Dr. Sowell: Stupidity Trickling Down

The always brilliant and thoughtful Thomas Sowell has a piece today on a subject I find disturbing... and which is, I think, a great example of the alarming direction being taken by reasoned debate in today's society. He says, in part:

If education provides anything, it should be an ability to think -- that is, to weigh one idea against an opposing idea, and to use evidence and logic to try to determine what is true and what is false. That is precisely what our schools and colleges are failing to teach today.

Read the whole thing.

There's something else that's a component of, or at least a partner to this: the constant, loud demonization of the opposition in public debate. It's something I've been meaning to write about, and I will do that in a bit. Stay tuned.

Michael Jackson: Pitiable. Pathetic. Sad.

I really don't want to be fascinated by the Michael Jackson spectacle, but I am. The whole circus if just another example of the sicknesses of our modern society.

I feel sorry for Michael Jackson, I truly do. And that is despite what he may or may not have done with and to the boys who slept in his bed. Now, when I say I feel sorry for him, I am in no way being an apologist for him. But Michael Jackson is, by any standards, a pitiable, pathetic freak. And it's not entirely his fault.

He was robbed of his childhood by an abusive father, and the crushing demands of his profession. He's been sheltered and fawned over all of his life, and was immunized from reality by money and staff. I believe that his view of the world is so filtered through the lens set in place by all of those things, that if most of us were able to see things from his perspective, we'd find it frightening, naive, alien and completely fanciful. Michael Jackson simply has no idea what real people do and think, and how the world operates. And he's 46 years old.

Now, ABC News says he claims he's the victim of a conspiracy:

"...he believes he is just the latest of several 'black luminaries' to be unjustly accused, citing former South African President Nelson Mandela and former heavyweight boxing champions Muhammad Ali and Jack Johnson as others."

He goes on to say:

"I just want to say to fans in every corner of the Earth, every nationality, every race, every language, I love you from the bottom of my heart," Jackson said toward the end of the hourlong interview broadcast live on the Internet.

"I would love your prayers and your goodwill, and please be patient and be with me and believe in me because I am completely, completely innocent. But please know a lot of conspiracy is going on as we speak."

"A lot of conspiracy is going on"??? Does that sound like anyone with any grounding in reality? Michael Jackson is making the same old claims made by everyone else with a hopeless case. One thing they never do, though, is to come up with any cogent reason why anyone would conspire against him. What possible ends could be served through a conspiracy against Michael Jackson?

This is really a personal tragedy made public. We eat it up as if it's just another show, and to many people it is. This will have no long-range effect on anyone other than Jackson and those around him. And when it's all over, we will feed on the carcass of someone else that we have created and thrown away.

And the beat goes on.

Required Reading: James Lileks

Everyone, I suppose, has daily rituals. Mine include certain web habits: I visit Drudge, stop by some of my favorite blogs, that sort of thing. But one that I never, ever miss is James Lileks' daily ramblings he calls The Bleat. Lileks, in case you've never heard of him, is a columnist for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, and a few others. The Bleat is, I guess, a place where all of his extra words go. Lileks writes as naturally as most of us breathe.

Often The Bleat is, to some, uninteresting: He talks about his daughter Natalie (The Gnat,) his Mr. Mom sort of life, his iPod... And sometimes he writes with biting precision about a political or social issue.

Lileks is also a collector of esoterica: His web site is a fascinating attic full of his old ads, his "Gallery of Regrettable Food," old comics, postcards and matchbooks. You can, and I have, spent hours there.

One of the things he's been doing lately is telling the story of "Joe Ohio." It's a rambling serial about a fictional matchbook advertising salesman of the late 50s or early 60s. Lileks gets the storyline from whatever matchbook he happens, at random, to pick from the pile. Joe Ohio is on a short hiatus; he'll return on April 6.

But the thing that made me write this piece is a simple, typical, turn of phrase in today's Bleat. Lileks is recounting his Easter family gathering in his home town of Fargo, North Dakota. In it, he shows once again that as a writer, here is a person who knows exactly how to hit the keys:

The room that fascinated me the most was off the big hall upstairs – a long dark narrow hallway, a closet stuffed with musty clothing (furs, beaded dresses, heavy coats) and a room where they stored detritus from the previous half-century. An old Victrola with a collection of railroad-spike needles; ancient magazines that looked like they came from another country, blankets, board games that cracked and flaked when you opened them up, a weary bed that sagged to the floor when you bounced up and down. The room was like a net they’d dragged through the lake of their lives and thrown on the dock. No one told you what this stuff was; no one really cared to ask.

You can see it... smell it... feel it, can't you? Go ahead and bookmark the site. You'll wind up getting hooked on the Bleat, and you'll probably spend some rainy Sunday afternoons pawing through Lileks' cyber attic.

Finger Food at Wendy's

Did you hear about this? A woman in California found a human finger in her bowl of chili at Wendy's. You can read more here, if you really want to.

But...
--> This brings a new definition to the term "finger food!"
--> At Wendy's if they don't like a customer, they give him the finger!
--> Don't be alarmed, it's just Wendy's new... DIGITAL chili!
--> Could have been worse -- it coulda been a toe!
--> Be quiet about that finger in your chili, or EVERYBODY will want one!

(sfx: rimshots... laughter... weak applause)THANKS EVERYBODY, YOU'RE A GREAT CROWD! I'LL BE HERE ALL WEEK- TELL YOUR FRIENDS...

Extreme Meaninglessness

Note: This is my "End Of The Line" column for the April issue of State College Magazine

There was a time, and I don’t think it was all that long ago, when words meant something. A single word could describe a feeling, an object, or an action. I have always been fascinated with words because I realized a long time ago that words are symbols of things, and not the things themselves. The complexity of human thought and emotion is enormous, and all we have to communicate those thoughts and emotions to one another is words, both written and spoken. And most of the time, words bear the heavy burden we have placed upon them quite nicely.

In recent years, language standards even among professionals have eroded considerably. In the three or so decades in which I have been involved in media, vocabulary, pronunciation and grammar used by broadcasters and other communicators have taken a decided turn for the worse. I was, however, relatively confidant that words still meant something. Until the other day, that is. I was pushing a cart through the aisle at Giant, when I saw something that made me realize that words can now mean anything anyone wants them to mean. There on the shelf was a box of something called “Extreme Pudding Sticks.” They were made by Jell-o, if memory serves.

If that doesn’t at least raise an eyebrow, think about this: If you had asked your parents to bring home some Extreme Pudding Sticks the next time they went shopping, they would have given you one of those concerned looks, and later you may have found the telltale signs of parental snooping through your dresser drawers.

Very dangerous sports performed by crazy people apparently gave rise to the current usage of the word “extreme.” Sports such as skiing down the side of a tall building and jumping out of an airplane while strapped to a rabid pit bull. And “extreme” used in this context is apt: it describes the danger level (and apparently the adrenaline rush) which is inherent in these stunts, as well as the level of mental deterioration displayed by the young knuckleheads who engage in such activities. Advertisers realize, of course, that “extreme sports” are considered cool by those who will be our leaders in a few short years. And hoping to cash in on the cachet, they make sure that “extreme” takes on a whole new meaning which, unfortunately, renders it meaningless. What is less extreme than pudding? And since when did something as floppy as pudding come in a solid form like a stick? So if pudding is a stick, that means “pudding” doesn’t mean what it used to, and it seems likely that “stick” doesn’t either. Hence the entire phrase “Extreme Pudding Sticks” doesn’t seem to mean anything at all.

Remember “awesome”? There’s a word that, in my mind at least, used to conjure images of the Grand Canyon, and choirs of angels, and those beams of light coming through the clouds that used to appear on the covers of gospel music albums. But not long ago, I did a very minor favor for a young colleague, and in a subsequent thank you email, she said that it had been “awesome” of me. No choir of angels there. She also said that I “rock.” Which is a compliment, I realize. I almost emailed back and told her that in point of fact, I had been rocking since long before she was born, but that seemed unnecessarily curmudgeon-like.

Another word which has just about lost its meaning is “literally.” Most people now use it when what they actually want to use is its opposite, which is “figuratively.” I once heard a news reporter during election night coverage say, “Here at headquarters, the candidate is so excited he’s literally bouncing off the walls.” Sounded painful to me. And there goes another perfectly good word, now casually flung onto the meaningless pile. How extremely awesome.

I'm The Only Person In The World...

... who is doing exactly what I'm doing today. I have to be. At the moment, I'm blogging from WPSU, the NPR station at Penn State. When I leave here, I will go to a restaurant in Bellefonte, for which my wife handles the advertising. There, I will direct a TV commercial shoot. This is something I am not particularly good at.

Then, it's back to my office in State College, where I have two hypnotherapy clients this afternoon: one, a young man who, when stressed out, goes into the bathroom and shaves off his eyebrows. He would, understandably, like to change this behavior into something a little less eyebrow-destructive.

Then, I will be visited by a woman who, ever since coming out of anesthesia after a biopsy a few years back, has trouble keeping her eyes open. From time to time they spontaneously slam shut.

I sure lead a strange life. Not dull, mind you. But strange.

Krauthammer on Terri Schiavo

Okay, one more thing on Terri Schiavo, this from Charles Krauthammer. His perspective carries more creds than most: not only is he a Pulitzer Prize winning columnist with the Washington Post, he's brilliant, partially disabled (confined to a wheelchair as the result of an accident) and he's a psychiatrist:

What do you do when you have nothing to go on? You try to intuit her will, using loved ones as surrogates.

In this case, the loved ones disagree. The husband wants Terri to die; the parents do not. The Florida court gave the surrogacy to her husband, under the generally useful rule that your spouse is the most reliable diviner of your wishes: You pick your spouse and not your parents, and you have spent most of your recent years with your spouse and not your parents.

The problem is that although your spouse likely knows you best, there is no guarantee he will not confuse his wishes with yours. Terri's spouse presents complications. He has a girlfriend, and has two kids with her. He clearly wants to marry again. And a living Terri stands in the way.

Now, all of this may be irrelevant in his mind. He may actually be acting entirely based on his understanding of his wife's wishes. And as she left nothing behind, the courts have been forced to conclude based on his testimony that she would prefer to be dead.

That is why this is a terrible case. The general rule of spousal supremacy leads you here to a thoroughly repulsive conclusion.

Read the whole thing...

Rockin' Phat Bunny

This is sort of a cute little timewaster: Just turn up the volume, click here and get down with Easter B...

Nothing More To Say

I was tempted for awhile to write something more about Terry Shiavo, but there is nothing more to write, nothing more to say that hasn't already been said by someone. I can add nothing creative, insightful, helpful, or even particularly philosophical to the mix.

Once again, though, this has devolved from what should be a solemn and contemplative discussion about the issues of life and death and perceived rights therein, to shouting matches and demonization by both sides of thier opposition. And this is one of the things that disturbs me most in today's climate: Both sides of a thorny (or not so thorny) issue increasingly see malevolence in thier opponents rather than principled arguments.

Until we can realize that, although there are extreme and ulterior motives lurking in the shadows on all sides of an issue, most people are good and decent and struggling to do the right thing, we are doomed to live in an ever more poisonous atmosphere.

Dennis Prager: Moral Bank Accounts

Dennis Prager is a California talk show host, an observant Jew, and a wise and thoughtful writer. He writes today of what he calls "moral bank accounts," and his observations certainly deserve contemplation:

If you've ever heard of a Ponzi scheme -- and almost every American has -- you will surely assume that Charles Ponzi, the man after whom the scam was named, was a bad man. He, like everyone else who ever started the scheme, cheated people out of their money. But a fascinating new biography of Charles Ponzi by Mitchell Zuckoff, "Ponzi's Scheme: The True Story Of A Financial Legend," reveals that a few years before inventing his scheme, Ponzi had given a fair amount of his skin so it could be grafted onto a woman who he learned was dying of severe burns. He suffered pain from this act of incredible generosity, which saved a person's life. Yet, were it not for this biography, who would ever associate Ponzi with anything except scamming people out of their money?

I note this because it brings home a point that is often lost on most people -- religious or secular, conservative or liberal -- that human beings all have what I call moral bank accounts. Just like a real bank account into which we make monetary deposits and from which we make monetary withdrawals, we make moral deposits into and moral withdrawals from our moral bank accounts based on the actions we engage in during our lifetime.

As Professor Reynolds says, read the whole thing...

Can't Trust That Day

Lawsa mercy, it's Monday. How did that happen?

After all these years, I still think of Sunday night as the Mother Of All School Nights. When I tuck myself in on Sunday nights, I always have that feeling of vague dread that I had when the Ed Sullivan show was over and it was time to trudge down the hall.

It probably doesn't help that, due to the time I get up, my bed-time is exactly the same as it was in 4th grade: 9:00 PM. I can stay up for The Simpsons, and Arrested Development, and then the weekend is over. A period of sleep, then grumpy grown-up Monday responsibilities come rushing back like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist (thanks, Firesign.)

And tonight I must attend a meeting of an art festival board of directors of which I am a member. I was supposed to have done one particular thing in advance of this meeting, and had months to do it. I didn't. It's not particularly crucial, and I did many other art festival tasks (I am the entertainment director -- in charge of booking the talent -- and I've done all that) but this one thing, I did not do. And there's no good reason. I just didn't, and it's too late. So there will be the inevitable uncomfortable moment this evening when I have to admit that.

But we've all done (or not done) things like that, right? Right?

It's Spring!

Well, how 'bout that! It done snuck up on me! I didn't realize until just moments ago that today, Sunday the 20th is the first day of Spring '05! The Vernal Equinox clicked into place this morning at 7:34 EST. Tra-la-tra-la and all that. A bit premature, perhaps, but Its May... it's May... the lusty month of May... from Camelot has started cruising through what passes for my mind.

Good Morning

It's 5:17 AM. Monday through Friday I'm up at 4:00 so I can go in and put on my serious NPR-style frowny-serious radio news voice, but today, Sunday, I get to sleep in for an extra hour because I'm not due on the air til 7. I do the local hosting for Morning Edition Sunday. Essentially, I'm just there for 4 hours to push the buttons and make sure everything that's supposed to go on the radio actually does. Now and then, I open the mic and say "You're listening to WPSU State College... WPSB Kane, and WKVR Huntingdon... listener-supported Public Radio for central Pennsylvania."

I started my radio career back in 1972 -- one of my first jobs was the Sunday morning shift at WDBO radio in Orlando (The Great 58!) Sunday morning is considered an entry-level sort of job. Well, to stuff the whole career in a nutshell, I was a hot-rockin' Top 40 DJ in Orlando, Daytona Beach and Honolulu -- and believe me when I tell you that a 22-year-old recently-divorced hot-rockin' Top 40 DJ in Honolulu can have far more... uh... fun than is good for him.

I was the morning anchor of the Florida Network in the early '80s... I've done talk radio, covered Space Shuttle launches and landings, once, a news conference at the White House...

And now, I do the Sunday morning shift on a Public Radio station. I like it because it's quiet, I'm alone, (the TV guy's there, but he has his own buttons to push) I surf the Web, catch up on my reading... and have a few minutes for meditation in the green room.

If you want to tune in on all the excitement, you can listen on-line. Just click here: WPSU-FM and click on Listen Live. I'll be solemnly intoning from time to time until 11:00.

Starving To Death

Here are the three words that should be the crux of the matter re Terry Schiavo: starving to death.

I understand the arguments of both sides, and I suspect that most of us, no matter what we say about the sanctity of life or the “right” to die, are thinking that if we were Terry, we’d prefer death to our current situation. I suspect that most of us intuit that in fact Terry would, if she could, say enough already, time for me to go.

We cannot know those things, but I suspect that’s the way we think. But please God, give her that tube back. Because one thing we don’t know is how she feels about starving to death. There is a chance, apparently a fairly good chance, that Terry Schiavo is aware, on some level, of what’s going on around her. Imagine the horror of knowing that, even though you may prefer to die, your death was going to be accomplished, via judicial fiat, through the removal of your only source of sustenance. There was nothing you could do to express your opinion on the matter. And nothing you could do to prevent it.

You might wish to beg for an overdose of morphine, but you couldn’t. All you could do would be to wait for the tube to be removed so that your death by starvation and dehydration could commence. And, from what I understand, that could take a couple of weeks and untold agony.

It is simply not possible to take any principled stance on Terry Schiavo’s plight unless you consider all of the implications contained in the phrase starving to death.
UPDATE: Please read this insightful piece by Andrew McCarthy for more on the issue of slowly starving to death

Questions Of Peace

It was in November, I think. I was driving through downtown State College, Pennsylvania, and there they were in their usual place, at the Allen Street Gate, in front of Old Main: a grim-faced group, just as gray and chilly-looking as the day. Several of them held signs proclaiming, “Quakers For Peace.”

I was reminded of that today as I passed the Presbyterian Church and saw a sign indicating that a vigil would be held tonight to commemorate the second anniversary of the kickoff of the war in Iraq. The sign said, “Honoring Lives. Praying for Peace.” And I got to wondering, just like I did back in November: What do they mean by “peace?” The absence of war? By “peace” do they really mean that we should cut and run? Pull out our troops? And if so, would the result be “peace?” If so, by whose definition? Or do they mean inner peace?

And when they speak of “honoring lives,” whose lives are they talking about? The lives given by our troops? The lives lost during the reign of Saddam Hussein? The lives of the people of the Middle East who are now beginning to experience the first stirrings of democracy?

I don’t know for sure, but I have a feeling that the people who organize vigils of this sort are those who hold some fuzzy, utopian vision of “peace.” Those who can solemnly intone (or have their bumper stickers do the intoning for them), “War Is Not The Answer.” And, when questioned as to what that means still do not comprehend that the “answer” depends entirely on what the question is.

Cancel the AKA

Okay, enough of the Stevie B, although you're always welcome to use that nickname, if you'd like. No point in being anonymous. My name is Steve Biddle, and I live about 20 miles from State College, Pennsylvania, home of Penn State University. I work part-time at WPSU Radio (NPR) and am the "voice" of WPSX-TV (PBS). Which may seem at odds with my somewhat conservative leanings. So like anything else about my life is normal?

The magazine I write a monthly column for is State College Magazine, and my hypnotherapy practice is called Tranquility Park Self Empowerment, Inc.

Pleased ta meetcha!

Well, Hi There!

It's moving day. I just moved into this nice new blog, and I'm still unpacking the boxes. I don't know yet whether I'll hang the pictures. For a one person... uh... vanity... blog, that just seems a little egotistical, don't you think?

Well, so let's see. Why do I even have a blog? Why does anyone?

Okay, as it says in the description, I'm middle-aged (okay 50,) male, married, no kids. During my short, unspectacular college career, back in the long-ago days of the 70s, my friends gave me the nickname Stevie B. Recently, a very dear friend revived that name. So that's who I'll be here, for now. We have a wonderful little dog: Sparky. And a big smelly cat: Alvin. We live in rural central Pennsylvania where I have a broadcast production studio. You may hear my commercials from time to time on the Talk Radio Network. That's the one that carries Hugh Hewitt, Laura Ingraham, and others.

You've also heard my work if you've ever seen the show (on PBS stations) "Staying At A Lighthouse." Or a show about dinner trains of which I cannot remember the name on The Food Network. Or if you live in west central Florida and are a subscriber to Bright House Networks cable system. Or other random places where my voice pops up on radio or TV. I'm not one of the first-tier, national announcers you hear on the Big Network Commercials though. I'd like to be... I wouldn't have to do anything else except a commercial or two a week. Ah, what a life that would be!

I'm also a certified Hypnotherapist, specializing in helping people quit smoking, lose weight, and manage stress.

And I write a column for a local magazine, along with the occasional piece for a local bi-weekly business publication, of which my wife is the associate editor.

And I work part-time as a morning news anchor on our local NPR station.

Why "Speak Softly?" Let's just say that as I get older, I get tired of the strident, loud, raucous, rude, divisive, coarse, shouting you hear from all quarters these days. There was a time... or maybe I'm just being naive... when people could disagree without screaming at each other. Without assuming stupidity or evil intent on the part of those with whom they disagreed.

I long for that time, whether it ever actually existed or not. Civil discourse. Being polite. Respecting one another's humanity. Speaking softly.

Sure, I have opinions. Some of them quite strong. For the record, although I don't consider myself far right-wing, I tend toward conservatism. If you want to yell and scream and call me an idiot, that's fine, but I'll just delete your email. This blog isn't about apopletic fits. I invite you to comment, but in a civilized manner. And wipe your feet before you come in. I don't want you tracking mud all over my nice clean floors. Please. Thank you.

I do tend to have something of a biting and sarcastic side, which will come out from time to time, but even then you won't find obscenity, or flaming here. Nope, it's an oasis of calm. Peace. Tranquility.

Okay. That's enough for now. I hope you'll check in from time to time. I don't think this'll become essential reading like Lileks, but you're always welcome. It'll get more interesting... this is just the obligatory Here's-Who-I-Am-And-What-This-Blog-Is-All-About initial statement.
More later...
stevie b