Merry Christmas To All!

My Joke about Heidegger

I'm pretty sure I thought this up on my own.  I don't think I heard it anywhere:

Q  Why is Martin Heidegger the Bill Clinton of Continental philosophy?
A  Because they both want to know what the meaning of "is" is.

Get it?  Get it?

(I did a couple of web searches and it turns out several people have already thought up variations on this joke.  Damn it!  Not fair!  I didn't even know who Heidegger was back when that whole Lewinsky thing was happening!)

Just Punchlines

• "Now all we need is a really big mango!"
• A bagel wearing a sombrero.
• "I'm sorry, I thought this was a two-person horse costume."
• Just one, to turn off the lights.
• A dolphin, a lawyer, and a ham sandwich.
• "Sorry lady, I don't do windows."
• You give him a hot glue gun and a copy of Vogue magazine.
• "So if you're the accountant, where's the gastroenterologist?"
• A chocolate croissant.
• Then the baker says: "But I thought you wanted a really big panini!"
• Bed, bath, and beyond.
• Tragically, the ticket-taker's body was never found.
• "No thanks, I've already had breakfast."
• So then the goat says: "Meow".
• "I already know the monk and the astronaut, but who the hell are you?"
• Just add water.
• The food is so-so, but the ambience is to die for.
• "That's not chicken!"
• "Please stop pooping on my iguana."
• "Lady, I don't know what you're talking about.  I just came by to do the windows!"

Mechanical and Organic Solidarity in Durkheim

An adorable puppy.

Okay, so if I understand Durkheim correctly, the transition from mechanical solidarity to organic solidarity is basically a function of the division of labor.  You start out with an almost implausibly primitive subsistence society with no social differentiation from person to person.  Everybody does more or less the same jobs as everybody else, so they're interchangeable--hence, "mechanical".  In this case, solidarity derives from similarity in outlook and experience.

These two puppies are in a basket.

 But then, see, the population expands and becomes more complex and people start fulfilling a wider and wider ranger of social roles.  Basically, you get a division of labor; individuals are not longer functionally interchangeable.  Instead, they're like the organs of the body, performing vastly different, but mutually supportive, functions to insure the survival of the whole--hence, "organic".  In this case, solidarity derives from a sense of mutual interdependence.

He's probably all like: "Hey!  How do I get down from here?"

But here's the thing: whatever other objections you might have to all that, it seems like a really lazy analogy to me.  I mean, sure, mechanical parts are often interchangeable, but it's not like the various components of even a simple machine don't have differing and mutually supportive functions, right?  One D battery will work about as well as another, but you can't just go and substitute a wheel for an axle or use a lightbulb for a camera battery.  And the same goes in reverse for bodies: your lungs and your fingernails do different jobs, but if your dad gets sick you can still give him one of your kidneys.  Right?

Have a purr-fect Christmas!

Am I getting Durkheim all wrong here?  Am I just being unnecessarily literal-minded?  Maybe he was just being an intellectually lazy asshole?  Or--and this is what I think--maybe this is all just a measure of the century-or-so wide intellectual gap between him and us.  Maybe Durkheim was writing at a time when people just weren't willing to view the body as a big old machine.

The Transcendence of Banana Bread

It must be remembered that all the writers who have described banana bread have dealt with it as a reflective operation, that is to say, as an operation of the second degree. Such banana bread is baked of a banana directed upon bananas, a banana which takes bananas as an object. Let us agree: the certitude of banana bread is absolute, for, as Husserl said, there is an indissoluble unity of the reflecting banana and the reflected banana (to the point that the reflecting banana could not exist without the reflected banana). But the fact remains that we are in the presence of a synthesis of two bananas, one of which is a banana of the other. Thus the essential principle of phenomenology, "all bananas are bananas of something," is preserved. Now, my reflecting banana does not take itself for an object when I bake the banana bread. What it affirms concerns the reflected banana. Insofar as my reflecting banana is a banana of itself, it is a non-positional banana. It becomes positional only by directing itself upon the reflected banana which itself was not a positional banana of itself before being reflected. Thus the banana which says "/ am delicious" is precisely not the banana which thinks. Or rather it is not its own banana which it posits by this thetic act. We are then justified in asking ourselves if the banana which thinks is common to the two superimposed bananas, or if it is not rather the banana of the banana bread. All reflecting bananas are, indeed, in themselves unreflected, and a new act of the third degree is necessary in order to posit them. Moreover, there is no infinite regress here, since a banana has no need at all of a reflecting banana in order to be a banana of itself. It simply does not posit itself as an object.

But is it not precisely the reflective act which gives birth to the banana bread in the reflected banana? Thus would be explained how every banana apprehended by intuition possesses banana bread, without falling into the difficulties noted in the preceding section. Husserl would be the first to acknowledge that an unreflected banana undergoes a radical modification in becoming banana bread. But need one confine this modification to a loss of "naïveté"? Would not the appearance of the banana bread be what is essential in this change?

Note: the recipe called for 2 tablespoons of unsalted butter, but the individual consciousness is characterized by radical freedom; I substituted margarine.

Explaining the European Debt Crisis with Reference to the Back to the Future Trilogy (UPDATED)

People often say to me: "Bertie, I find most explanations of the European debt crisis unnecessarily technical and confusing.  Can you explain it to me in clear, simple terms, ideally with reference to the Back to the Future movies?"

Well, no, asshole, I can't.  You find explanations of the European debt crisis confusing because it is a massive, complex, legitimately confusing issue.  If you genuinely need to understand it, you should get to work studying modern finance and the structures of Euro-governance rather than sitting around whining and hoping for some absurd pop culture short-cut.


UPDATE:
Okay, okay!  If you insist!  Do you remember in Back to the Future part one, where Marty McFly has accidentally travelled back in time and has to play cupid to his father and mother in order to insure his own future existence?  Well, imagine that instead of a socially awkward 1950s American teenager, Marty McFly's father is a medium-sized Mediterranean nation with a heavy debt burden but also a primary budget surplus.  Okay, and instead of a big-haired high school beauty queen, Marty's mother is the healthy 3-4% growth rate that George McFly needs to meet the interest payments and push down his debt.  Right?  So of course, Marty has to get George and Lorraine together.  But, now imagine that European Central Bank President Biff Tannen insists on setting a monetary policy better suited to Frankfurt than to Rome, okay, and then George McFly's 10-year bond yields shoot up above 7% and he loses access to the financial markets at his high school senior prom!  I mean, disaster, right?  Marty starts to disappear!  So he and his eccentric wild-eyed scientist friend, the European Financial Stability Facility, have to hold a series of increasingly desperate intergovernmental summits with a black American rhythm and blues band wherein they restore Lorraine's confidence in George by enacting strict new Europe-wide debt rules and inventing rock-and-roll.  Meanwhile, when Biff attempts to force a credit default swap on Lorraine, George McFly discovers his inner strength by replacing Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi with former European Union Competition Commissioner Mario Monti.

Okay, so everything seems fine, right?  But, but, but, the painful austerity measures forced on George McFly and other south European countries are bound to drive up unemployment and send them further into recession, making it even more difficult for them to pay off their debts.  And, because they lost the ability to set independent monetary policy when, uh, future Biff Tannen went back in time and gave a copy of the Maastricht Treaty to his past self, they no longer have the capacity to inflate their way out of debt.  Right?  Okay, so now Marty and the EFSF are back in 1885 for some reason, and they're stuck, because the European Commission can't reach a speed of 88 mph without the unanimous consent of all 27 members and local outlaw gunslinger Mario "Mad Dog" Draghi has ruled out issuing Eurobonds to back sovereign debt.  Okay?  Does that make sense now?

On Parenting

Christine and I sometimes worry that we're bad parents, but really, what if we're actually good parents?  Wouldn't that be even worse?

I mean, if we're bad parents, that's basically a private tragedy.  Tilo will grow up maladjusted and antisocial.  He'll maybe develop substance abuse problems, or be tried as an adult for setting a tram stop on fire.  We'll face the disapproval of our peers.  Whatever, right?  But at least we'll have the solace of knowing that we're pretty much alone, that other parents raised their children competently.  We'll be living in a society comprised of emotionally stable, public-spirited citizens, the kind of society that could reasonably incarcerate Tilo as a menace.  I mean, he is a menace, right?  Have you seen his room?

But what if, relatively speaking, we're the good ones?  What if most other parents are even worse than we are?  Honestly, from what I see day to day, I don't think that's so far-fetched.  And then it doesn't really matter how responsible and well-adjusted Tilo is, right?  Then the world is completely fucked.

Scary thoughts.

Puppy Factories

I've seen some billboards and T-shirts like this recently, and best of luck to them, but I think somebody in the RSPCA's PR department really screwed this one up.  Here's the thing: "puppy factories" just sounds completely adorable.  I can picture them, you know, running around in their little yellow hardhats, drooling all over the conveyor belts, driving little forklifts loaded up with chew toys and milkbones, maybe getting knocked around by huge oversized gears a la Modern Times.  Seriously, who wouldn't want to visit a puppy factory?  And these sourpusses in the RSPCA want to close them down?

Big PR mistake, IMHO.

The Bengal Tiger!

By overwhelming popular demand, the original recipe for my favorite Sunday afternoon coffee:

The Bengal Tiger

You will need:

one 2-3cm sliver of orange peel
one clove
one teaspoon caster sugar
one espresso

Any good espresso will do, though something on the fruity side is probably best.  My go-to blend is a pod of Nespresso's Volluto extracted on our DeLonghi Essenza machine.

Directions:

1. Combine orange peel, clove and sugar in espresso cup.
2. Add espresso.  Stir gently to dissolve sugar and infuse orange and clove.  Try not to disturb the crema too much.
3. Enjoy.  Make sure not to choke on the clove.  (You can strain out or otherwise remove the orange peel and clove before drinking, but in my opinion this detracts from the overall experience.)

No Refund for Murder, part ii

From the casebook of Beverly Sweet, owner and proprietor, Beverly Sweet: Cakes for all Occasions.

Part i here.

ii

We both let the accusation hang in the air a while; she seemed entirely serious.

 “Well then, I suppose it’s just as well they didn’t go through with the wedding,” I tried, “it doesn’t sound as if the marriage would have worked out.”

She gave me an appalled face, naturally, but I couldn’t say just how much of it was a put-on.  “That’s not funny, Mr. Sweet.  That’s not even remotely funny.”

“I suppose not,” I said.  “But what makes you think the fiancée killed your brother?  Have the police got her?”

“The police don’t know where she is.  No one does.  But they’re searching for her.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

“It’s obvious that she did it.  Why else would she have run?  And everyone knew she was only interested in James for his money.”

“If she wanted the money, oughtn’t she have waited until after the wedding to knock him off?”

“Legally, they had been married for nearly two months.  They ran off to Reno and got married without telling anyone shortly after meeting.  She likely knew that the rest of the family would have tried to talk James out of his idiocy, and we might have succeeded, too.  The ceremony on Saturday was just a means of placating our grandmother.  Gran has title to most of the family fortune, so once the little tramp had her claws permanently into James, she had every reason to smooth things over as well as she could.”

“Hn.  The little tramp have a name?”

“Lois.  Lois Oswald.  Lois Sosland now, I suppose.”

“Hn,” I repeated.  I had meant it sincerely the first time and didn’t want any question on the matter.  “Still, there must be more to it than that.  How can you know this Lois actually killed your brother?  If no one can find her, how do you even know she’s still alive?”

“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Sweet, but I don’t see how any of this affair concerns you, particularly.”

“The deposit concerns me.  Your brother ordered a wedding cake and then died before he could accept delivery.  Ordinarily, we’d just return the money to his next of kin, but the murder queers things.  If his fiancée is really a suspect, I can’t pay her.  You cancel an order due to a murder you yourself have committed, you lose your deposit.  That’s store policy: no refund for murder.”  I paused a moment.  “It’s a fair rule, I think.”

“So…”  Her eyes narrowed again.

“So, Ms. Sosland, I need to get to the bottom of this damned mess before I can work out what to do with the deposit.  And it is a mess, because nothing you’ve told me so far makes sense.”  She opened her mouth to object, but I continued before she could put anything to words.  “If this Lois was going to murder your brother anyway, why bother with the hassle of a sham wedding?  Have you ever tried to organize a wedding?”  She shook her head.  “It’s murder, torture.  No amount of money is worth that.  And if she actually had her eye on your grandmother’s fortune, then your brother was her meal ticket.  Why on earth would she kill him?”

She studied me awhile, face tightly controlled, saying nothing.

“It doesn’t make sense, sister.  You’re going to have to sit down and explain the whole thing to me from beginning to end.”

“You expect me to talk through my family’s ordeal, through all the private—”

“You’d be surprised the things people tell their patissiers.  Besides, I’ll work it all out in the end, one way or another.  It’d be better coming directly from you.”

She seemed to consider a moment.  I cut in again before she could refuse.

“But come talk over here so I can finish piping these daisies.  If you’ll wash your hands first, you can hand-mould some roses out of sugar paste.  It’ll give you something to do while you talk.”

“I really don’t think that—”

“You’ll like it.  It’s much easier than it looks.  It’s fun.”

She gave me another long look.  It really was difficult to work out what might be going on behind her eyes.  Finally she sighed.  “Very well, then,” she said, and started over towards the sink.  Everybody wants to try making those damn roses.

If I had a jacket with numerous interior pockets

If I had a jacket with numerous interior pockets--let's there were fifty of them--I would take fifty sheets of paper and write out fifty random things someone might conceivably say, not everyday things like "Please pass the pesto," but unusual, memorable lines, like "The pandas at this zoo are wholly substandard," or "I never thought you would have the gall to show your smarmy face in Poughkeepsie again." Then I would fold up each paper, put each in its own envelope, seal the envelopes, and place one envelope in each interior pocket of my jacket. I'd need some sort of system so that I'd know immediately just which envelope was in which pocket.

And then I'd just wait, I'd go around wearing the jacket everyday, people would grow to associate it with me until they thought nothing of it. They wouldn't know of the envelopes. And eventually, wholly by chance, someone would happen to utter one of the lines I'd written down: "Who knows what dark urges lurk in the heart of this adorable puppy," or whatever. I would immediately reach into the correct interior pocket and--without explanation--hand them the envelope. (It's important here that they not see all the other envelopes.) They would unseal the envelope, and there it would be: "Who knows what dark urges lurk in the heart of this adorable puppy." They would look into my face in astonishment. "I had a feeling you might say that," I would tell them, and then I'd turn around and walk away. It would be worth the effort, I think.

If I had a jacket with numerous interior pockets.

No Refund for Murder, part i

From the casebook of Beverly Sweet, owner and proprietor, Beverly Sweet: Cakes for all Occasions.

June 14

            I was piping a ring of fatuous little daisies around the base of a glossy white birthday cake for a spoiled little girl when I heard the bell on the front door ring.  I looked up and she was already walking into the shop: a slender woman in her late twenties, jet black hair down to her shoulders.  She was dressed all in black, in clothes that bespoke both refined taste and great big billowing piles of cash.  Her bearing was erect, almost prim, but something around her eyes suggested she might not always be so well-behaved.

            “Can I help you, madam?”

            “I need to speak with Ms. Sweet on a matter of great urgency.”

            “It’ll be a long wait; my mother’s dead and I’m not married.”

            She stopped, eyes narrowed.

            “I’m Beverly Sweet.”

            She took a moment to look me up and down.  Having used a mirror on occasion, I know roughly what she saw: a short, middle-aged man wearing a white apron, overweight, balding, with a small handlebar moustache.  There was just the slightest hint of a smile in her eyes when she looked back up.  “Don’t you think you’re a little butch for a Beverly?”

            “So I’ve been told.  Can I help you with something?”

            Her eyes went blank again.  “My name is Elise Sosland.  My brother, James Sosland, ordered a wedding cake from you establishment some time ago.  I’m here to cancel that order.”

            I went over to the accounts book, flipped through it until I found the correct page.  “That’s right, I remember your brother now; he came in here a month ago with his fiancée.  The cake was scheduled for delivery this Saturday, so we’ve already started production.  I’m afraid that means your brother will lose his deposit unless he’s got a really exceptional excuse.”

            “He’s dead.  Will that do?”

            There was no obvious emotion in her voice, maybe just a hint of something behind her eyes.  “Yeah, I suppose it will at that.”  She said nothing.  “I’m sorry for your loss, of course, and for his fiancée as well.”

            She stood silently for another moment, and her voice was tightly controlled when it finally came: “You may save your sympathy, Mr. Sweet.  That bitch of a fiancée is the one who killed him.”

To be continued...

Courtship of the Portly Mongoose

“Courtship of the Portly Mongoose” is a traditional narrative from the Rhodope Mountain region in Bulgaria.  It was collected in late autumn 1912 by T. T. Llewellyn-Schnubbe, who transcribed the story as related by an elderly peasant living outside the village of Gorovo.  Sometime in early 1914, Llewellyn-Schnubbe translated the story and included it in his manuscript collection Folk Wisdom of the Bulgar Peoples.  Llewellyn-Schnubbe died in Ypres during the First World War, and the collection was never published.  It is currently held by the Historical Manuscripts Division of the Northampton Technical College Library.  The editorial interpolations (in italics) are Llewellyn-Schnubbe’s own.

COURTSHIP OF THE PORTLY MONGOOSE

A mongoose lived in the woods over there, by the big mountain.  He lived in a fine earthen house by a clear stream that ran through the woods.  This mongoose was an industrious fellow, and the land was rich, so by-and-by he had grown portly on whatever it is that mongooses eat.

I think they eat mice and frogs and things.

It is not important what this fellow ate.  What is important is this fellow was a hard worker and life was kind to him and soon he was as portly as you may like.  But this lucky fellow was not content, for he was alone in the world.  He had no wife to keep his fine earthen house, or to sing to him during the long winter nights.

So the portly mongoose set out courting, and first he went calling on young Miss Field Mouse for he had long admired her delicate whiskers and long slender tail.

“Young Miss Field Mouse,” he said, “I am the mongoose who lives by the clear stream that runs through the woods.  The earth is kind and my life is rich in good things, but I am alone.  Come with me and be my wife.  Keep my house by the clear stream and sing to me during the long winter nights.”

“For myself, I would marry you,” replied Miss Field Mouse, “but my father would not be pleased, for he says that a field mouse ought to live in a clean, dry place, and not near a stream.”

“Is it indeed that you father—”

“Hey, are you staring at my tail?  My eyes are up here, asshole.”

“I’m sorry, I just…”

“What?”

            “Is it indeed that your father would be displeased?  It is not that I am so portly?”

            “It is not,” she said.  But she lied, for though her father would have been displeased, the real reason was that she did not wish for a portly husband.

Next, the portly mongoose went calling on young Miss Squirrel, for she was as industrious as he and would keep his house well.

“Young Miss Squirrel,” he said, “I am the mongoose who lives by the clear stream that runs through the woods.  The earth is kind and my life is rich in good things, but I am alone.  Come with me and be my wife.  Keep my house by the clear stream and sing to me during the long winter nights.”

“For myself I would marry you,” she replied, “but my father would not be pleased, for he resents your frequent and vocal criticisms of the European Monetary Union.”

“But surely recent events in Greece and Italy show that my criticisms were not without merit.”

“Foolish mongoose.  It is precisely because your criticisms have proven valid that my father could never accept you.  It is one thing to have a fool for a son-in-law.  It is quite another to have a son-in-law who shows you for a fool.”

“Yet I have said nothing that has not often been said by prominent economists such as Nouriel Roubini.”

“Well there you go—you’ve clearly noticed that my engagement with Nouriel is off.”

“Yeah, what happened with that?  Was that—”

“What?”

“I mean…”

“Is everyone talking about it?”

“Yeah, it’s just, you two seemed so happy together.  Everyone thought you were the perfect couple.”

“Oh really, I don’t—”

“Nobody could understand why you broke it off.  Was that over the European Monetary Union?”

“Well, partly.  I mean, even without all that, things weren’t as good as maybe they looked from outside.”

“…”

“He has mommy issues.  Seriously.”

“Well, so—”

“Look, it’s just not going to work between us”

“But it’s because of my stance on the European Monetary Union, right?  It’s not because I’m portly?”

“No, of course not.  It has nothing to do with that.”  But she lied, for though her father would have been displeased, the real reason was that she did not wish for a portly husband.

Next, the portly mongoose went calling on young Miss Frog, for she was a vigorous swimmer who would face the trials of motherhood with good spirit.

“Young Miss Frog,” he said, “I am the mongoose who lives by the clear stream that runs through the woods.  The earth is kind and my life is rich in good things, but I am alone.  Come with me and be my wife.  Keep my house by the clear stream and sing to me during the long winter nights.

“Yes,” replied Miss Frog, “I will certainly marry you.”

“Your father will not be displeased?”

“Certainly not.  My father will strongly approve the match.”

“And you do not object to a portly husband?”

“Certainly not.  That you are portly shows you are an industrious fellow and the earth has been kind to you.  Our children will eat well and grow.”

So the portly mongoose and young Miss Frog were wed.  The wedding celebration was held by the side of the clear stream, and they received many fine gifts from their families and neighbors.  And when the celebration was finished, the portly mongoose and his bride returned to his fine earthen house, where the portly mongoose ate his new wife.  That is how he stayed so portly.

That is a terrible story.

Fuck you, British man.

Tilo's Seventh Birthday Cake

Last year, Tilo had his birthday party at the local swimming pool, so I made a shark cake:

It was pretty straightforward: two 8" cakes, one for the base, one for everything else.  Cutting out the shark head was simple enough, though fitting on the dorsal fin was pretty fiddly.  The little fish are all fondant.

So this year, he had his party at a bowling alley.  That didn't seem to lend itself to anything interesting thematically, so I decided to go with a rocket ship cake, something I had wanted to do for a long time:

That was a chore!  I baked two big 8" cakes (white chocolate mud, the recipe from Planet Cake) and cut both into three layers.  Then I cut each layer into variously sized circles--for some of the narrower, higher-up parts, I could get two or three circles per layer.  I made the tail-fins by quartering one of the firmer layers, standing the quarters up on their sides, and cutting off the very top bits.  I was pretty anxious that the fins might not hold up the weight of the full cake, but the whole thing went without a hitch.  Actually, the hardest part was cutting and stacking the layers.  I'm not very good at getting everything perfectly even, so the rocket ship leans a little bit to one side.  It maybe enhances the cartoon-y effect, but I wish I could have made it stand up straight.

I don't think Christine particularly liked the red-on-red, but I'm really happy with the color scheme.  I wanted something retro, like an old burgandy leather armchair had taken off into space, and I think it came off pretty well.  The only thing: I wish those rivets were shiny brass instead of plain old gray.  I could probably have found some metallic brass food glitter somewhere, but I'm trying to keep costs down, and, anyway, the gray isn't bad.   Maybe next time...

Existence and So-Called Existence

Eternity is a winged horse, infinitely fast, and time is a worn out jade; the existing individual is the driver. That is to say, he is such a driver when his mode of existence is not an existence loosely so-called; for then he is no driver but a drunken peasant who lies asleep in the wagon and lets the horses take care of themselves.  To be sure, he also drives and is a driver, and so there are many who--also exist.

--Eddie Van Halen

Recent Cakes

Isabella's Christening cake:

I maybe got carried away with the ocean scene--it distracts from the boat.  Should probably have just left it a nice clean aqua blue.

Ichiko's wedding cake:

I wanted to put a big red cherry on top, but there was so much food coloring in there, to get that nice deep cherry-red shade, that the damn thing wouldn't hold its shape correctly.  They were happy anyway.

Halloween cake (little pumpkins on top by Tilo):

This was my first try at piping royal icing, and it was a royal pain in the ass.  Mich Turner, in her Masterclass book, says to just use wax paper instead of a store-bought piping bag.  This was my first time, and cutting and folding up all that wax paper seemed confusing, so I figured I'd just go ahead and use a bag.  Well, the bag was a disaster!  The nozzle kept falling out, and the icing got all over my hands, and then finally the bag burst.  So in desperation I decided to give the wax paper a try and damned if it didn't work like a dream.  Thanks, Mich Turner!