This post is being made in response to one of our readers, who, in commenting upon one of our posts, expressed dissatisfaction with the intelligence level of our philosophical foils. (Let it never be said that we do not heed the comments. So go comment. Now.) This reader was of course right in that Ayn Rand’s IQ was lower than the temperature in Antarctica or even the IQ of Uwe Boll. According to reliable sources,* any IQ beneath 70 is considered feeble-minded. By this measure, Ayn Rand’s mind was so feeble it couldn’t make it from the easy chair to the bathroom without a team of social workers.
And so I have decided to up the ante with this post—philosophically speaking, that is. And also normally speaking. While my subject today still deserves a hefty dose of Thumb-style ridicule, he was actually kind of a Smart Guy. Arguably. But he was dastardly.
Robber: Immanuel Kant
Robbed: Western civilization
Oh, he played innocent. Look at old Immanuel, no harm to anybody. He just stares at a church steeple all day and then scribbles down some notes about Life, the Universe and Everything.** He’d never hurt a fly, let alone set humanity upon a downward spiral of philosophical inquiry that would hold us at a virtual standstill for at least several centuries and lead to widespread relativism and denial of the metaphysical and epistemological basis of the concept of truth in the human mind.
My purpose is not to delve into Immanuel’s actual philosophy. That would frankly bore readers, and would also require that I actually read his stuff. I have no intention of doing so in the near future, not because I don’t occasionally enjoy inhaling feces directly from the page, but because there are simply too many other good Books around. Like Asimov. But it might be good to show you readers the big picture, at least, and see why his influence has been so perfidious.
After and because of Immanuel, philosophers began to think you couldn’t talk about Truth anymore. It was merely a measure of subjective experience, they said, and not a statement about reality.
While I will not try here to refute Immanuel and his band of groupies in any philosophical sense,*** I will say that this is simply excrement. 2001 really is the greatest movie ever made, not just subjectively so. Millennium Force really is one step beneath heaven. This post really is about Immanuel Kant. Right Thumb really is smarter than you.
Now let’s take a look at a few quotes. Just for fun.
“Happiness is not an ideal of reason, but of imagination.”
If I can understand what he’s saying here (and if I can’t, it’s not a failing on my part but just that ol’ Immanuel liked to be ambiguous), he’s saying that when you actually think about it, happiness doesn’t really exist. Hah-hah! Immanuel clearly never watched Battlestar Galactica. Or Star Trek. Or read Two Thumbs Sideways. Then he would know happiness. (Possibly even ecstasy in the last case.) He must have led a bleak and dreary life. I’ll bet nobody ever gave him a kitten.
“I had therefore to remove knowledge, in order to make room for belief.”
No, you just believed you had to do this.
“Immaturity is the incapacity to use one's intelligence without the guidance of another.”
The other day I saw an elderly gentleman asking for help with his tax returns. I guffawed and said to Right Thumb, “Hehe, so immature!” (As a side-note, Right Thumb’s response was a veritable diarrhea-of-the-mouth concerning the economic theory behind senior citizens, taxes, policy-making, and The West Wing. He clearly felt strongly about many of the issues involved, although I could never quite make out his exact opinions.)
“In law a man is guilty when he violates the rights of others. In ethics he is guilty if he only thinks of doing so.”
I once thought of burning Critique of Pure Reason over Immanuel’s grave. Then I realized the fire might spread so I gave up on it. Oops, I’m unethical.
Now it’s time to finish up with Mr. Kant, simply because I cannot take any more of this. And remember, this post really did exist. Now, to see if our readers do.
> Left Thumb <
* Meaning a Google search.
** Although he was a Smart Guy, Immanuel was not quite smart enough to reach the conclusion of “42”.
*** I am certainly up to the task, but this would once again simply bore our readers to tears. That is, if tears exist other than in my subjective experience.
Showing posts with label Robber and Robbed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Robber and Robbed. Show all posts
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Robber and Robbed: The Russians Are Coming
The following post will not be humorous in the least. If you laugh at it, you are either glaringly ignorant or simply evil. I do not wish to alarm my readers, but I feel it is my duty to interrupt the typical Two Thumbs Sideways formula of witticisms, insights and banter to call a matter of pressing concern to your attention. I present it in Right Thumb’s format of Robber and Robbed because it is necessary to properly convey the facts.
Robbers: Brave New World, 1984, Anthem
Robbed: We
Most people don’t realize this, but it wasn’t the English-speaking world that first came up with the whole totalitarian, thought-suppressing, vaguely familiar and mildly repetitive dystopian book idea.
It was the Russkies.
Which is mildly ironic, because of all the nations on this here planet, the Russians are the only ones who have, in the past, kind of resembled a totalitarian, thought-suppressing dystopia. Nevertheless, in 1921, Yvegeny Zamyatin’s We first appeared. And it’s been appearing again ever since. See, in 1931 Aldous Huxley changed the proper names, mixed up the plot and called it Brave New World. Then in 1949 George Orwell changed Aldous’ proper names, mixed up his plot and called it 1984. And Ayn Rand didn’t even bother to mix up the plot with Anthem. (Apparently her naked soul isn’t so original after all. Or maybe she was too busy talking to those Mystics of Spirit™.)
Now which of these are required reading for impressionable, wildly hormonal teenagers everywhere*?
This just serves to demonstrate the unimpeachable validity of a theory I have long held: the Cold War never ended.
Oh, we may smile and wave when a Russian bomber flies by. We might have redirected our nukes, we might be hobnobbing with their cosmonauts on the International Space Station, we might even invite Putin and Medvedev over for Iran-bashing and vodka—but beneath the pleasant handshakes and warm promises of continued cooperation, we have our collective, metaphorical fingers ever so defiantly crossed.
Oh, we aren’t open about it. No threats, no direct infiltrations. It is much more insidious. It’s through culture and the arts. Instead of space races and nuclear fallout preparation, we do it through high school reading lists—and elsewhere. Haven’t you ever noticed that:
- Even in Star Trek of 2009, Chekov is still the lowest-ranking officer on the bridge. Shameful. I bet they’d make him brew the coffee if they didn’t have replicators. The nerve.
- Dickens has a whole shelf in Borders while Tolstoy has a sprinkling of copies. Ayn Rand also has her own shelf, complete with several editions of Anthem, while Zamyatin isn’t there at all.**
- It remains a proven technique in American film that, if one needs to make a character sound devious, they are immediately given a Russian accent, regardless of true nationality or plot circumstances.
This is just a sampling, I do assure you. I trust you will be on the lookout for similar signs now that you are aware. I also advise that you follow my lead and immediately stock up on batteries, bottled water, short-wave radios, Battlestar Galactica DVDs, canned food, the complete works of Plato, and warm clothing. Then dig a bomb-shelter at least ninety-feet deep in your backyard. (Or another suitable location. Graveyards and oil fields are not recommended.)
After all, you never know. Mr. Putin might visit a bookstore after his dinner-date here in America, and he might not like what he sees.
> Left Thumb <
* Meaning the United States, obviously.
** Leaving Emile Zola as the only “Z” author, which I find to be appalling.
Robbers: Brave New World, 1984, Anthem
Robbed: We
Most people don’t realize this, but it wasn’t the English-speaking world that first came up with the whole totalitarian, thought-suppressing, vaguely familiar and mildly repetitive dystopian book idea.
It was the Russkies.
Which is mildly ironic, because of all the nations on this here planet, the Russians are the only ones who have, in the past, kind of resembled a totalitarian, thought-suppressing dystopia. Nevertheless, in 1921, Yvegeny Zamyatin’s We first appeared. And it’s been appearing again ever since. See, in 1931 Aldous Huxley changed the proper names, mixed up the plot and called it Brave New World. Then in 1949 George Orwell changed Aldous’ proper names, mixed up his plot and called it 1984. And Ayn Rand didn’t even bother to mix up the plot with Anthem. (Apparently her naked soul isn’t so original after all. Or maybe she was too busy talking to those Mystics of Spirit™.)
Now which of these are required reading for impressionable, wildly hormonal teenagers everywhere*?
This just serves to demonstrate the unimpeachable validity of a theory I have long held: the Cold War never ended.
Oh, we may smile and wave when a Russian bomber flies by. We might have redirected our nukes, we might be hobnobbing with their cosmonauts on the International Space Station, we might even invite Putin and Medvedev over for Iran-bashing and vodka—but beneath the pleasant handshakes and warm promises of continued cooperation, we have our collective, metaphorical fingers ever so defiantly crossed.
Oh, we aren’t open about it. No threats, no direct infiltrations. It is much more insidious. It’s through culture and the arts. Instead of space races and nuclear fallout preparation, we do it through high school reading lists—and elsewhere. Haven’t you ever noticed that:
- Even in Star Trek of 2009, Chekov is still the lowest-ranking officer on the bridge. Shameful. I bet they’d make him brew the coffee if they didn’t have replicators. The nerve.
- Dickens has a whole shelf in Borders while Tolstoy has a sprinkling of copies. Ayn Rand also has her own shelf, complete with several editions of Anthem, while Zamyatin isn’t there at all.**
- It remains a proven technique in American film that, if one needs to make a character sound devious, they are immediately given a Russian accent, regardless of true nationality or plot circumstances.
This is just a sampling, I do assure you. I trust you will be on the lookout for similar signs now that you are aware. I also advise that you follow my lead and immediately stock up on batteries, bottled water, short-wave radios, Battlestar Galactica DVDs, canned food, the complete works of Plato, and warm clothing. Then dig a bomb-shelter at least ninety-feet deep in your backyard. (Or another suitable location. Graveyards and oil fields are not recommended.)
After all, you never know. Mr. Putin might visit a bookstore after his dinner-date here in America, and he might not like what he sees.
> Left Thumb <
* Meaning the United States, obviously.
** Leaving Emile Zola as the only “Z” author, which I find to be appalling.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Robber and Robbed: Rubber Ducky Derivatives
I woke up today in a cold sweat, enraged by all the robbers and sympathizing with all those robbed by such nefarious pilferers.
Okay, not actually. But I do occasionally fly into fits of rage when someone mentions certain things to me, like, say Oliver! Not that there is anything particularly wrong with Oliver! (Well, actually, there is, but nothing that would induce my waking up in cold sweats, even fictionally.) It just happens to be a greater thief than Thomas Edison (who will have his own post soon enough, the dastardly punk).
But I'm not going to talk about that at any great length today. Frankly, encapsulating the sheer outrage (some might even say diabolical plot) that surrounds Oliver! winning the 1968 Academy Award for Best Picture would take the aid of Left Thumb. Not because I, Right Thumb, could not list the multifarious and multitudinous facets of this atrocity. No, Left Thumb and I are perfectly capable of doing that on our own. But neither of us could handle the psychological damage without the comfort of another human being who understands. So the Greatest Movie Atrocity of All Time will have to wait for a day when the Thumbs are united. Today the quarry is not quite so unspeakable.
Robber: Sir Isaac Newton
Robbed: Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz
I'm sure you have heard of Sir Isaac Newton. Everyone has, thanks to his legendary, likely apocryphal incident with that apple. But if you aren't 1) a math major/minor (or have taken calculus in the past five years) or 2) in some way related to Right Thumb, odds are you have not heard of Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, despite the fact that he invented calculus.
Oh sure, Newton did too. "Independently" they claim, although Newton probably surreptitiously leafed through Leibniz's work on at least one occasion. But even if they did invent it independently, it doesn't matter. Newton's calculus is abominable. Leibniz's calculus is smoother than I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (heck, it's smoother than Fabio's hair).
What makes this particular theft so hideous? Because this is like the King of the land—who has a billion rubber duckies in his bathtub—stealing the only rubber ducky of some poor soul who loved that rubber ducky far more than the King ever will.* Only in this case, the rubber duckies are scientific and mathematical discoveries, the King is Newton, and the rubber ducky he stole from Leibniz is calculus.
Newton was pretty much guaranteed fame. He figured out, you know, gravity, thermodynamics, classical physics and a few other somewhat important things. He didn't need the credit for calculus. Not to mention his bloody f '(x) notation is horrifically difficult to use compared to Leibniz's dy/dx. That isn't even the point. Leibniz had this one rubber ducky. Let him keep it, you jealous, greedy curmudgeon.
~Right Thumb~
* If you have never watched Veggietales or read the Bible, I suppose this analogy doesn't make much sense.
Okay, not actually. But I do occasionally fly into fits of rage when someone mentions certain things to me, like, say Oliver! Not that there is anything particularly wrong with Oliver! (Well, actually, there is, but nothing that would induce my waking up in cold sweats, even fictionally.) It just happens to be a greater thief than Thomas Edison (who will have his own post soon enough, the dastardly punk).
But I'm not going to talk about that at any great length today. Frankly, encapsulating the sheer outrage (some might even say diabolical plot) that surrounds Oliver! winning the 1968 Academy Award for Best Picture would take the aid of Left Thumb. Not because I, Right Thumb, could not list the multifarious and multitudinous facets of this atrocity. No, Left Thumb and I are perfectly capable of doing that on our own. But neither of us could handle the psychological damage without the comfort of another human being who understands. So the Greatest Movie Atrocity of All Time will have to wait for a day when the Thumbs are united. Today the quarry is not quite so unspeakable.
Robber: Sir Isaac Newton
Robbed: Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz
I'm sure you have heard of Sir Isaac Newton. Everyone has, thanks to his legendary, likely apocryphal incident with that apple. But if you aren't 1) a math major/minor (or have taken calculus in the past five years) or 2) in some way related to Right Thumb, odds are you have not heard of Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, despite the fact that he invented calculus.
Oh sure, Newton did too. "Independently" they claim, although Newton probably surreptitiously leafed through Leibniz's work on at least one occasion. But even if they did invent it independently, it doesn't matter. Newton's calculus is abominable. Leibniz's calculus is smoother than I Can't Believe It's Not Butter (heck, it's smoother than Fabio's hair).
What makes this particular theft so hideous? Because this is like the King of the land—who has a billion rubber duckies in his bathtub—stealing the only rubber ducky of some poor soul who loved that rubber ducky far more than the King ever will.* Only in this case, the rubber duckies are scientific and mathematical discoveries, the King is Newton, and the rubber ducky he stole from Leibniz is calculus.
Newton was pretty much guaranteed fame. He figured out, you know, gravity, thermodynamics, classical physics and a few other somewhat important things. He didn't need the credit for calculus. Not to mention his bloody f '(x) notation is horrifically difficult to use compared to Leibniz's dy/dx. That isn't even the point. Leibniz had this one rubber ducky. Let him keep it, you jealous, greedy curmudgeon.
~Right Thumb~
* If you have never watched Veggietales or read the Bible, I suppose this analogy doesn't make much sense.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Robber And Robbed
We here at Two Thumbs Sideways very much dislike credit going where it is not deserved. Sure, every once in a while we are probably a bit too reserved in our condemnations of “authors” like Ayn Rand or “directors” like Michael Bay. Maybe here and there we also undersell Battlestar Galactica’s true greatness or Barry Lyndon’s pulchritude.
But mostly, we keep things on the level. A spirit level. Clearly, aided by beings from beyond the mere material world, we are very good at giving credit where it is due.
So I introduce a new segment on our blog: Robber and Robbed. As much as I would like to include the unfortunate problem of high school basketball statistics in this category, I will restrain myself and talk about, well, movies and books and rollercoasters.
Robber: Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
Robbed: Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World
Master and Commander was probably the best movie of 2003. I don’t know if it actually was, since I haven’t seen every single movie of 2003. But one thing I know for sure. Master and Commander’s worst moment was better then ROTK’s best. And it isn’t even close. One was a lazily made fantasy “epic” from a horrible director where the mantra on set seemed to be “how many badass bad guys can our badass good guys kill in a single scene?!!?!!” The other was a meticulously crafted motion picture that managed to entertain the viewer while still realistically depicting life on a warship back when warships still had sails.
So which one got all the Oscars? Yeah. I don’t think I need to answer that. You see, life on a warship in the early 19th century didn’t involve forced love triangles, dragons (fell beasts, my left foot), ghosts, swords that have names, eighteen different endings or such award-worthy lines as “…a diversion”.
Turns out, life on a warship involved shooting a few cannons here and there, and a whole lot of normal stuff in between. Like being screwed when the wind just stops blowing, or people actually dying from the wounds they received when the cannons were going off. And no, they didn’t rise from the dead somehow. They stayed dead.
The audacity.
They used phrases that people didn’t easily understand, like “main’mst” and “weather-gauge” and they didn’t say things like “The Dark Lord Sauron has yet to unveil his deadliest servant: The Witch-King of Angmar.”
The temerity.
Instead of endlessly explaining how important this and that was, they let you figure out for yourself what was going on. In other words, they treated their audience with respect.
The gall.
So of course, such a preposterously pretentious film (how dare they assume I am intelligent! How dare they!) got the snot beaten out of it by the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King when Oscar time came around. If I were Sheriff-in-Chief, I would arrest Peter Jackson for armed robbery. I suppose it is a good thing that I have no such title to make reparations for this and similar atrocities.
It gets worse of course. After all, L.A. Confidential debuted the same year as Titanic. But I can’t go delivering all of the big guns on a new segment’s first day, can I?
~Right Thumb~
But mostly, we keep things on the level. A spirit level. Clearly, aided by beings from beyond the mere material world, we are very good at giving credit where it is due.
So I introduce a new segment on our blog: Robber and Robbed. As much as I would like to include the unfortunate problem of high school basketball statistics in this category, I will restrain myself and talk about, well, movies and books and rollercoasters.
Robber: Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
Robbed: Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World
Master and Commander was probably the best movie of 2003. I don’t know if it actually was, since I haven’t seen every single movie of 2003. But one thing I know for sure. Master and Commander’s worst moment was better then ROTK’s best. And it isn’t even close. One was a lazily made fantasy “epic” from a horrible director where the mantra on set seemed to be “how many badass bad guys can our badass good guys kill in a single scene?!!?!!” The other was a meticulously crafted motion picture that managed to entertain the viewer while still realistically depicting life on a warship back when warships still had sails.
So which one got all the Oscars? Yeah. I don’t think I need to answer that. You see, life on a warship in the early 19th century didn’t involve forced love triangles, dragons (fell beasts, my left foot), ghosts, swords that have names, eighteen different endings or such award-worthy lines as “…a diversion”.
Turns out, life on a warship involved shooting a few cannons here and there, and a whole lot of normal stuff in between. Like being screwed when the wind just stops blowing, or people actually dying from the wounds they received when the cannons were going off. And no, they didn’t rise from the dead somehow. They stayed dead.
The audacity.
They used phrases that people didn’t easily understand, like “main’mst” and “weather-gauge” and they didn’t say things like “The Dark Lord Sauron has yet to unveil his deadliest servant: The Witch-King of Angmar.”
The temerity.
Instead of endlessly explaining how important this and that was, they let you figure out for yourself what was going on. In other words, they treated their audience with respect.
The gall.
So of course, such a preposterously pretentious film (how dare they assume I am intelligent! How dare they!) got the snot beaten out of it by the Lord of the Rings: Return of the King when Oscar time came around. If I were Sheriff-in-Chief, I would arrest Peter Jackson for armed robbery. I suppose it is a good thing that I have no such title to make reparations for this and similar atrocities.
It gets worse of course. After all, L.A. Confidential debuted the same year as Titanic. But I can’t go delivering all of the big guns on a new segment’s first day, can I?
~Right Thumb~
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