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The Extraordinary Claims I’m Not Making

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Department Of Wishful (Wistful?) Thinking

Dateline: one week ago tonight, watching the Olympic Games opening ceremony.  As mentioned previously in this space, moiself  looooooooves to watch the Olympics Games; however, I almost never watch the opening or closing ceremonies.  I’m glad I did this time; I thought the French did an excellent job, despite the rain and the attempts at sabotage diversions.  If you missed the ceremony, try to find some footage of that beautifully strange and mesmerizing metal horse galloping down the Seine to deliver the Olympic flag.   [1]

 

 

I actually, embarrassingly, found my eyes tearing up at some points, during the speeches by the French Olympic organizers – words of encouragement and welcome to the athletes and spectators – wherein the hope for peace and the ability to set aside differences and come together for games and camaraderie was lauded.  Somehow, if only for a moment, those sentiments sounded more…plausible?…when spoken with French accent.

Reality of course reared its cynical head, when I recalled the Parade of Nations. The Parade of Nations is the main part of the opening ceremony where the participating countries’ teams enter the host country’s stadium in alphabetical order (as determined by the host country’s language).  The French did it differently, and more creatively IMO: instead of marching around a stadium, the over 10,000 athletes from 204 nations cruised in a flotilla of 94 boats down Paris’ Seine River.  Most of the boats carried the Olympic team members of at least two countries (and sometimes more, for the smaller nations).   I found that to be a cool idea, and it was great fun to see the teams mingling and rejoicing…until the narrator reminded us of the fact that Iraq and Iran should have been sharing a boat, seeing as how their respective countries’ names share 75% of their alphabet (even in the French language)…but nope, couldn’t do that.  And the Russian athletes were absent, their participation banned due to their dickhead of a dictator’s invasion of Ukraine.

 

“Dah, comrades, I am why we can’t have nice things.”

 

Moiself  is fairly certain that in Some Ancient Someone’s mythology, wars and other inter-tribal differences were settled via sporting events.  So, I’ll do the sit back relax and enjoy thing (confession: although I almost never watch daytime TV, for the next two weeks my TV will be on almost continually, tuned to the coverage of the you-know-what).  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll dream of a future mythology shared by all, in which disputes are settled by a heartfelt Women’s Rugby Sevens match, capped off with a haka.   [2]

 

 

 

*   *   *

Department Of Another Reason To Be Optimistic

Have you ever heard multilingual Rhodes Scholar, army veteran, former mayor and presidential candidate and current Secretary of Transportation Pete Buttigieg speak?  I get a wee twinge of hope whenever I hear him talk, on any issue.

Perhaps you saw him during the 2019 Democratic nominees debates, but have you heard him interviewed (as in his recent interview with the NY Times series, The Interview) , or at a press conference?  Did you know that Buttigieg accepts invitations to appear on Fox News to be interviewed by their shamelessly partisan hacks “journalists”?  He will accept invitations to speak in such a hostile environment, where many of his fellow politicians would say, “What’s the point?”, precisely because, as Buttigieg points out, the Fox News type of audience is not even going to *hear* the Democratic party message if no one is willing to take it to them.  He stays calm, remains rational, makes his points – which includes something I’d previously given little thought to:  remember, there is the possibility that person who controls the TV remote does not necessarily speak or think for his   [3]  entire household.  Translation:  just because the household TV is tuned to Fox News that doesn’t mean that every mind in the household is closed off to anything but the Fox News POV…but that’s all they will hear if no rational person is willing to speak to them.

I admire Buttigieg’s composure, intellect, ethics, ideas, and presentation.  And while this year is not yet his time for The Big Chair®, I’m looking forward to seeing Buttigieg serve in the Kamala Harris cabinet, and to having the opportunity to vote for him for president, four to eight to however many years from now.   [4]

*   *   *

Department Of, And Yet…

 

 

“Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.”
(Carl Sagan, in ITAL Broca’s Brain   [5])

You may be familiar with British mathematician, philosopher, author, and activist Bertrand  Burton Russell’s “china teapot argument.”  Russell used the argument-by-analogy to illustrate that the philosophic burden of proof lies upon a person making empirically unfalsifiable claims, as opposed to the burden of disproof being upon a person hearing such claims.

In the example of religion, Russell wrote that if he were to claim, sans offering verifiable evidence, that a teapot orbits the Sun somewhere between the Earth and Mars, he could not expect anyone to believe him solely because it would be difficult if not impossible to prove his assertion to be wrong.   [6]

“I ought to call myself an agnostic; but, for all practical purposes, I am an atheist. I do not think the existence of the Christian God any more probable than the existence of the Gods of Olympus or Valhalla. To take another illustration: nobody can prove that there is *not* between the Earth and Mars a china teapot revolving in an elliptical orbit, but nobody thinks this sufficiently likely to be taken into account in practice. I think the Christian God just as unlikely.”
( Absence of Evidence, Evidence of Absence, and the Atheist’s Teapot.  1958 Ars Disputandi10 (1): 9–22. doi:10.1080/15665399.2010.10820011S2CID 37528278 )

Got it; absolutely agree.    [7]   I have no desire to even quasi-seriously entertain the idea that the natural world is the way it is because of the supernatural world (this is the tenets of all religions and spiritual beliefs in a nutshell    [8]  ),  and/or that there are supernatural beings which are capable of intervening in the affairs of the natural world (but evidently choose not to do so, or do so with an almost violent capriciousness   [9] ).

Given the evidence and statistical probabilities,   [10]   I can confidently assert that I do not “believe” there is a china or porcelain teapot – or a warm beverage-holding kettle of any composition – orbiting any celestial object in our solar system.  However, what with all the junk humanity has dumped/let escape into space in the past 70 years, it wouldn’t surprise moiself  if some alert amateur astronomer spots a rogue astronaut’s diaper (excuse me, Maximum Absorbency Garment   eeewwwwww) circling a satellite or even the International Space Station.

That said, moiself  can understand the appeal, if only from the point of view of a fiction writer, for holding on to such flights of fancy. There is much art to be made – many incredible flights of the imagination, from the whimsical to the grotesque, with which to entertain ourselves – in an orbiting-china-teapot world.

 

Remember, boys and girls, your tin foil hat will protect you should the teapot’s orbit disintegrate.

 

*   *   *

Department of Employee Of The Month

 

 

It’s that time, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself.  Again. The need for which I wrote about here.   [11] 

*   *   *

Freethinkers’ Thought Of The Week     [12]

“As established in the Constitution of The United States,
there are three branches of government.

Your religion is not one of them.”
( as per the legions of us often referred to as Anonymous )

 

 

*   *   *

Parting Shot:  I love it when/I hate it when…

I hate it when I have to think about something that makes me want to quote nonsense to combat nonsense…which is something I try to avoid in this space because it takes me to dark places I’d rather not spend time and brain cells mucking through….

Such dark places include the sadly undeniable fact that some people who identify as Christians support a certain, carroty-tinged candidate. 

 

*   *   *

May you find hope in the existence of some young(er), sane, idealistic politician;
May you consider using a haka to celebrate your victories,
acknowledge your defeats, and settle your disputes;
May you enjoy the occasional foray into an orbiting teapot cosmos;

…and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

*   *   *

[1] Not a very good description…you just have to see it for it to make sense.

[2]  There are a variety of hakas (ceremonial dances and shout-chants, usually performed by a group) Māori culture.   “The haka is commonly known as a war dance used to fire up warriors on the battlefield, but it’s also a customary way to celebrate, entertain, welcome, and challenge visiting tribes….it’s also a customary way to celebrate, entertain, welcome, and challenge visiting tribes. The very first New Zealand representative rugby team, known as The Natives, performed a haka during a tour of Britain and Australia in 1888-89. The haka performed then, Ka Mate, is still performed by the All Blacks (NZ rugby team) today.”  (History of Haka, experienceallblacks.com )

[3] “…or her”…nah.  It’s usually a he.

[4] He’s young – just 42!

[5]  Sagan’s dictum is related to Occam’s razor and other scientific and philosophical principles on how the weight of evidence for an extraordinary claim must be proportioned to the extraordinariness of the claim)

[6] Because the teapot is too small to be seen by our telescopes, for example, but really, it *could* be there, you just can’t see it.

[7] With minor quibbles as to the varying definitions for what one person may find “extraordinary.”

[8] Which is where most of them belong.

[9] and the causes of/reasons for these sporadic interventions vary among the various supernatural theologies (read: religions)….

[10] I’m not going to quote those here; I just wanted another footnote.

[11] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg.  Until I did.

One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens.  No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.

[12] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists.  No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.”  Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org

The Trip I’m Not Bragging About

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Thanks for checking in, so to speak (…er, write).  I am taking moiself  on holiday.  From this Friday and through June, I will be posting blogs from the same time period of eight years ago (late May-June, 2014).  New posts will return in early-mid July.

Until then, I hope y’all enjoy these reruns (or at least gain a modicum of petty amusement from making fun of them, and/or noting how NOT perspicacious my 2014 blatherings observations turned out to be).  Perhaps they may spark some sense of déjà vu in you, or cause you to contemplate what you were doing and thinking in those pre-pandemic, pre-idiocy epidemic times (i.e., before the debacle that was #45).

Moiself  apologizes for the fact that visuals (pictures; video clips) in the original posts may or may not be included.
*   *   * 

Pomp and Circumcision

Belle graduated from high school. And as the closing strains of “that song” – arguably and most famous/recognizable processional in the world – wafted through the auditorium’s sound system, there was a momentary catch in my throat.

Closing strains. Oh and yes, I and Belle’s family and friends, all twelve of us, caught only the closing strains of P & C because we were seated in an “overflow” area, not in the gym where the ceremony was held.  We had to (or got to, depending on your POV) watch the ceremony via closed circuit transmission to a screen in the school’s auditorium, “we” being we who had arrived before the ceremony started but could not find a parking place and had to circle the school and park a bazillion miles away and then be bussed back to the school….. There were over one hundred of us we’s in that situation.  So, who gave out more tickets than the place could hold?

Oy vey.  Our peanut gallery seating did have its charms, as we got to make snarky comments about it the ceremony because there was no one to object and no one to embarrass (what with Belle being on stage with the other valedictorians in the gym).  While the audio transmission was (unfortunately) adequate, the video took colorful license, and we were treated to the sight of the various speakers, musicians and vocalists turning from green (“Martians!”) to blue (“Breathe!  Inhale!”) to yellow (“Jaundice!”) to red (“OMG, the diplomas are being handed about by munchkins!”).

“Class of 2014, turn your tassles!”

Re my comment as to the unfortunate audio clarity:  no one really needs to clearly hear yet another painfully botched rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.  Why it is played on such occasions (why it is played at all, anywhere) is beyond me.  When I am anointed Grand Bahoobie of the Planet, the only person allowed to sing the SSB will be Aretha Franklin.

And the speeches.  There should be no speeches, by the adults, unless they are under one minute and include fart and/or elephant jokes.  Okay, let one of the Vals do a brief speech for/to/about their class – I suppose you have to have that.  But keep it short; get ’em graduated and out of there.  Just ask those around you, as I did: who ever talks about – who ever can remember anything about – the speeches given at their graduation ceremonies?

Ah yes, the grad speech thing. If you’re the poor schmuck lucky student chosen to give it, say a few kind and funny things about your fellow students, but not at the expense of the elders in the audience. As we were leaving the school – after the ceremony, after the graduates and their families and friends shared congratulations and took  pictures before the grads were whisked off to the all-night grad party – I ran into BTY, the girl who’d given her class’s commencement speech.  BTY was one of Belle’s fellow valedictorians, and I knew her and her parents from when she and Belle had been on the freshman volleyball team.  I congratulated them all, said BTY must be proud of her accomplishments, and complimented BTY on her speech…which, I added, I can’t resist picking one nit with it.  That part where BTY commented on how their class’s parents and grandparents misunderstood and mislabeled their generation, and about how “our parents and grandparents don’t understand our technology”?  Ahem.  Your parents INVENTED THAT TECHNOLOGY.

I got a laugh and a wink from her father and a high five from her mother.

Q: How does every French joke start?
A: By looking over your shoulder.

*   *   *

 We are Americans in Paris, and that’s no joke.

By we I mean Belle and I.  There is, of course, a story behind this.

Most college bound high school students take two years of a foreign language, to meet the minimum college entrance requirement. Five years ago, the summer before she was to enter high school, I made a deal with Belle.  If she stuck with one language for all four years, after her graduation she and I would travel to a major city in a country that spoke that language.

She’d been thinking of taking Japanese, which Liberty High School offered at that time. But budget cuts be praised,[1] the school no longer offered Japanese.  She decided to take French.

Despite a slew of AP classes and other responsibilities Belle stayed with French up through her Junior Year, and signed up for French 4 her senior year, even after finding out her favorite French teacher, the one she’d had for French 2 and 3, was to be transferred to another school (that damn budget thing again) and thus French 4 would be taught by the teacher she had for French 1 – the same teacher who taught both French and German, the same teacher who, three years earlier, had announced to her French 1 class’s parents on Back to School Night that she really didn’t enjoy teaching French, and that her first love was her German classes. [2]

Mais oui, I digress.

Day 1 of Belle’s senior year: the students pick up their class schedules, and Belle finds out that there will be no French 4.  The look on her face when she returned home that afternoon with the news….

I assured her that she had fulfilled her end of the bargain, and, quelle fromage! she and I were going to Paris in June 2014.

And so, we are here, having more fun than you can possibly imagine [3], or possibly lying in some Parisian alley, sleeping off a baguette and brie hangover.

This très peu message was written in advance, assuming I would not have time to post, what with being busy with all things French, including appreciating ces romantiques français hommes.

Bon voyage, mesdames et messieurs, and may the hijinks ensue.

  Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

[1] Something I never thought I’d find myself thinking…but I had no desire to travel to Japan.

[2] As you might imagine, MH and I were less than impressed.  I think I may have muttered some “____ nazi” comments under my minty breath.

[3] Go ahead, cyber-slap me.

The Hair I’m Not Flinging

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Thanks for checking in, so to speak (…er, write).  I am taking moiself  on holiday.  From this Friday and through June, I will be posting blogs from the same time period of eight years ago (late May-June, 2014).  New posts will return in early-mid July.

Until then, I hope y’all enjoy these reruns (or at least gain a modicum of petty amusement from making fun of them, and/or noting how NOT perspicacious my 2014 blatherings observations turned out to be).  Perhaps they may spark some sense of déjà vu in you, or cause you to contemplate what you were doing and thinking in those pre-pandemic, pre-idiocy epidemic times (i.e., before the debacle that was #45).

Moiself  apologizes for the fact that visuals (pictures; video clips) in the original posts may or may not be included.
*   *   * 

 

The Day of all Days

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the largest seaborne invasion in history, WWII’s Normandy Invasion, aka D-Day.  My uncle, Sgt. Bill O’Malley, was one of the hundreds of US 82nd and 101st Division Airborne paratroopers dropped behind the German lines.  How he ended up not being one of the 12,000 Allied casualties that day was a mystery to him, he would later tell his curious 4th grad niece — that would be me — who asked him about what he did in the war (a question, I later found out, adults almost never posed as Bill had made it plain, after being released from a hospital after the war ended for treatment for “Battle Fatigue” — also aka shell shock, what we now know to be PTSD — that he didn’t want to talk about it).

The enormity and audacity of such an operation…well, there are a many books about it. One of them, Stephen Ambrose’s Band of Brothers, which follows the exploits of a paratrooper division “Easy Company” from D-Day through the Battle of the Bulge to the German surrender, was made into arguably the best mini-series ever.  You need to see it, if you haven’t already. I’m going to watch part of it tonight, and I’ll be thinking of my late uncle, my father, and the other paratroopers, whose courage and tenacity (a part of which was prompted by sheer circumstance and naivete — they so did not know what they were getting into)  needs to be regularly retold, and honored.

The Flinging Blonde

That’s flinging blonde, not singing nun.

Dateline: June 1, out for my morning Nordic Walk on a sunny Sunday morning. I approach the grounds of the neighborhood junior high school and see two high school age girls walking on the sidewalk ahead of me.  One girl has long (almost waist-length), shiny, thick, straight blonde hair.  Long Blondie does two cartwheels in the grass beside the sidewalk.   She springs to her feet after each flip and snaps her head forward and back, which causes her hair to cascade over her face and then down her back.  She ceases her cartwheels but continues to fling her head, now from side to side, flipping her golden mane, which shimmers in the sunlight.

 Look at this hair!  Look what I can do with it! Look at me!

 And yes, she had really, really, really beautiful hair.

Stop me before I fling again.

*   *   *

Speaking of things to fling…

How Much More Clear Does it Have to Get? 

There are people, in media and social media outlets, who continue to twist themselves with mental gymnastics worthy of a Cirque de Soleil contortionist in order to assert that misogyny was not a prime motivating factor in the Isla Vista Shootings.

Uh huh.

 The killer left a detailed, logically composed narrative – a 140 page manifesto – spelling it out.  The killer was a regular participant in chat room forums promoting misogyny, andwas active in the men’s rights (MRA) forums promoting misogyny, and made YouTube videos in which he professed his misogyny, and….

In every facet of his life, he professed and documented his hatred of women.  But hatred of women, according to some denialists, could not have been the prime motivation of his killing spree. These denialists also assert that if we talk about misogyny, and about the parts of our culture that treat misogyny as normal, even acceptable or even entertaining, we are sensationalizing or “politicizing” a tragic event.

Sic ’em, Greta Christina:

 “When men in Islamist theocracies assault, rape, and kill women, we have no problem calling it misogynist hatred. When they explicitly state that their motivation is to enforce God’s gender roles and put women in their place, we have no problem calling it misogynist hatred. And we have no problem laying the blame, in large part, on the culture that teaches this hatred, and on the thousands of ways both large and small that Islamist theocratic culture teaches this despicable concept of women.

 “So why is it so hard to see the Isla Vista shootings as motivated by misogyny?”

In her righteously WTF? blog post Elliot Rodgers and Misogyny Denialism, [1] author and activist Christina calls out the b.s. in her usual, incisive, rational and pissed off prose…even as she she recognizes the motivations behind our desire to recognize the reality of our culture’s underlying misogyny: because it is just to damn painful, and frustrating, and humiliating.

Read it and weep.  Better yet, read it and act.

*   *   *

 Is the Paint Dry Yet?

Tuesday evening, the last High School Senior Class Awards ceremony I will ever have to snore through have the opportunity to attend.  Belle received four academic awards; local merchants and community organizations gave out community scholarships…and oh, how a certain someone in the audience wanted to sandpaper her eyeballs in frustration when she heard yet another well-meaning, slow-talking older gent preface his bestowal of an award with, “Let me say a few words about the history of….”

*   *   *

The Snark Watch, Day Seven

MH and I made a bet as to who would make the first snarky comment re Belle’s tattoo: family friend JWW, or MH’s mother. [2]  I will not reveal who bet on whom. Thankfully, neither of us has (so far) won the bet.

 

*  *  *

Coming Attractions [3]

* In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.
(Mark Twain)

* When good Americans die, they go to Paris.
(Oscar Wilde)

* Paris is always a good idea.
(Audrey Hepburn as Sabrina Fairchild in Sabrina)

* The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American. It is more fun for an intelligent person to live in an intelligent country. France has the only two things toward which we drift as we grow older—intelligence and good manners.
(F. Scott Fitzgerald)

 To err is human. To loaf is Parisian
(Victor Hugo)

*   *   *

May the erring and loafing begin, and surely the hijinks shall ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

[1] I know, in last week’s post, I refused to mention his name.  There it is.

[2] MH’s parents flew out from Florida last week, visiting for Belle’s high school graduation.

[3] Why are there only three footnotes in this post?