What good is the study of philosophy if any conclusions or ideas that come of it never reach the minds of the masses?
Sure, things trickle-down and diffuse through the memescape or zeitgeist or other $2 word to describes the cloud of culture that loosely connects all human thought.
But what is truly the point of seeking insight if only a handful of people will ever benefit from it directly?
Wouldn’t it make more sense to just spend one’s time learning how to build a better mousetrap? It’s not like the people running the planet are guided by the kind of philosophical thought that holds up to actual scrutiny by people who think critically and dispassionately.
It’s 0018, just past midnight, and after a pouring a pot of coffee into my face over the last hour, my brain has been making a sort of chewing gum of the news I follow, to give itself something to do in the background while I wrap up things that don’t really require my full attention.
Bleak economic analysis of jobs and markets and trade deals, an upcoming election between two equally repugnant options, coverage of the progressively more intrusive technologies that come bundled with a sense of entitlement to every private word or picture or moment, and the standard, vapid celebrity nonsense– all congeal into a rubbery, foul-tasting lump of thought.
Star Agent, Grade Zero, B’ama sat at the hidden terminal in his office, ready to write his final report back to galactic headquarters. The interface hummed as his fingers entered the type-field and he smiled to himself –he’d really done it, the toughest mission of his soon-to-be-legendary career.
You magnificent bastard, he thought. I’ll bet they give you your own moon after this.
Only a few hours left before could leave this primitive backwater and return to civilization. Might as well get to it:
Let’s not kid ourselves: Donald Trump is the President Americans deserve.
Americans can name more Kardashians than Supreme Court justices.
Americans know the win/loss stats of their NFL team, but not their Congressman’s voting record.
Americans sing “…and the home of the brave” while handing over their liberties every time a tragedy happens, so they can feel safe.
Americans expressed more outrage over the loss of Twinkies than the loss of the Fourth Amendment; Americans don’t know what the Fourth Amendment is, but know everything that happened on the fourth season of The Apprentice.
If “Christians” really wanted to prevent abortions, they’d encourage the use of birth control and condoms; things proven effective in reducing abortions, unlike “abstinence-only” education.
But that’s the key, it’s not about abortion, it’s about punishing women for having sex and controlling women’s agency as individuals; the moral equivalent of making them wear a burka
So Prince is dead. And with the current media-driven hysteria being the boogeyman (boogeypersons?) of transgenders in bathrooms, the overlap and juxtaposition this, and of people mourning his loss, creates a sort of absurd, but beautiful music.
When my daughter was four, she flat-out asked if Santa was made up. And of course, being me, I told her the truth.
We all know the basic arguments both for and against teaching your child to believe in a morbidly obese chimney burglar from the Arctic. Each boils down to whether or not you feel Belief itself is a good thing. And I’ve always tended to side with the rational over the irrational.
But then I ran into this piece of dialogue in a book by Terry Pratchett, that makes a solid case for teaching your child to believe in St. Nick, or in the world he was writing about, the “Hogfather”. The voice in all caps, belongs to Death himself: