Prognostication

Of course, the world is going to hell in a handbasket.

The environment is fucked; international geopolitics suicidal; financial systems collapsing; the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity; yes, we’re doomed.

But a person gets tired of hearing that, you know?  I mean, we’re all going to die, right, but is that all anyone has to talk about?

Amidst the dire forecasts of environmental, societal, financial, and cultural collapse, there are some good things to look forward to, aren’t there?  How about:

*     My tomatoes are doing really well this year; I’ve already enjoyed great bounty, and in the next few weeks, I’m confident that dozens more will ripen on the vine

*     The 2020 Chevrolet Corvette looks awesome

*     Ebola appears to be treatable, if not curable

*     The longstanding war between dogs and cats may end in our lifetimes

*     I’ll be dead before the all the glaciers melt

*     Meat grown in laboratories will soon be available in stores; sugar-free candy made entirely from recycled plastic is on the horizon

*     Donald Trump will eventually not be President of the US

*     Pretty soon, language-translator implants will be commercially-viable

*     The tattoo fad cannot go on forever

*     It’s only a matter of time (time being infinite) before the Seattle Mariners win the World Series

*     Cell phones will appear to our descendants as quaint and old-fashioned as does the Pony Express to us

*     The novel is still not dead and will surely outlive us all

*     Human composting becomes legal and widely-adopted

*     By the year 2050, no one will read from bulleted lists in PowerPoint anymore

*     The popularity of the board game, “Monopoly” will continue to decline

*     We’re having potatoes for dinner

*     A twelve-blade razor will surely be the norm before too long

*     This really is the Rolling Stones’ final tour

*     The next dominant species after human beings won’t have a planet full of fossil fuels to use up

*     I won’t be writing another essay about prognostication anytime soon

Truth

Among all the terrible, awful things that Donald Trump has done as President of the United States, the worst, in my view, is the way in which he has undermined the concept of truth in the public sphere.  

Due to his own constant lying and even more, his ongoing denigration of news sources that are committed to reporting the truth, it’s become harder than ever to determine what really is the case.  And people seem less interested than ever in trying to find out what’s true than they are in promoting an account of things that’s consistent with their own political and/or social agenda.

The truth has never been easy to uncover or establish.  Philosophers, artists, scientists, even politicians in some cases, have devoted their lives to the pursuit of truth.  But the effort to describe things in a manner that accords with reality has long been considered a noble effort.

Not anymore.  

Truth has been said to be the first casualty of war; perhaps, then, we are at war, since it was clearly the first casualty of the Trump administration.

All politicians lie; we know that; you can tell they’re lying because their lips are moving goes the old saw.  But typically, at least, they knew when they were lying, and their lies could be held against them.  

But Trump just asserts whatever claim he feels like making; I’m not at all convinced he has any idea whether he is telling the truth or not.  And that’s because he doesn’t care whether his words accord with reality; it’s not even obvious to me whether he has any conception of what’s real in any case.

All this just makes the truth more elusive.

I’m not saying that there isn’t room for interpretation in some cases; I’m enough of a post-modernist to recognize that truth is contextual and connected with power, as well.

But some truths are not only true, but self-evident, and that’s the truth no matter what.

Sports

I watch, listen, and follow on the internet a variety of sports: baseball, football, hockey, basketball sometimes, occasionally golf, soccer, especially the Women’s World Cup, horseracing when it’s the Triple Crown, the Tour de France, and these days, the Cricket World Cup, as well.

Does that make me a loser?  

Probably, sure.  But, so what?

Sports can be reasonably entertaining, and a good counterpoint to reading War and Peace, which is another of the ways I’m spending time during my vacation.  Is paying attention to the exploits of the Indian national team on the cricket pitch really any different than following the action of the Russian Army at the Battle of Austerlitz?  

Probably, sure, but so what? 

My interest is largely academic; I don’t really care who wins or loses the events that I follow.  It’s not that I don’t have preferences; it’s just that, I realize that, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter whether India prevails over Australia in cricket, or even of the Pittsburgh Pirates beat the Chicago Cubs in baseball.  

I can’t even remember who won the Superbowl that year before last—although I can recite the baseball World Series winners from 1960 to 1971; is that pathetic, or what?

Probably, sure, but so what?

I blame the culture I’ve grown up in for my condition; had I been born in 19^th century Russia, I wouldn’t care about baseball at all.  Is that because it hadn’t been invented yet?

Probably, sure, but so what?

I might, if I lived at that time, be pretty into horseracing.  The princes and counts in Petersburg all seemed relatively caught up in the outcomes of races between this horse versus that one.  Could it be that gambling played a part?

Probably, sure, but so what?

In the end, I think it’s a lot better to root for regional sports teams on the playing field than national armies on the battlefield.

Probably, sure, but so what?

Comments II

There are any number of things I do which I shouldn’t: mindlessly pick the scab on my wrist during a curriculum meeting so that I start bleeding profusely while talking about outcomes assessment with my colleagues; submit a bid for another Pendleton shirt on eBay, even though I’ve got more than I can ever wear in this lifetime; drink a Mai-Tai as a nightcap to an evening of beer-drinking in order to get up my courage for performing “Renegade” by Styxx, to name a few.

But all of these pale in comparison as bad decision-making to my regular, and always ill-advised choice to read the “Comments” section of online articles on The New York Times, Stranger Slog, Seattle Times, and other sources of internet news and commentary.

You think that once burned, twice shy would be my mode of operation, especially when it’s more like ten thousand times burned.  

Consider the countless occasions on which I’ve idly clicked to read the Comments on an article about bicycle commuting or higher pay for teachers or some sort of path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants and have been rewarded by the most caustic, small-minded, and unoriginal responses from commenters who seem to have nothing better to do with their lives than spew reactionary venom from the basements of their parents’ split-level rambler in Arizona or wherever the hell it is they’re doing so.

It never makes me feel good, so I’m not sure why I do it.  Probably, there’s a bit of “rubbernecking” going on; I can’t help but stare at the massive 20-car pileup of human interaction as I go past; apparently, I want my expectations that people will fail to meet my expectations for critical thinking, civility, and proper punctuation to be met.

There’s always that guy (inevitably, a guy) whose comments make my blood boil and steam pour from my ears; and you can be sure if he commented upon this, it would be even worse.

Vacation

I am, really for the first time in almost a year, on vacation.

Woo-hoo.

I realize skeptics will look askance and opine: “But weren’t you on sabbatical from September to April?  What about that?”

To which I will admit: “Yes, indeed I was, but that’s just the point.  During all that time, I was under contract and for most of it, fulfilling the responsibilities associated with my Fulbright grant.  I never had a day off; I was always representing my school, my country, and the discipline of Philosophy for Children.  During any of that period, had I been arrested, the headlines (well, probably the page four sub-head) would have noted that it was college professor/Fulbright grantee, David A. Shapiro, who had allegedly done whatever.”

Now, though, I’m off-contract, a private citizen, who no other responsibilities or affiliations than those I give myself.  I’m free, in other words, to fully fuck up on my own time.

Not that I have any particular plans to do so; I’d like a quiet summer of fiction-reading, pot-smoking, and lake-swimming.  Spending time in police custody would certainly put a damper on that way of life.

Still, it’s liberating to not be a representative of anything but myself.  I’m relieved that, for the next three months or so, my actions do not reflect on the integrity of the US State Department or Cascadia College or even the American Philosophical Association.  I can no longer damage their reputations just by besmirching mine.  Now, it’s up to them to look bad on their own.

Of course, this doesn’t mean my peccadillos can’t make anyone but me look bad; should I embarrass myself with unfortunate behavior, I suppose that will reflect poorly on middle-aged White males of Western European and Jewish ancestry.  

But really, here’s a group that’s already done a stellar job of making themselves look less than spectacular; surely nothing I can do will make us look any worse than we do now. 

When

The most common answer my students give to the question, “What is something you would not want to know?” is “when I will die.”  They usually say something like “it would make life less meaningful,” or “I’d be scared to find out.”

Not me.  

I’d love for the all-knowing Being to tell me the exact moment of my demise.  If it were sooner than I expect, then I could get busy really living before my time is done; if it were later, then I’d be able to take up base-jumping right away.

In reality, I think I have a pretty good idea, barring accident, of when I’ll die.  Or, at least, I think I know when I’d like to.

For years, I always told people I expected to make it to 112.  Now, having made it well past the halfway point to that number, I can think of nothing I’d less like to do.

Life, for all the joys and adventure it offers, is still essentially suffering, and things will only get worse with the worsening decay each additional year inevitably brings.

And even if meditation, yoga, and recalibrated aspirations lead to the elimination of all those desires which currently cause so much misery, no doubt there will be other sources of distress: health problems, loved ones dying, some newer, more compelling fad than the mobile phone, yet another Rolling Stones concert tour—you name it.

Spare me.

I’m thinking 25 more years will be plenty.  I’ll be 87 then, which is almost two decades beyond the biblical allotment of three score and ten.  Anything I hope to do I should be able to finish by then and anything I haven’t done, I probably didn’t really want to, anyway.

It would be nice to be reasonably healthy up to that point, but if I’m not, I’d be satisfied to end things sooner. 

Just have that all-knowing Being send me my expiration date and I will plan accordingly.