side at any given position, then 30^(2x5899) = approximately 10^17000. This number is frakking huge. If every atom in the universe had an entire universe (with the same number of atoms) associated with it, and every one of the atoms in every one of these sub-universes had a universe associated with it, and every one of the atoms in those universes had an entire universe associated with it, and so on, you’d need about nine levels of nested universes to contain all the atoms needed to associate one with every possible chess game. Storing all these universes is going to be highly problematic. There is no room in my basement, so don’t even ask.
* * *
Not only would nobody ever play any of the many possible 5,899 move games that theoretically “exist,” the vast overwhelming majority of all possible games of any arbitrary length will be “nonsense games.” Games no real players would ever actually play.
Consider a game that has gotten to the point where you have a mate in one. You simply have to move a piece into position and end it. You could, however, elect to move a piece somewhere else. The opponent, now doubtless either relieved that he’s been spared immediate doom, or annoyed that you are toying with him, will make some move. You could again forego the opportunity to end the game, even though that option is available and obvious. Instead, you sadistically just slide a piece from one square to another. The opponent is helpless.
This can continue for up to fifty moves before a draw is declared or until you get punched. Now, remember that those fifty moves could have occurred in a completely different sequence. Different non-game-ending moves could have been chosen. Billions and billions of different possibilities are available, all from a position that is a mate in one. Of course, any reasonable player isn’t going to take any of those billions and billions of paths. Just the one that leads to checkmate on the next move.
Since there are, on average, only about two moves that any intelligent chess player would consider making, and since most games do not last more than 40 moves, we can calculate a very rough estimation of the number of “plausible” chess games at 2^80 which works out to about 10^25. This is less than the number of atoms in the universe, but if there were an entire planet Earth for every person on this one Earth we’re living on, and every one of those Earths had the same number of people as this one, and every one of those billions of people on every one of those billions of Earths played a game of chess every day, and they all lived for a hundred years, they still wouldn’t come close to playing them all.
* * *
Here is the difference between chess and the atoms in the universe: Atoms are real things that take up real space, albeit a small amount, whereas chess games exist as quasi-real potentialities taking up no space at all. The number of chess games that have actually been played in all of history is only a tiny miniscule fraction of the number of atoms in the universe, and an even smaller fraction of c#.
A digression to illustrate what numbers can do when you aren’t paying attention and they multiply themselves together:
What is the largest number expressible in 3 digits?
Think it is 999? Afraid not, but let’s take a closer look at that number anyway. There are 1000 whole numbers from 0 to 999. 1000 different numbers can be expressed by the use of 10 digits in 3 fields. The reason that there is such a large number expressible with such small numbers is that there are 10 choices of a digit for the first field, and for every one of them there are 10 choices for second field, and for every one of them there are ten choices for the third field. 10^3 = 1000. Every additional digit increases the number by an order of magnitude, in precisely the same manner as every additional move increases the total number of possible chess games.
999 is pretty big, considering the small numbers that are used to construct it. But the biggest number expressible with 3 digits is 9^9^9. 9^9=387,420,489. Now raise 9 to this power. You get a number with about 300 million digits. The number of atoms in the universe has about 80 digits. Shannon’s number has 120. C# has a few thousand digits. This baby has 300 million.
Note that a number that is 300 million digits long is 10^299,999,920 times bigger than a number with 80 digits. Pay close attention there: It’s not 300 million times bigger. It’s almost 10 to the power of 300 million times as big.
Incidentally, a googol is a one followed by a hundred zeros. 10^100. Thus Shannon’s number, 10^120, is a mere 100,000,000,000,000,000,000 (just 100 quintillion!) times larger than the famous googol. It is a paltry embarrassment next to the perhaps more famous googolplex. A googolplex is a 1 followed by a googol of zeros. In other words it is 10^googol. Or 10^10^10^2. Even 9^9^9, which has no fancy name though it deserves one, can’t hold a candle to that monstrosity.
I’ve played chess for years and I’ve only recently developed an interest in bridge. One could make estimations about the number of possible bridge games that could be played (let’s call it b#. No one will stop us.), and this has undoubtedly been done, though I have yet to look it up because that would take the fun out of it. The numbers are certainly humongous, or possibly ginormous, whichever is bigger. Your first step in calculating this would be to determine how many different ways an ordinary deck could be shuffled, and then figure out how many different ways four different players could play with each different distribution of cards.
The deck could be shuffled in 10^67 different ways. You can confirm this by multiplying 52x51x50x49 . . . x3x2x1.(7) This is known as 52 factorial, and is written: 52! You don’t have to shout when you read it or use special emphasis and it’s considered gauche if you do. But 52! is getting up there with the number of atoms in the universe, and b# would certainly carry us far over the line.(8)
Googols, googolplexes and factorials of numbers even close to 52 are essentially meaningless when describing countable things, even the number of subatomic particles in the universe (probably the largest possible number of “things”). There just aren’t enough of them. They are used only in describing abstract number theory or in describing possible combinations of things, such as chess moves or card positions.
But enough abstraction. It’s my move. King’s pawn. Good old e4. It’s your turn now. This is a game with perfect information, so you can, in theory, determine exactly the best course of action. Just think about each of your twenty possible replies, and my possible replies to every one of those, and your possible replies to that and so on.
Get back to me in 10^90 years.
Notes:
1) It was about programming a computer to play chess.
2) Not all that popular, actually, as most people outside math geek circles have never heard of it, and would have no interest in it whatsoever. Sad.
3) To give credit where credit is due: it was some guy named De Groot who did this part of the analysis. I know that neither you nor he cares, but I’m a stickler for accurate attribution.
4) On the first move, there are twenty legal openings for white and twenty legal replies by black, so there are 400 possible ways the two players can play the first move. As the game develops, there are more legal moves available on average, most of them very bad moves.
5) Mathematicians get picky when describing infinite quantities, and there are several “levels” of infinity. If the following rules did not exist, c# would be of a type of infinity known as aleph-null. This is your garden-variety infinity, pretty small as infinities go, but still, you know: infinite. Distinguishing between this and other types of infinity is beyond the scope of this essay but it is an entertaining diversion. “Entertaining” is a highly subjective adjective. Some people might find such an endeavor to be the apotheosis of pointless mental masturbation and about as exciting as watching continents drift. Those people represent a pretty significant majority of the entire human race, numbering, it’s safe to say, over six billion. But as we have seen: six billion is tiny.
6) Slightly different rules for forced drawing produce minor variations in this figure, but seriously: when we’re dealing with numbers as big as we are in this little essay and you’re are busting my balls about the fine points of FIDE rules, you’ve really got a problem. I also admit that I've never actually seen the proof of this, and I've seen a few different answers now that I've been bothered enough to look. It's surprisingly complex to get an exact answer for this, but not too difficult to get a very close estimate. It doesn’t matter anyway, because in the answer we’re only using two significant digits in the exponent, let alone the actual number, so it would still round off the same.
7) This is a reckless, irresponsible, and unfounded assumption. We're going to make it any way.
8) I bet that was fun. Why didn’t you just take my word for it?
9) Sticklers for accuracy, or just plain pains-in-the-ass might note that although a deck can be shuffled in 10^67 different ways, for strategic purposes, it’s really the combinations of cards we’re interested in (which will be huge, but less huge), not the permutations. What that means is that it matters which 13 cards I end up with and not in what order they get dealt to me. Ultimately, however, it doesn’t matter because a) the actual play of the game will still involve an enormous number of possibilities, far larger than the number of atoms in the universe which is the point of this essay, and b) I’m a horrible bridge player and I’m going to lose, regardless.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Feeling self-righteous is not enough.
Oh sure, it helps. Going around with the smug assurance that you are orders of magnitude more intelligent than all the Glen Beck listeners out there. Looking down your nose at right-wing idiots who support policies that any reasonably intelligent 6-year old can see does not benefit them. It’s important that you sit back and drink your shade grown fair-trade coffee with non-GMO organic soymilk, and it’s equally important that you feel morally and intellectually superior. Look at all those idiots out there!
But here’s a shocker: this doesn’t actually change anything. You have to actually DO something for that to happen. Sucks, doesn’t it? Your own sense of smug self-righteousness does not, in and of itself, power the machine of change and progress. Oh would that it did!
I’ve been on a bit of a tirade about healthcare reform now, and from what I have gathered so far:
1) Most of my friends are basically in agreement with me on this.
2) Most of them have the curious notion that some sort of political osmosis will carry their attitudes to Washington and make things better.
A friend recently posted the results of a major poll indicating that the public feels their voice has not been heard in the healthcare debate. This leads me to wonder: is it the voices inside your head that are not being heard? Because you have to actually speak to be heard.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113307616&sc=fb&cc=fp
Another friend posted coverage of some of the people who ARE being heard, mainly because they have taken the innovative step of actually saying something, often with bullhorns. And what they are saying is vile, ignorant, and, for the most part, completely untrue, totally dissociated from reality. Nevertheless, their voice is being heard. In fact, it won’t shut up. It’s a steady stream of frightening bullshit, loud and clear, 24, 7.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUPMjC9mq5Y
My father—not by any means a political radical, in fact, until recently a registered Republican—recently wrote a letter to his local paper correcting some gross misconceptions bandied about by right-wing demagogues trying to take advantage of the general public’s general ignorance, an act which has earned from me my undying respect and admiration. (Note: he already had these. He’s my dad after all! But now, even more so.) It gave me hope. If my dad, a retired, essentially conservative regular Joe can speak up and make his voice heard, maybe some of the self-perceived “radicals” out there can do the same.
You can write letters to the editor, you can post influential pieces on facebook, you can send emails to your friends, you can even, if you want to, get arrested in some well designed act of civil disobedience. Perhaps the easiest thing you can do is contact your elected representatives to let them know how you feel. It’s shockingly easy:
http://www.usa.gov/Contact/Elected.shtml
Will this fix all the problems in the world? No. But it is a damn good start, and I promise you, with absolutely certainty, that it will do more than feeling smugly self-righteous, though it’s not as much fun.
How’s that soy latte? Pretty good, eh? Enjoy.
“All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.”
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