Spectator violence sounds more psychological or sociological than philosophical, but we have no fear of challenge. Mostly, we examined the roots of the behavior, the source and support for it.
It seemed we all agreed that there's an amount of group-think behind the phenomenon, with the spectators resorting to violence in order to prove their allegiance to the group (or team) and behaving in the way the rest of the group is, without having any conscious motives. I say it's a subset of mob violence, when there aren't rational bases for conflictive behavior. The crowd gives in to a hive mind. It doesn't even have to be actual violence on the part of the spectators to count for me; in many team sports, such as ice hockey, there's a demand for vicarious violence. The crowd chants, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" at the players, waving their fists, pounding on protective glass, demanding their avatars on the field/court/ice enact all their aggression for them.
The personification of spectator violence is for many of us the British soccer hooligan. Our British representatives in the group assured us that one of the main causes for that type of violence was the availability of alcohol at the games, with the social tolerance both for consumption and acting out of pent of emotions while under the influence.
In fact, frustration was identified as another major component of the recipe for spectator violence. Either anger that "your" team is losing or playing badly, that the refs aren't making fair calls, or anger that comes over from the injustices of daily life can be the fuel for the spectator's fire. There's a need to release tensions and vent unpleasant feelings that is easily met at sporting events. It has been said that this was part of the success of the Roman circuses: they met the needs of the people to de-stress when they had no other legitimate ways of doing so, being at peace and in a "civilized" society.
On contributor, the true philosopher among us, wrote a short essay on the subject beforehand, in which he used the phrase, "Football [in Spain] isn't a sport, it's a religion!" Any expat or student of Spanish language has heard this joke time and time again, a somewhat tongue-in-cheek analysis of the importance of that particular sport to the public. However, in our discussion, it touched of a tangential rant about making fun of believers, how unfair it is, how the speaker has never in his life heard any believer insult those who don't share the faith, it's just those stinkin' atheists, etc. It seemed to be an extension of a disagreement from the week before, when he had an is-not/is-too argument with another participant. My bar stool analysis is that he's filled to the brim with frustration that the clear rules of religious tradition are no longer valid and individuals are (supposed to be) more responsible for themselves and their behavior. At least he didn't resort to violence.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Saturday, February 22, 2014
when pigs fly
Some might call it treason to grab up a beer from Barcelona, but really beer can never be a betrayal of any kind. It's an damn honest drink!
The beer is as craft IPA-y as can be in appearance, with a nice slightly tanned color. Head is not abundant, but lasting. A whiff reveals a light but snappy smell. As to the taste, it's bitter all over, but with a clean flavor; moderate citrus after a couple of sips. It's a solid craft without feeling like it's trying to overachieve.
The label itself is amusing to me, with most of the text in English, the pig speaking Spanish, and the ingredients listed in Catalan, English and then Spanish.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
To Be Objective
We have the idea that being objective is a good thing. We say, "We need to look at this objectively," and "It's important to hear an objective opinion." We also admonish others to "be more objective" when they are relying more on emotion or personal bias to reach conclusions.
So, isn't that what being objective means? We remove ourselves from personal prejudices and small-picture influences in order to make the best decision, come up with the fairest solution. Being objective means being impersonal, not considering only our own best interests, but the interests of other parties involved, or the group as a whole, as equally or even more important. However, telling somebody, "You need to be more objective!' also has the meaning of "Stop disagreeing with me when I want to be right!"
Is it even possible to be truly objective? In the discussion, the consensus was no, with the prime example being journalism. There are many romanticized stories about reporters telling only the facts, especially in the past, but we can find innumerable examples of news stories pushing the reader to make one conclusion or another, from any age. Even photography isn't completely objective, since the photographer decides to take the photo at a certain moment, from a certain angle, focusing on a certain point. Then, only certain shots are published. It may well be that most reports and stories are not transmitted with the intention of influencing the public; the reporter may wish only to inform, to give the cold, hard facts. But one fact is this: words mean things. Not only their dictionary definition, but the feeling that they produce when read or heard. This is the reason literary figures choose some words over others, and why some words are used in news stories while their "synonyms" are not, even if done unconsciously. The lauded "journalistic objectivism" does not seem to exist in reality.
A detour into subjectivism occurred during the discussion, in which it was mentioned that to be subjective, one has to acknowledge the facts, but the best way to get what you want is to be completely subjective, that is, interpreting reality in the way that best suits you. Having material or social power makes it then more likely that others will accept your interpretation, and "create" the reality that leads to your achieving your goals. Statistics and numbers seem like an antidote to subjective and manipulative interpretations in science, but we were able to come up with a number of situations in which the numbers, while true, were interpreted in ways that made their meanings shift; a couple of examples are crime rates, abortion, and climate statistics. The interpretation of these numbers appears to have its basis in our emotional reactions to them, since we want very much for certain things to be true about our world and tend to ignore or dismiss evidence to the contrary.
At this point, an argument was stoked by an assertion that fundamentalists of any stripe or idiots. Another participant indignantly refused to accept that Catholic fundamentalists were idiots, since "99% of humanity" was Catholic in the past. He also refused to accept that believing in invisible flying elephants was akin to believing in angels, effectively demonstrating how our prejudices, conscious or unconscious, steer our interpretations of facts into the realm of pure subjectivity.
The comment was made that the only objectivity that exists is that which can be measured with a standard. The standard itself is a subjective measurement of reality, but it is as close as we can get. This may be the reason for the existence of such inflexible fundamentalists. They have created a standard and are rigorously applying all of reality to it, finding it (reality) utterly lacking. They have a deep-seated wish to have a leader, unwavering, sure and steady, who will guide their every step so that they don't have to waste their time considering all the possibilities and consequences. These fundamentalists are not necessarily religious. From what I've read, the same could be applied to Randian Objectivists and political ideologues of many stripes who do not depend on a deity for their authority, but rather "reason".
What about the morality of objectivity vs. subjectivity? While it is impossible in practice to avoid subjectivity, the problem I have with it is its unshareableness. You can tell me what you see and hear, but I don't see what you see or hear what you hear. I can only interpret the words you use to describe it. There is normally a certain standard for what words represent, but that standard is hardly universal is constantly changing. Words are poor deliverers of objective fact. But that's a matter of my subjective opinion.
So, isn't that what being objective means? We remove ourselves from personal prejudices and small-picture influences in order to make the best decision, come up with the fairest solution. Being objective means being impersonal, not considering only our own best interests, but the interests of other parties involved, or the group as a whole, as equally or even more important. However, telling somebody, "You need to be more objective!' also has the meaning of "Stop disagreeing with me when I want to be right!"
Is it even possible to be truly objective? In the discussion, the consensus was no, with the prime example being journalism. There are many romanticized stories about reporters telling only the facts, especially in the past, but we can find innumerable examples of news stories pushing the reader to make one conclusion or another, from any age. Even photography isn't completely objective, since the photographer decides to take the photo at a certain moment, from a certain angle, focusing on a certain point. Then, only certain shots are published. It may well be that most reports and stories are not transmitted with the intention of influencing the public; the reporter may wish only to inform, to give the cold, hard facts. But one fact is this: words mean things. Not only their dictionary definition, but the feeling that they produce when read or heard. This is the reason literary figures choose some words over others, and why some words are used in news stories while their "synonyms" are not, even if done unconsciously. The lauded "journalistic objectivism" does not seem to exist in reality.
A detour into subjectivism occurred during the discussion, in which it was mentioned that to be subjective, one has to acknowledge the facts, but the best way to get what you want is to be completely subjective, that is, interpreting reality in the way that best suits you. Having material or social power makes it then more likely that others will accept your interpretation, and "create" the reality that leads to your achieving your goals. Statistics and numbers seem like an antidote to subjective and manipulative interpretations in science, but we were able to come up with a number of situations in which the numbers, while true, were interpreted in ways that made their meanings shift; a couple of examples are crime rates, abortion, and climate statistics. The interpretation of these numbers appears to have its basis in our emotional reactions to them, since we want very much for certain things to be true about our world and tend to ignore or dismiss evidence to the contrary.
At this point, an argument was stoked by an assertion that fundamentalists of any stripe or idiots. Another participant indignantly refused to accept that Catholic fundamentalists were idiots, since "99% of humanity" was Catholic in the past. He also refused to accept that believing in invisible flying elephants was akin to believing in angels, effectively demonstrating how our prejudices, conscious or unconscious, steer our interpretations of facts into the realm of pure subjectivity.
The comment was made that the only objectivity that exists is that which can be measured with a standard. The standard itself is a subjective measurement of reality, but it is as close as we can get. This may be the reason for the existence of such inflexible fundamentalists. They have created a standard and are rigorously applying all of reality to it, finding it (reality) utterly lacking. They have a deep-seated wish to have a leader, unwavering, sure and steady, who will guide their every step so that they don't have to waste their time considering all the possibilities and consequences. These fundamentalists are not necessarily religious. From what I've read, the same could be applied to Randian Objectivists and political ideologues of many stripes who do not depend on a deity for their authority, but rather "reason".
What about the morality of objectivity vs. subjectivity? While it is impossible in practice to avoid subjectivity, the problem I have with it is its unshareableness. You can tell me what you see and hear, but I don't see what you see or hear what you hear. I can only interpret the words you use to describe it. There is normally a certain standard for what words represent, but that standard is hardly universal is constantly changing. Words are poor deliverers of objective fact. But that's a matter of my subjective opinion.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
an eye to summer
It's not beer, but it's good to have a little something different every once in a while. Kopparberg was sitting among the lambics in the shop and the strawberry lime blend called to me more than the usual cherry (I'd had a Belgian cherry beer just a couple of days before anyway).
The smell is very sweet, like strawberry candy. There's hardly any citrus at all in it. The taste is also sweet, but there's a good amount of sour underneath, and once swallowed there's a tiny snap of bitter at the back of the tongue. It hangs around in the throat for a while, a little sticky and syrupy. Although pleasant tasting, it's not as clean as I prefer for refreshment after work or on a warm evening.
 |
| The light doesn't do it justice. It looks almost like Cherry 7-Up |
Thursday, February 13, 2014
a tale that forgot
Once there was a little stone house at the end of the world. Maybe it wasn't really the end of the world, but it was on the edge of a short cliff that looked down on a raging shore of a constantly stormy sea, and those who braved the sea said that a few miles out the water poured over another cliff and nothing could be seen beyond the spray and mist that hovered there. So, it was end enough to be called so. Nobody knew why the house was there. There was no reason for it; no roads passed by, there were no towns or farms, and no threat of invasion from beyond the water. But the house was there, unchanging in season after season, and nobody knew who had built it or why.
The closest towns were several days walk from the little house, and it was mostly daredevils who made the journey there and back - back if they survived the dare, of course. But enough returned safely that rumors began to spread of a young girl living there all by herself. At first everyone dismissed the story flat out. Anybody at all in the house was strange, but a little girl, alone, was preposterous. Still, rumor followed rumor, all of them piling up on the others until they formed a hill of belief, and finally a mountain of reality.
After many months, somebody decided that the reality needed a little more solidity, and a group of young men set out from the Gray Town to visit the house. They traveled the expected several days in good weather and good company, for they were all friends. When they arrived at the edge of the world, the stone house was there, bleak as could be, with a great black bird perched on the roof. And to their shock, in spite of their belief, a little girl was sweeping in front of the door with a raggedy looking broom. She looked up as they approached and smiled broadly.
"I knew this was the day to sweep the walk!" she chirped, "I just knew I'd have visitors!"
The young men looked at each other, not sure if they should get any closer, but finally the embarrassment of being wary of a child compelled them to. Big Quinn, the eldest of them, went first and greeted her.
"We come from the town down the Bramble Road. We heard somebody had taken this house and wanted to see if it were true. Maybe you would want something from town that we could deliver?" The girl smiled at them and giggled, but they saw her eyes were flat even though her teeth were showing.
"I don't need anything from any town, but some company once in a while would be nice. Please come in, we'll have tea and cake," and the little girl skipped into the dark stone house. The young men hesitated again, startled by a cry from the bird on the roof. It was not a crow, like they had first thought, but a large black eagle. Its cold yellow eye stared at them and its sharp black beak looked grim and judgmental. "Well?" said the little girl impatiently from the door. And they went in.
The house was cold and damp inside and the furniture looked like mere shadows on the walls. The little girl hummed to herself as she led them into the kitchen, where a large wooden table stood cumbersomely in the middle of the room, by far the realest looking thing in the place. The stools around it were shiny and black, but the table looked like fresh cut wood. As they sat down, the young men could even smell it, and half expected their fingers to come away from it sticky with sap. The little girl passed small chipped plates around, and dull tarnished forks, and sticky cups. When all had their set, she clapped her hands and squealed, "First we need to toast! Raise your glasses to our party, new friends!" and they all clicked their cups together and gingerly pretended to drink while the little girl slurped loudly. As soon as the cups reached their lips, however, the young men glanced around in astonishment. They could taste the tea! Big Quinn, being the leader, was the first to try the "cake". He put the fork to his lips and his eyes bulged out of their sockets while he made an involuntary mmmm! So they all tried. What they tasted was the best cake they'd ever had. The little girl had been watching intently and now started to clap and laugh gleefully. "What a party we'll have!" she shrieked, and the young men lifted their cups again. "Here's to the party!" And they set in to eating and drinking their fill of unseen tea and cakes.
The conversation was lively, although sometimes one of the young men would start and look about as if waking from a nightmare, but quickly drift back into the conversation and comradery at the table. At one point, Big Quinn asked the girl where her family was. "Oh, I don't have a family," she replied matter-of-factly.
"But you cannot be all alone here."
"Of course I can. Do you see anybody else?"
"But how did you get here? When? Why?"
The girl looked sweetly at Big Quinn and said, "I have always been in this house. As long as it has existed and as long as I have. And I am here because it is where I should be." Then she smiled and continued "eating" her cake. The young men tried to ask her more questions, but she acted as if she didn't hear. Among themselves the men continued talking and joking as if they were in a tavern at home. But suddenly the little girl stood up and her voice was like a ray of sunlight piercing the morning gloom. "I'm so sorry. I've kept you here all night. Now you really should go." The young men stood up clumsily and followed the smiling girl to the door. They went out into the light of day as she stood inside still smiling with her teeth and then she shut the door soundlessly.
The young men blinked in the sun and looked around, almost expecting the house to have disappeared. But it was still there and the black eagle was still on the roof, now devouring a rabbit. Blood trickled down the mossy tiles. Slightly sickened, the men turned to begin their journey home and one said softly, "I didn't notice the white feathers in its tail yesterday."
The return journey was much the same as the one before, with the group of friends winding through the woods, trying to keep each other amused. When they camped for the night, they told their ghost stories as they had since they were children, until one of them, unable to hold it in any longer, blurted out a question: "Did nobody else see her fangs?" Silence fell immediately. He did not need to explain more. Little by little the others pulled fragments from their memories of what they had seen from the corner of their eyes at the little girl's table: she had long, sharp teeth like arrow points; she had no eyes, or they were all red, or all black; her skin was green or gray; her hair was thin and slimy. As they focused on the vision, the sound of leathery wings and strangled whispers filled the air around them, until they turned to look right at the girl and the dreadful sight and sounds sunk out of their awareness. Until the talk around the fire. None of them slept that night; they all lay shivering in the dark.
They made good time on their return journey and were startled to see how quiet and empty the town was when they arrived. Not only that, but all the houses were different. They were smoother outside, covered with something the young men did not recognize. Some of them still had faded colors, blue and light yellow, not the natural gray that they knew. And the walls were aged. How could they look so old? Could the young men have taken the wrong path? Big Quinn looked around for some inhabitant to help them, but the few who were to be seen on the streets were wary and met no gaze. Finally they found an old man sitting on the steps of a blackened building that might have been a shop once.
"Excuse me, uncle," said Quinn, "Can you tell us which way to Gray Town?"
The man looked up sharply, with irritation, "Some kinda joke, manling?"
"Not at all, good uncle. It's embarrassing for us to be lost, but here we are."
"That house at the end of the world got us all turned around, I bet," said Fat Edgar to the others.
"What's that? The end of the world?" the old man leaned back with furrowed brow. "It's been a long time since I heard that story. My grandpap said he even knew the boys who went, but he was just a boy of four springs then." Then he struggled to his feet, refusing aiding hands, and snapped, "Why bring that up now? And the Old Name? It's been a royal cycle that this place has been Dural's End."
"What? Who's Dural?"
"Why, the old Prince of the Run, the Lord of the Valley." The young men looked at each other in confusion, not understanding a thing. "Yap, things started to go wrong when those young men left. And every one who leaves now makes it worse. Maybe if they'd stay and work in their own land...ah, what does a crazy old man know anyway?" and he hobbled off down the street of broken stones, leaving the group of young men to accept terrible truths any way that they could.
The closest towns were several days walk from the little house, and it was mostly daredevils who made the journey there and back - back if they survived the dare, of course. But enough returned safely that rumors began to spread of a young girl living there all by herself. At first everyone dismissed the story flat out. Anybody at all in the house was strange, but a little girl, alone, was preposterous. Still, rumor followed rumor, all of them piling up on the others until they formed a hill of belief, and finally a mountain of reality.
After many months, somebody decided that the reality needed a little more solidity, and a group of young men set out from the Gray Town to visit the house. They traveled the expected several days in good weather and good company, for they were all friends. When they arrived at the edge of the world, the stone house was there, bleak as could be, with a great black bird perched on the roof. And to their shock, in spite of their belief, a little girl was sweeping in front of the door with a raggedy looking broom. She looked up as they approached and smiled broadly.
"I knew this was the day to sweep the walk!" she chirped, "I just knew I'd have visitors!"
The young men looked at each other, not sure if they should get any closer, but finally the embarrassment of being wary of a child compelled them to. Big Quinn, the eldest of them, went first and greeted her.
"We come from the town down the Bramble Road. We heard somebody had taken this house and wanted to see if it were true. Maybe you would want something from town that we could deliver?" The girl smiled at them and giggled, but they saw her eyes were flat even though her teeth were showing.
"I don't need anything from any town, but some company once in a while would be nice. Please come in, we'll have tea and cake," and the little girl skipped into the dark stone house. The young men hesitated again, startled by a cry from the bird on the roof. It was not a crow, like they had first thought, but a large black eagle. Its cold yellow eye stared at them and its sharp black beak looked grim and judgmental. "Well?" said the little girl impatiently from the door. And they went in.
The house was cold and damp inside and the furniture looked like mere shadows on the walls. The little girl hummed to herself as she led them into the kitchen, where a large wooden table stood cumbersomely in the middle of the room, by far the realest looking thing in the place. The stools around it were shiny and black, but the table looked like fresh cut wood. As they sat down, the young men could even smell it, and half expected their fingers to come away from it sticky with sap. The little girl passed small chipped plates around, and dull tarnished forks, and sticky cups. When all had their set, she clapped her hands and squealed, "First we need to toast! Raise your glasses to our party, new friends!" and they all clicked their cups together and gingerly pretended to drink while the little girl slurped loudly. As soon as the cups reached their lips, however, the young men glanced around in astonishment. They could taste the tea! Big Quinn, being the leader, was the first to try the "cake". He put the fork to his lips and his eyes bulged out of their sockets while he made an involuntary mmmm! So they all tried. What they tasted was the best cake they'd ever had. The little girl had been watching intently and now started to clap and laugh gleefully. "What a party we'll have!" she shrieked, and the young men lifted their cups again. "Here's to the party!" And they set in to eating and drinking their fill of unseen tea and cakes.
The conversation was lively, although sometimes one of the young men would start and look about as if waking from a nightmare, but quickly drift back into the conversation and comradery at the table. At one point, Big Quinn asked the girl where her family was. "Oh, I don't have a family," she replied matter-of-factly.
"But you cannot be all alone here."
"Of course I can. Do you see anybody else?"
"But how did you get here? When? Why?"
The girl looked sweetly at Big Quinn and said, "I have always been in this house. As long as it has existed and as long as I have. And I am here because it is where I should be." Then she smiled and continued "eating" her cake. The young men tried to ask her more questions, but she acted as if she didn't hear. Among themselves the men continued talking and joking as if they were in a tavern at home. But suddenly the little girl stood up and her voice was like a ray of sunlight piercing the morning gloom. "I'm so sorry. I've kept you here all night. Now you really should go." The young men stood up clumsily and followed the smiling girl to the door. They went out into the light of day as she stood inside still smiling with her teeth and then she shut the door soundlessly.
The young men blinked in the sun and looked around, almost expecting the house to have disappeared. But it was still there and the black eagle was still on the roof, now devouring a rabbit. Blood trickled down the mossy tiles. Slightly sickened, the men turned to begin their journey home and one said softly, "I didn't notice the white feathers in its tail yesterday."
The return journey was much the same as the one before, with the group of friends winding through the woods, trying to keep each other amused. When they camped for the night, they told their ghost stories as they had since they were children, until one of them, unable to hold it in any longer, blurted out a question: "Did nobody else see her fangs?" Silence fell immediately. He did not need to explain more. Little by little the others pulled fragments from their memories of what they had seen from the corner of their eyes at the little girl's table: she had long, sharp teeth like arrow points; she had no eyes, or they were all red, or all black; her skin was green or gray; her hair was thin and slimy. As they focused on the vision, the sound of leathery wings and strangled whispers filled the air around them, until they turned to look right at the girl and the dreadful sight and sounds sunk out of their awareness. Until the talk around the fire. None of them slept that night; they all lay shivering in the dark.
They made good time on their return journey and were startled to see how quiet and empty the town was when they arrived. Not only that, but all the houses were different. They were smoother outside, covered with something the young men did not recognize. Some of them still had faded colors, blue and light yellow, not the natural gray that they knew. And the walls were aged. How could they look so old? Could the young men have taken the wrong path? Big Quinn looked around for some inhabitant to help them, but the few who were to be seen on the streets were wary and met no gaze. Finally they found an old man sitting on the steps of a blackened building that might have been a shop once.
"Excuse me, uncle," said Quinn, "Can you tell us which way to Gray Town?"
The man looked up sharply, with irritation, "Some kinda joke, manling?"
"Not at all, good uncle. It's embarrassing for us to be lost, but here we are."
"That house at the end of the world got us all turned around, I bet," said Fat Edgar to the others.
"What's that? The end of the world?" the old man leaned back with furrowed brow. "It's been a long time since I heard that story. My grandpap said he even knew the boys who went, but he was just a boy of four springs then." Then he struggled to his feet, refusing aiding hands, and snapped, "Why bring that up now? And the Old Name? It's been a royal cycle that this place has been Dural's End."
"What? Who's Dural?"
"Why, the old Prince of the Run, the Lord of the Valley." The young men looked at each other in confusion, not understanding a thing. "Yap, things started to go wrong when those young men left. And every one who leaves now makes it worse. Maybe if they'd stay and work in their own land...ah, what does a crazy old man know anyway?" and he hobbled off down the street of broken stones, leaving the group of young men to accept terrible truths any way that they could.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Does Humor Make Us Human?
One of the most undeniable aspects of our humanity is our method of verbal communication. Although many other animals use sounds to transmit information, as far as we know, we are alone in the complexity of our language. Not only can we share information on tangibles like food or visible possessions, immediate sensation like pain or pleasure, we can also use our words to talk about things that are not present, predictions, or other abstract concepts. Humor is certainly one of the most popular uses of language.
What is humor? There are many varieties, but one of the features that is often used to help define it is surprise. A joke is funny because we didn't expect the punchline. A situation is humorous because it isn't what happens in our normal lives. Although it doesn't always incorporate language, comics or images are amusing because they show us something different and absurd.
Why would this be a trait that we would end up cultivating as a species? Well, it could have to do with stress relief, being a simple way to relieve tensions in people. By laughing at something, we are saying, in a way, "This isn't very important, I don't have to take this seriously." Even very serious situations involving health or safety may be dealt with using "black humor" as a way to cope with fear and/or stress. We can't forget the way we laugh at absurd or surreal situations. Calvin and Hobbes touch on this idea in one of Watterson's many fine comics, in which Hobbes theorizes that without humor and laughing at absurdity, people would not be able to react to many situations in their lives. It also has a way of building relationships between people. Humor tends to come out in relaxed situations (aside from the aforementioned black humor) and people who are relaxed tend to be friendly. The atmosphere is welcoming, the humorists making a space for the audience to enjoy themselves, maybe even participate. It aids in building a certain confidence in one's neighbors, in oneself, even in the future in general. It seems there's nothing negative at all about humor.
Well, not so fast. There is also the humor that depends on another's misfortune. We giggle at somebody who trips in the street, cackle at the toilet paper dragging from someone else's shoe. Slapstick comedies elicit gruffaws from the audience. This type of comedy may be beneficial to us, as it reinforces our sense of superiority - that situation can't happen to us. There's a division between laughing with and laughing at that comes into play, and we separate ourselves into an in-group and an out-group, if not several. We can use humor to hold up social mores, denigrating the out-groups of a different race, religion, gender, whatever. While ostracism seems to be performed in the non-human animal world as well, humans are especially adept and intent on adding humiliation through humor to the mix.
Another use of humor-as-weapon is when it's used against the authorities by the oppressed, downtrodden, or anyone with a beef about how society is being run. There is an interesting double-mindedness here: on one hand, the authorities that take this humor seriously look like asses (no names mentioned); on the other hand, authorities that chuckle graciously or take no notice feel no threat from the humorous attack. When people want to effect change, they do indeed want the authority to take the complaint seriously, and even feel the threat of change looming. An authority that reacts with heavy-handed repression may show that it can crush any divergent thinking, but it also shows that it knows that thinking could become a call to replace it.
When discussing the question on Sunday, there was a confusion between sense of humor and sense of fun in at least one of the commenters. He consistently equated being humorous with tickling, insisting that there had to be trust for tickling to happen. While that particular idea is bizarre, the distinction between humor and fun could be worth examining. When I say humor, I mean the intentional presentation of the absurd or exaggerated for comic effect. I mean the conscious pointing out of the surprising and silly, or representation thereof. The laughter of the tickled is merely a reflex, like kicking when the doctor taps your knee. It is generally in the context of fun, playing a silly game with a baby or a loved one, but it is not humor. Tickling is no representation of the world for our amusement.
The danger in wholeheartedly embracing this characteristic as necessary to be considered human is fairly obvious - there are many different types of humor. It varies by age, by culture, by interest. To say that somebody with a different sense of humor than your own is not human is not an impossible outcome, although highly regrettable. I do, in fact, consider humor to be a necessary ingredient in the human being, but it is not the only one. Humor without other aspects, such as curiosity or compassion, does not make a human. It only makes a bad joke.
What is humor? There are many varieties, but one of the features that is often used to help define it is surprise. A joke is funny because we didn't expect the punchline. A situation is humorous because it isn't what happens in our normal lives. Although it doesn't always incorporate language, comics or images are amusing because they show us something different and absurd.
Why would this be a trait that we would end up cultivating as a species? Well, it could have to do with stress relief, being a simple way to relieve tensions in people. By laughing at something, we are saying, in a way, "This isn't very important, I don't have to take this seriously." Even very serious situations involving health or safety may be dealt with using "black humor" as a way to cope with fear and/or stress. We can't forget the way we laugh at absurd or surreal situations. Calvin and Hobbes touch on this idea in one of Watterson's many fine comics, in which Hobbes theorizes that without humor and laughing at absurdity, people would not be able to react to many situations in their lives. It also has a way of building relationships between people. Humor tends to come out in relaxed situations (aside from the aforementioned black humor) and people who are relaxed tend to be friendly. The atmosphere is welcoming, the humorists making a space for the audience to enjoy themselves, maybe even participate. It aids in building a certain confidence in one's neighbors, in oneself, even in the future in general. It seems there's nothing negative at all about humor.
Well, not so fast. There is also the humor that depends on another's misfortune. We giggle at somebody who trips in the street, cackle at the toilet paper dragging from someone else's shoe. Slapstick comedies elicit gruffaws from the audience. This type of comedy may be beneficial to us, as it reinforces our sense of superiority - that situation can't happen to us. There's a division between laughing with and laughing at that comes into play, and we separate ourselves into an in-group and an out-group, if not several. We can use humor to hold up social mores, denigrating the out-groups of a different race, religion, gender, whatever. While ostracism seems to be performed in the non-human animal world as well, humans are especially adept and intent on adding humiliation through humor to the mix.
Another use of humor-as-weapon is when it's used against the authorities by the oppressed, downtrodden, or anyone with a beef about how society is being run. There is an interesting double-mindedness here: on one hand, the authorities that take this humor seriously look like asses (no names mentioned); on the other hand, authorities that chuckle graciously or take no notice feel no threat from the humorous attack. When people want to effect change, they do indeed want the authority to take the complaint seriously, and even feel the threat of change looming. An authority that reacts with heavy-handed repression may show that it can crush any divergent thinking, but it also shows that it knows that thinking could become a call to replace it.
When discussing the question on Sunday, there was a confusion between sense of humor and sense of fun in at least one of the commenters. He consistently equated being humorous with tickling, insisting that there had to be trust for tickling to happen. While that particular idea is bizarre, the distinction between humor and fun could be worth examining. When I say humor, I mean the intentional presentation of the absurd or exaggerated for comic effect. I mean the conscious pointing out of the surprising and silly, or representation thereof. The laughter of the tickled is merely a reflex, like kicking when the doctor taps your knee. It is generally in the context of fun, playing a silly game with a baby or a loved one, but it is not humor. Tickling is no representation of the world for our amusement.
The danger in wholeheartedly embracing this characteristic as necessary to be considered human is fairly obvious - there are many different types of humor. It varies by age, by culture, by interest. To say that somebody with a different sense of humor than your own is not human is not an impossible outcome, although highly regrettable. I do, in fact, consider humor to be a necessary ingredient in the human being, but it is not the only one. Humor without other aspects, such as curiosity or compassion, does not make a human. It only makes a bad joke.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
heart of stoutness
I like stouts anyway, but I do notice that the beer shop people always compliment my choice when I pick one up. This one from Denmark looks devilishly good - Nekron.
It pours out like chocolate syrup and leaves a thin, tan head on top. It's a lovely opaque beer, with hardly any highlights at all.
It smells a little like chocolate syrup too, and the first taste to march over the tongue is also bittersweet and chocolatey, but within seconds darker, more bitter flavors come out. The label suggests toasted rye bread, and there is something of that to it. The chocolate part has the most staying power, it seems to me, so as the beer goes down it gets more and more like a dessert itself.
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| In English, of course |
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| You clever devil, you |
Saturday, February 1, 2014
golden standards
Something in the blood pulls me towards those German beers. The bottles just stand on the shelves so proudly, without needing to shout at you, knowing you'll pick them up sooner or later. Augustiner was one I enjoyed in Munich anyway.
It has that typical sour lager kind of smell as it fills the glass. It's one of the lighter beers I've had for some time, like a very pale lemonade. The taste is beery as can be though, in a good way. First the touch of bitter and then the mellow lager sweetishness rolls out. The relatively large half-liter bottle is good for sharing a drink with a friend, and the taste is classic but unintrusive if you have serious things to discuss without being distracted by your beer.
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| Summer will return, someday. For now, have some sunshine in a glass. |
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