Awesome, thy name is EFBQ

Anybody remember that old commercial – I think it was for Geritol or somesuch, which is sadly ironic given this particular spelunking of the Memory Cave – which ended with the guy snarkily saying to the camera, “My wife. I think I’ll keep her.”?

Fast forward to Thursday, when I was due to head downtown to an interview for which I had no information whatsoever. The recruiter in this case was in New Jersey – I think. Fact is, he was an outsourced guy, of the sort that drives me nuts…I hate to say it, but I despair when hearing, “Ahhhh, hello…myee nem is Chonny, and I am being of culling you from New York-keh…” No. No, you are not; your name is Kirpal and you’re calling from Bangalore where it’s likely the middle of the night. I don’t have any personal issue with the Kirpals of the world, because they’re just trying to do a job and get a paycheck like anybody else; I do mind that they get paid a pittance compared to American workers, and I do mind that American companies exploit them due to that fact, and don’t hire qualified Americans, and I do mind that they aren’t always given a clear idea what they are supposed to be doing, and that they definitely, through no fault of their own, do not have any idea of the geography and culture – corporate or otherwise – of the United States. And yeah, I wish they could just say they were Kirpal from Bangalore, but I understand they can’t because there are bigots in the United States, giving me another reason to just hate the whole damned mess.

Anyway, here it was, Thursday morning, and this particular version of Kirpal had left me high ‘n’ dry. The night before, I checked the email he’d sent, which was, how you say, lacking in a few details: Continue reading

…and beyond the United Nations

I’ve decided that when I grow up, I want to be a member of Torchwood.  I want to meet alien menaces that fall into two categories: rather slimy and gross, or unbelievable female knockouts built for sex.  My compatriots and I, all of whom are bisexual, will shoot the first and shag the second.  (There are in fact the occasional male knockouts, and I suppose I’d shag them too, being all egalitarian and such.  The peer pressure not to would be unbelievable.)  Then we’d pal around Cardiff and shoot or shag each other – I’ll opt for the second, given my druthers.

I imagine Cardiff, given the stigma surrounding it, which manifests in the “it really ain’t that bad” vibe around it and their making-of specials, to be like Baltimore or Philadelphia.  In fact, I could be the Jack Harkness of Torchwood Five in Baltimore.  I’ll need to get a long black coat, and some way of getting to the top of the Shot Tower or something so I can pose.

Honestly, I do like the show, and need to see season two at some point.   It gave me an idea not too long ago (or at least developed it a great deal) for a trio of paranormal-hunting characters who live as a polyamorous triad – the central male was a real Larry Stu – as the anchor of a Torchwood-like team, but I haven’t really gone anywhere with it.  Which is probably for the best.

The haunted world of science

My mother enjoys these shows on television which purport to show hauntings and the paranormal. I do too, really, owing to my own experience “seeing a UFO” when I was much younger. I write that in quotes now because other circumstantial evidence has led me to conclude that I probably dreamed the whole thing (I was in bed at the time, etc.), but I can’t really dismiss all UFO sightings, ghost sightings, cryptozoological encounters, and the like as similar delusions. Making a sweeping assumption that that many people are all bonkers is to start saying that a significant percentage of the population literally doesn’t know what reality is…that’s when you enter territory where “reality” as you yourself see it might need to be redefined.

In any case, Mom gave my lovely wife a book called Science and the Paranormal, which, she must have thought, would give a sympathetic treatment to the latter half of the subject. (My favorite TV show on the subject is Ghost Hunters, which Mom likes though she finds it irritating that they end up debunking so many of the “ghosts” in their investigations…which is one of the very reasons that my wife and I like it. We like singing the theme from “Casper, the Friendly Ghost” while she complains at the TV.) Alas, the book is written by CSICOP, and has many of its luminaries involved in the chapters (Isaac Asimov, Martin Gardner, Carl Sagan, Philip Klass, James Randi, and so on). efbq was a bit disappointed, but hopeful that since this was written long enough ago that they were still scientific; unbeknownst to us but in a greatly illustrative fashion, as of about a year ago, CSICOP changed their name, ostensibly to remove “Paranormal” from it, but which also had the effect, in a bit of irony lost completely on the organization, of removing “Scientific” from it as well.

Previously, CSICOP and its fellows and similar skeptics gave birth to a movement which was extremely timely and welcome. Claims of the paranormal were encroaching on legitimate scientific inquiry, and too many people were too ignorant to know the difference. In some sense, that continues today – I made mention of it recently in this blog as it pertains to the field of statistics. At that time, I found the effort slightly annoying, as they were killjoys to those of us who knew better anyway, and some of them were crashing bores as writers, but all in all, they practiced good science at the very least. That is, they knew what science was and what it wasn’t, and they didn’t attempt to use science to “prove” something that it wasn’t meant to do. Sometimes they evinced some annoyance themselves when this was the case – Sagan is a good example – but they did stick to their guns.

Unfortunately, that didn’t last long. Most of these guys knew science and that was all, and when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. It became a simple flip-side to the intelligent designists of religion and the “true believers” of the paranormal: I have the “theory of everything”, and if your thing doesn’t fit, then you are wrong. If music opens worlds of consciousness to you…if the ruins of Chernobyl connote to you the folly of man…if you speak to God…if you love someone…then sorry, my little box doesn’t measure that. It doesn’t exist. Robert Anton Wilson correctly nailed this phenomenon on the head with the coinage “fundamentalist humanism”.

It’s gotten worse of late, much worse. Scientific skepticism has entered the Richard Dawkins Phase (link prolly NSFW) of its existence, where any yutz with a lab coat can pontificate on any subject imaginable because He Has ScienceTM. Attempts to discuss matters of philosophical, ethical, or spiritual import with such folks – or indeed, attempts to argue matters of scientific merit that originate beyond the university walls or journal pages of their sheltered existence – are met with the echoing clang of the gates of their mind closing, familiar to any who has attempted to engage a fundamentalist in any new thing or exercise.

Unfortunately, I’m being called away to parental duties, and I can’t think of a really decent way to conclude this, except:

  • Please don’t do this,
  • This might end up inspiring a rule on this blog,
  • If it does, I will not become Cory Doctorow or Teresa Hayden or the rest of the BoingBoing Censorship Guild,
  • The book looks kinda cool, but I don’t know if I’m going to read it or not.

Mahalo.

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