And Now Here's Something I hope You Really Like

You ever see a movie that just blows your mind?

Some people think that a movie needs lots of special effects or lots of bare boobs to be good. This is just not so. Sometimes the most amazing things you'll see are in black and white, and need no more than a psychotic little girl with steel-toed shoes and a fierce determination to win a penmanship medal.

Ladies and gentlemen, The Bad Seed.

I'm not talking about the updated (I think 70s) version. I'm talking about the original 1956 film adaptation based on the Maxwell Anderson stageplay (based on the novel by William March) starring Patty Mc Cormack as Rhoda Penmark, 8 years of tow-headed evil, and Nancy Kelly as her more than frazzled mother. The Bad Seed may be responsible for launching the sub-genre of "devil child" films, which includes The Omen, The Exorcist, Problem Child, Clifford, and this summer's enfant terrible tale Orphan. It's one of those monster movies (and Rhoda is indeed a monster) that you don't think will stay with you, but it will.

And it does.

The scary thing is, is that Rhoda is the devil you know. She comes off like a pigtailed sweetie who'll exchange a basket of kisses for a basket of hugs, but inside that child a murderous beast is lurking. When Claude Daigle wins the penmanship medal, that Rhoda thought she had rightfully earned, she clobbers him over the head with her shoes and takes the medal as the boy drowns by the pier. When she returns home, she asks her mother for a peanut sandwhich and tells her mother that watching the boy die was "exciting". The thing that is all the more disturbing is that we've all met potential Rhoda's during our lifetimes (they turn out to be those people that we went to high school with who think that Faces of Death is a cool movie and continue to do so long after graduating from high school). She doesn't look like a monster at all. She looks normal.

That's the thing with alot of serial killers, they look normal.

And make no mistake, Rhoda Penmark is a serial killer.

When the handyman LeRoy runs afoul and crosses Rhoda's path (by accusing her of having to do with Claude Daigle's death), she promptly sets him ablaze. When Rhoda decides that her elderly neighbor Monica needs to hand over her lovebirds now, she plots to kill the old woman (we know this when Rhoda asks her mother how long lovebirds live). We also know that Rhoda may have killed another elderly neighbor when the family lived in Wichita.

At the heart of the drama is psychology. The Penmark's neighbor Monica is a psych junkie. Her rambles on about inherited evil and the exploits of some of history's most notorious killers, including the evil murderess, Bessie Danker. When Rhoda's mother, in a flashback sequence that would make Dr. Phil envious, discovers that she is the daughter of Bessie Danker, she wigs out, fearing that Rhoda might have inherited the evil (she eventually atempts to kill both Rhoda and herself).

That's funny.

Not ha, ha funny, but funny.

Of course, when we talk about things like inheriting a certain disposition, or the idea that one's future is determined by outside forces, we slip into the realm of the philosopher. The idea that a person's outcomes are determined by outside forces (genetics, environment, etc) is determinism. The Penmark's neighbor Monica seems to subscribe to the psychological theory that certain psychological tendencies are passed down from parent to child. As a fidgety parent will have fidgety children, likewise a serial murderer will breed killers. Monica seems to favor what we would call a reductionist view of human nature. Our behavior can be predicted by looking at the various mental and physiological processes that take place within our bodies. If a parent passes what Kurt Vonnegut called "bad chemicals" to their offspring, it is highly likely that that child will also exhibit the same tendencies as the parent. Freud said that "anatomy is destiny". This is what Monica seems to believe as well. We know that mental illnesses tend to run in families (this is also bolstered by twin studies that find that twins raised apart tend to share physical and personality traits in common). We find clusters of manic depression, depression or schizophrenia in families, as do certain organic disorders such as Alzheimer's Disease. So, if we believe as Monica believes, the child of Besssie Danker would be a natural born killer. So, ir would not be beyond the possibility that the granddaughter of Bessie Danker would have inherited some strange personality disorder that causes her to kill.

This may be ok for the hard-core determnist, but some people may say no way, they don't believe that our destinies lie in our genes. We are not merely the products of our anatomy, but we are influenced by other things outside of ourselves. Ultimately, the choice to kill or do anything else is made by the individual -- not an impulse that we are incapable of resisting. In philosophy, this is the classic debate of free will and determinism.

When we think of Rhoda, we ask if the little girl perhaps suffered from a broken moral compass - that she may have been unable to legislate morally. But when we watch the film, we see that Rhoda has a moral code -- a strict one at that. Her code is strictly egoist. She wants what is best for her. If others stand in her way, that's their problem.

When I watched The Bad Seed, I thought that the biggest philosophical question that stood out was whether our decisions are a product of free will or if our decisions are determined. But when I looked closer, I discovered that I was thinking about ideas of divine retribution (it ultimately takes and act of God to stop Rhoda Penmark), ideas of karma and justice, and how we should treat mentally ill children? I asked, when God struck down Rhoda, did she get what she deserved? When her mother Christine tried to kill her, was her action morally correct? Would I have felt differently about it if Rhoda wasn't a child? Was Christine morally obligated to kill her daughter? If there is a real child like Rhoda who has killed or we think may be capable of killing, how are we to deal with that child? In the interest of the greater society, are we obligated to detain them? alter them chemically (like how criminals are "rehabilitated" in Demolition Man?)?should we euthanize them for their own good? Just a few of these questions popped up when I was watching The Bad Seed. I'm sure than there are more to ask. There are a couple of different versions of the story (including the original novel) so I'm sure that each interpretation will stir up a new set of questions.

So my advice is Netflix the movie, nuke a bag of popcorn, and indulge in wishing that God would strike an 8 year old child dead and gleefully cheering when he does for a couple of hours.

But you might want to be careful next time you promise a couple of birds to the neighbor kid.

Especially if you live anywhere near staircases.

Much Ado About Molehills

It's been some time since the Kanye West crisis at this year's MTV Video Music Awards. I tried to not think about it, but seeing that I've got that philosopher thing goin' on, I found that my will was not as strong as I had hoped. I know that there are more important things to think about than the hullabaloo over Mr. West's unsolicited comments during Taylor Swift'sspeech, but I felt that I might as well throw my two bits into the hat. So, here is my two bits. First off, I know that I am in no way making up the notion that, if there was any place where a celebrity (or one who thinks that he is) to "act up" it is at an awards show, in particular, one hosted by MTV. The VMAs , I presume, is the place where we would expect to expect the unexpected and even the unacceptable so far as behavior and famousness goes. I recall with great fondness Madonna's steamroller impression during her performance of "Like A Virgin", Prince's peek-a-boo pants, Howard Stern's Fartman appearance, or Marilyn Manson's ghostly white, nearly translucent tuchus on the VMAs singing "The Beautiful People". (that was back when we were actually shocked by people like Marilyn Manson. Oh, how the times have changed!) I don't think that the suits at MTV ever envisioned that their awards show would be the place where decorum would be a popular idea. I don't think that they entertained the idea that their show would surpass the Grammys in distinction or preeminence. The VMAs have always been a place where the famous draw attention to themselves, mostly by behaving badly. The Grammys meant class, the VMAs are the land of the publicity stunt. Somehow there is this big to-do over Kanye West. Maybe it's because his comment hasd the unfortunate trait of having taken place at the end of a string of public outbursts that have become progressively more irritating in the minds of the public. I think that the fed-up-ness began with Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" during the Big Game's halftime show (Now, for my money's worth, if she had just announced that she intended to show some boob the whole thing would have blown over. It's not the break-in that got Nixon, it was the cover up), and reached a head with Rep. Joe Wilson's shouting "you lie!" during President Obama's speeche to Congress. People are already pretty irritated with loudmouths who shout stupid things in public as it is, and Kanye West did was just another example of a tourette's-esque public display of screwheadedness. In a semi-defense of Wilson, I will say that a liar should be called oue when he is lying. But like we're told by our mommies and daddies, there is a time and a place for doing so. Shouting it during the President's speech is neither the time nor the place. You can wait until you're on Fox News to do that. But that is not what Taylor Swift was doing. I mean, she wasn't addressing the General Assembly at the UN. She was getting an award at the MTV Video Music Awards for cripes sakes! Does anybody remember Courtney Love threw her compact at Madonna and nearly beaned her with it while Madonna was talking to Kurt Loder? (Madonna looked really pretty during that interview, too). Anyway, far be it for me to disagree with Katy Perry, but Ms. Swift is not a "kitten" nor was what Kanye West said akin to stomping on one (by the way, if the Supreme Court rules anytime soon on the matter, it might not be illegal to videotape yourself stomping on one for fun). It was MTV, people. If no one remembers, this is the network that gave us Buzzkill, Jackass, "Puck" from Real World:San Francisco, and Tila Tequila. And really, this latest Kanye-can't-keep-his-trap-shut incident isn't his most egregious public display of moronocity. Here's a taste of what the Napoleon-sized, self-proclaimed savior of music has said in other public places: * in 2004, after losing an AMA to Gretchen Wilson, Kanye West stormed out and informed the media that he was "definitely robbed". * in 2006, after losing an MTV Europe VMA to Justice vs. Simian, Kanye West stormed the stage while the winners were accepting their award and declared that his video was the winner. * in 2005, during a Hurricane Katrina benefit show, Kanye West (famously) declared that President George W. Bush "doesn't care about black people". (Ok, he wasn't entirely wrong on that call -- if anything, it's that he was too specific). * Mr. West has insisted that he be addressed by incorporating his name into the name of Martin Luther King, jr. Yes, we can agree with President Obama that Mr. West is a "jackass", but when you look at what he did, it was really no different from other celebrity outbursts, like the recent Christian Bale rant. There's something (for better or worse) that expects such behavior from celebrities and other famous people. Our media has an entire sub-industry that is devoted to stars behaving badly -- TMZ, celeb mug shots on the Smoking Gun, Star, People, The National Enquirer (and an infinity of other tabloids), Extra!, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood -- all of them run like flies to turds to show the latest video of some notable mouthing off. They keep acting up and we keep watching. Now, I could say here that for some the whole ordeal isn't about the fact that Kanye West interrupted someone's acceptance speech. Some may say that his jackass stunt actually livened up the show. I think that, for some, it wasn't a matter that he spoke, it was who he interrupted that is the problem. Think about it his way: if Kanye West had charged the stage while Violent J from the ICP was on the podium accepting an award for video of the year, I think that no one would have cared much. I definitely think that Terry Moran wouldn't have asked the president for his opinion on the matter. If cute, kittenish Taylor Swift is interrupted, the world is throw off of it's axis. If an overweight, outrageously made up shock rock/rapper is cut off not an eye blinks. I realize that a part of the problem (the problem underneath the problem) is that we've got a big, gaping problem of moral inconsistency that we have to deal with. We expect that celebrities will make asses of themselves by flapping their yaps, yet when we do, we act as though the behavior that we expected (and even encourage) is unacceptable. This is what I think: In some ways, Kanye West and Rep. Wilson are alike. Politicians and celebrities are public people (although I think that George Clooney might object to my assumption). Yet, oftentimes we hold each to a different standard of behavior. If Rep. Wilson had yelled during the VMAs. his outburst wouldn't have been a problem. This is because we think that it is perfectly acceptable that a non-politician famous person yells out whatever they feel like nearly wherever they feel like saying it. The nature of the fame is different for a politician than it is for a "star" (although it seems that that line is constantly being blurred, as Tom DeLay is appearing on Dancing With the Stars). Thomas Nagel wrote in his essay "Ruthlessness in Public Life" ( an essay about individuals who hold public offices, but I think that it can apply to any public person), office holders (and I say celebrities in general) are "insulated in a puzzling way from what they do: insulated both in their own view and in the view of most observers". This kind of insulation, Nagel says, is "strongly attractive". Holding a public office Nagel says, confers a certain amount of power. Likewise, we often tend to assume that being famous gives an individual, among several things, money and power. That power affords a person to insulate themselves, not just physically from the public, but morally as well. They are apart from normal society, housed in a self-re-enforcing environment where they need not trouble themselves with the usual call for mannerly and orderly behavior that those outside that environment have to abide by. Entertainment Weekly contributor Mark Harris says that former SNL regular and star (and creator) of 30 Rock, Tina Fey, calls this environment "the Bubble". The Bubble, Harris says, quoting Fey, is "that magical zone in which, because you have everything you want, you start believing that you earned it, then that you deserve it, then that you deserve even more". On the outside, we see it. We lament that famous people "get away" with things that ordinary people don't, not just acting loke an ass in public. (For example, I remember some of the reactions to Robert Downey's "goldiocks" incident -- he committed a B&E-- and how some felt that he had been handled too preciously by the court). Celebrity drunk drivers, hit and runners, even those who have killed people (and I'm not just talking about OJ, either) get away with crimes when others (i.e. not famous) do not. Jay-Z stabbed some dude in a club. Is he in prison right now? With celebrity, we say comes fame, and with fame comes money, and with money comes power. With power, we conclude, is the ability to not be treated like everyone else. Harris says that the Bubble has an "arrogant sense of predestination".Nagel writes that the exercise of power "is one of the most personal forms of self-expression". Given the two views together, it is not difficult to understand why a celebrity such as Kanye West felt that he could interrupt Taylor Swift's speech. As a celebrity, he may have felt entitled to his fame, and that as a famous person (with some amount of power) he cannot hold back from expressing himself whenever he feels that he needs to. His "art" depends on his self-expression. As an artist, he cannot, therefore, hold back when he gets the urge to speak. And, given an intimidating entourage and a flock of adoring starfuckers, a celebrity is free to run his mouth anywhere, anytime he wants to his heart's content. Of course, the response would be that not everyone enjoys hearing what these "artists" have to say. It's obvous, by the response to Kanye West's comments both in the star community and without, that what he did was morally objectionable to some. To this I say that that is true. But that just goest to show what the problem is -- our own moral inconsistency when it comes to celebrities. We alternately say that we expect famous people to rant in public, yet we condem them when they do. I ask, why do we do this? Nagel writes, "this would not be so unless there were something to the special status ... in a role. If roles encourage illegitimate release from moral restraints it is because their moral effect has been destorted". We are offended, yet everybody wants to be a star. We live vicariously through the lives of the beautiful people. We encourage them to be morally incorrect because we have placed the role of celebrity in a place where it is immune from moral scrutiny. If celebrities acted the same as us, there would be no reason to look at the stars and admire their beauty and differentness (from us). We are transmitting the inconsistency to them, as we praise them for what they do wrong (or at the very least we excuse the wrong). We say that a part of being a celebrity is getting to act in a manner that normal people cannot. We alternately (and arbitrarily) reward and ostracize stars for their behavior. In turn, I believe, this leads to even more bad celebrity behavior -- as the stars do not know what kind of behavior will be praised or condemed. Until we figure out what way we want to deal with celebrities, and then consistently do so, behavior like Kanye West's will continue. If anything, it's Kanye West who is acting consistently. He's a consistent jackass, but consistent nonetheless.

Requiem for A Tarman

When Thinking of ethics, there's always a problem that comes up, namely, given all the theories out there, how are we to decide what to do? Do we think of intentions or consequences, or what God wants us to do or duties, ourselves? There's this book out there called Don't Sweat the Small Stuff. The point of the book is that we shouldn't get so wrapped up in the trivial stuff that ultimately means nothing that we miss the real important things in life. Unfortunately for many of us, our lives don't get beyond the small stuff. This is why, I think, philosophers think up so many strange thought experiments. We get to think up big stuff and bounce it around. But thinking up thought experiments and setting up all the parameters can be quite time consuming. Besides, when you do, there's always some joker that wants to dispute the circumstances of your thought experiment. Fortunately for most of us, we don't have to think up anything. That's what movies are for. There are plenty of philosophers who poo-poo the idea of using popular entertainment as a philosophical tool. The thought is is that nothing of any use comes out of the popular culture. This is simply not true. Whether we watch Disney movies, a buddy road-trip flick, or a romantic comedy, or we spend an evening with Truffaut, movies give us an ample glimpse of how philosophic theories work. Take, for instance, the movie The Terminator. At first glance, you've got an action/sci-fi flick. But if you look a little deeper, there's questions of artificial intelligence, determinism, time and time travel, existential questions concerning the nature of Sarah Connor's personality (she goes from wimp to tough chick, or is that who she was all along, since Kyle Reece tells her that she's a fighter?). There's really alot there -- plus, it's fun to watch. Which can't be said about watching most philosophy professors giving their lectures. The late Majel Barrett-Roddenberry, wife of Star Trek creator, the late Gene Roddenberry, said that, back in the 1960s, network censorship was so tight that, in order to get his ideas across, her husband had to be subversive. Barrett-Roddenberry said, "censorship was so bad in those days, that if he could take things and switch them around a little bit, and maybe paint somebody green... he could get some of his ideas across". I'm not saying or even suggesting that philosophers be or are being subversive ( lord knows what that would be like), but by looking at one situation/question/moral dilemma in one context or medium, we can see how it would work in another. That is to say, that watching a movie in which a certain situation takes place, we may be able to apply that fictional situation to real life. Although they are easily dismissed as cinematic schlock, zombie flicks are especially useful in the area of ethics. For instance, we may consider life and death -- what does it mean to be "alive"? , what is death?. By seeing how the undead are treated, we might be able to see how we treat those in our own world who are not quite dead or not quite living (people on life-sustaining machines, for instance). We can see how we treat those who are afflicted with certain brain disorders (that may produce mania or violent behavior) by looking at zombies. I was watching this movie called Automaton Transfusion a few days ago. While I was watching, I thought about how people treat the undead and how would we have to treat them if there were a real zombie plague in our world. After spending some time thinking about the question, I came to the answer that how we treat them depends on what kind of zombie we are dealing with. I thought that I would, for the sake of making the whole experiment worth considering in the first place, consider the zombies of George Romero and Dan O'Bannon. First, I agreed (with myself) that I would consider zombies people. This is important, because it may determine whether zombies are morally considerable at all. If a zombie ceases to be a person and is simply nothing more than a rotting trash heap, that ends the experiment pretty much right there. I don't think that there are too many philosophers that would argue that we have a moral obligation to a pile of garbage. When I startign thinking about it, I almost immediately thought of Peter Singer ( I'm not sure exactly why). Singer takes Jeremy Bentham's view that the capacity to suffer makes one morally considerable. Bentham writes, " the question is not Can they reason? nor Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?"Although we know that the dead cannot be reasoned with ( as there are also many living humans that cannot be reasoned with), and that, with a few cinematic exceptions, none talk. But we haven't made it our habit to determine if they suffer. According to Singer, this capacity is a prerequisite for having interests at all. If, Singer states, an object lacks the capacity for suffering, we need not include it in our consideration. Singer writes, "it would be nonsense to say that it was not in the interests of a stone to be kicked along the road by a schoolboy. A stone does not have interests because it cannot suffer. Nothing that we can do to it could possibly make any difference to its welfare". If we look at George Romero's quintology of his "dead" films, we see that zombies are no more than moving meat. They do not feel physically or otherwise. They are nothing more than self-propelled rocks. Using Bentham/Singer's criteria, we need not consider their welfare. This is in line with Singer's approach to individuals who are brain-dead or in a persistive vegetative state. People with those conditions are no more than individuals who have no conscious quality of life (oops! let's clarify things before we go slumming towards Hitlerville). Like a person who has no higher brain function (without any hope of recovery), a zombie does not experience life. If we "kill" either, what "life" are we depriving either of? In this case it may be argued that to kill either would be a better good. We would speak of ending their "suffering", but the suffering we're referring to is primarily metaphorical or our own. But what if a zombie could suffer? What do we do then? Do our obligations to them change? Perhaps they might. Dan O'Bannon's zombies in Return of the Living Dead are not the shambling moving meat of Romero's films, but zombies who exhibit Robert Fletcher's "indications of humanhood" (which are self-awareness, self-control, sense of the future, a sense of the past, the capacity to relate to others [if only to eat them], concern for others, communication and curiosity). O'Bannon's zombies speak, plot, and retain their personality enough to remind their girlfriend that if she loved him that she'd let hime eat her brain. O'Bannon's zombies, unlike Romero's, experience pain. In one sequence, a female zombie reveals that there is pain in death. She explains that eating the brains of the living is the only way to end the suffering of death. The secen takes place in a funeral home between Ernie, the mortician, and the female zombie who is strapped to an embalmbing table: Ernie: you eat people. zombie: not people, brains. Ernie: brains only? zombie: yes. Ernie: why? zombie: the pain. Ernie: what about the pain? zombie: the pain of being dead. Ernie: it hurts to be dead. zombie: I can feel myself rot. Ernie: eating brains, how does that make you feel? zombie: it makes the pain go away. For starters, that scene is just plain creepy. Second, it really makes me nervous about dying, because what if that zombie is right and it is painful being dead? But more importantly, does the fact that they suffer now demand that we include their needs among our own? If feeling one's own flesh rotting is painful (as one may well imagine), then we may be obligated to end that suffering. But wait, the only way to do that is to feed brains to zombies (this is the only way to end their suffering). That spells trouble for us. If we were good utilitarians, and we have as a prerequisite for moral inclusion the capacity to suffer, how do we deal with the needs od a brain-eating zombie? Is this a case where our uttilitarian ethics runs amuck? If logic dictates that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and we may assume that (at least in some locales) the dead outnumber the living, then we might find ourselves, for the sake of consistency, handing our brains over to the undead. But this already doesn't sound right. I think back to my ethics class. We had an assignment to find a True Moral Theory. We had as a guide, several "desired" features which included: the theory must not have implausible implications, it must place realistic motivational demands on the agent, and it can'r be self-defeating. When we consider the matter utilitarianally, we find prima facie that we may have to indulge the needs of the zombie. But if we apply our desired features, we find that giving our brians to flesheaters is not only inplausible, there is absolutely no reason for giving up our brains that motivates us to do so. Lastly, by giving the brains of the living to the dead, eventually, the dead (because the dead is an ever-increasing number) will outstrip their food supply. Therefore, doing so is eventually self-defeating. Next, feeding our brains to zombies butts up against something called the sadistic pleasures objection. It goes something like this: a group cannnot achieve its excellence at the expense of another group (especially if that group is smaller). So, let's say that the main purpose of a zombie is to eat flesh. This, according to Aristotle, is its(a zombie's) excellence (characteristic function). If we give living brains to the dead, so they can flourish, and since the net pain of the dead outweighs the net pain of the living (remember, the dead outnumber the living), we would be achieving one group's excellence at the expense of the smaller group. A utilitarian does not ignore the needs of the smaller group, they figure into the greater good as well. This is especially relevant in the fact that a zombie does not need to eat brains to survive. Eating brains merely relieves a bothersome condition. A person zombie can "exist" with pain. A living human, however, cannot live without his brain. Of course, it's easy to see that living people shouldn't give up their brains so that zombies can feel better. But in the case of organ transplants or biotechnology the lines may not be so clear. If a good friend need a kidney to survive and I am a match, am I obligated to give my kidney? At what point am I obligated to give up a part of myself to help or save others? Am I obligated at all? Food for thought.

An Opinion From A Meat-eating Non-vegan

For My money, the best thing to happen to vegans is the factory farm. There's not a day that goes by that I don't hear someone, on the radio, on TV or in my face prattling on about how bad it is that we still live in a world where people still eat meat. What nonsense. I've noticed lately, that this sentiment seems to be spreading. I see a whole crop (yes, I meant to use the word crop -- totally intentional) of anti-meat eating business out there. Books like Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dilemma, (and who can forget that wonderful Skinny Bitch?) movies like Food, Inc., websites like "Meet your Meat", philosophy professors (in general), and all those other folks who like to say that they can't eat anyting with a face or experiences pain (there are two really good dirty commants there, but I'll ignore them for now). I don't think that in all of my lifetime that I've ever heard the word "organic" as much as I've heard in the past six months. I'm trying hard not to think that Obama has something to do with all this health talk. But it does seem a little more than coincidental. I heard it said before, but the standard cud-chewers litany goes a little like this: if people had to render their own meat, the wouldn't eat meat. This suggests that, for most people, having to look a cow in those big, dumb, eyes before you take him out to devour his muscle would turn even the most die-hard meat eater into a sniveling apologist for every person who ever ate an animal's flesh. There's the othre point that if we saw what goes on in the factory, none of us would want to eat meat (that's why they like to pull out the pictures of veal calves. It's funny, now that I'm thinking about it somewhat, that so many people who are plant eaters are also pro-choice. They are unphased by pictures of dead, aborted fetuses, but moved to action seeing a chicken in a cage. I'm not trying to open up that can of worms, but it is something worth thinking about.) I think that, at least on the first part, that they are wrong. I cannot say that having to kill my own food would turn me against eating meat. In fact, for some people, it has the opposite effect. Until quite recently, many people lived on farms, or at least had more to do with where their food came fromm other than waiting for it to be delivered in 30 minutes or less. For some of us, we are a generation or two from people who had to kill their own meals, at least from time to time. People who are raised on farms know that the animals amy be cute and cuddly when they are young, but they are not pets. There is s reason why you have cows or pigs or chickens on a farm -- one day, you will be eating them. The ast of killing one's dinner is, of course, not for everyone. And we've all heard the stories from people who were raised on farms who (usually when they were kids) spirited away papa's best tom turkey before it became Thanksgiving dinner. The story usually ends up that the kid eventually wins over the family, and they have a wonderful, cruelty-free vegetable dinner (I'm not saying that these stories are made up, but they do tend to sound the same. All I'm saying). If you don't want to kill your own food, don't. I'm not going to question anyone's manhood if they don't or can't. What I'm saying is, is that for every person who hid the chickens from grandma so she couldn't wring their necks, there is a Ted Nugent, who gleefully hunts his food with a bow and arrow! By the way, a Time Magazine article called "Cow-Pooling" (June 15, 2009) shows the new "trend" in meat eating -- families who buy meat directly from the farmer. A woman who was profiled for the piece called this practice "inspirational". They say that the meat is better quality and it allows people to get to know the farmer who is raising their meat, so it eliminates the potential yuck factor in that knowing the farmer means seeing where the meat was raised and more importantly, rendered for human consumption. As for the second point, that the conditions under which meat is made meat, there's a point there. I do have a slight queesiness when I look at the label of my ground beef, and it reads, "product of Canada, Mexico and USA". It's a little unnerving when you don't know exactly from where your food comes from. Especially when it is a mix of every cow from here to wherever. I'll cede the point that there is a problem with the fact that most Americans don't know how to provide for themselves (myself included), and that we are too far removed from the food-making process. I think this is why there are people who are revolted by the meat industry. We should be. It's disgusting how we get our food -- meat and vegetable. But, I don't think that that's enough to give up eating meat. The fact that cows are made to eat other sick cows or that chickens are pumped up with hormones to the point that they are all breast meat can be remedied. I heard in a movie, it was a pretty shitty movie, but a character said to another that she thought that her friends were vegetarians because they're afraid of death. I don't think that that's too far off. The fact that, in order to get meat, something has to die, and the fact that something does does not sit well with alot of people. Maybe the problem really does have something to with death. Death, no matter how you pull it off, has some amount of brutality to it (some may say it is the fact that things die that makes death brutal, regardless of the circumstances). I think that some people see becoming another animal's meal as especially unbecoming of a creature. It's kind of a low reason to die. But if we look around, that's the reason why I'd say the majority of animals go. If you ask me, a lower reason to die would be that some asshole who runs your government decides that he wants to invade another country, so he send a bunch of people to go fight his war for him -- compared to that, nourshing another animal seems like a downright noble reason to die. I'm politicizing here. Sorry. What I think is happening in the mind of my vegan planet earthers is a very noble, albeit misguided (maybe a little too simplified) notion of human nature. Most people that I know who object to eating meat on moral grounds are generally optimistic people. They tend to see the good in people. (or say that they do). I think that they see eating meat as a brutal practice that is done by brutal animals (although you may be hard pressed to get then to admit that any animal is actually "brutal"). They see people, because of their intelligence and capacity for self improvement, as better than what we often are. So, if we get rid of those parts of us that are brutal, we will be better people. If we stop eating meat, we will end world hunger, save the whales, end the genocide in Darfur, end the oppressive patriarchy that enslaves women and brown people across the world, and of course, spread a wave of socialism that will lift each person up and oppress no one. There will be peace finally if everyone would stop eating meat. Somehow I feel that even if everyone decided that we sould reduce our carbon footprint and stop eating meat tomorrow, that .... well.

Thanatopsis

Arguably the best line ever delivered in the history of modern cinema was said in 1968 in George A. Romero's classic tale of the undead, Night of the Living Dead. When asked by a local reporter if the dead are slow moving, Chief McClellan answers, "They're dead. They're all messed up". The chief's response is the perfect meeting of a great line and a great delivery. That line had always stood out of the movie for me, even when I wasn't in the habit of looking at things philosophically. But now since I've been bit by the philosophic bug, that line lead me to ask myself a few questions: 1) What's so messed up about death? 2) Is it messed up that you die? 3) Is there something inherent to death that, once someone dies they become messed up? 4) Are they messed up because they're dead? 5) Is death itself a state of being messed up? It really started to bother me. Chief McClellan seems to think that the messed-upness about death is the fact that one is dead. Being dead, as evidenced by the chief's sentiment and the ruthlessnes with which they "kill" the undead, robs an individual of his humanness. Once a person dies (and in particular if one reanimates) a person ceases to be morally considerable as anything other than something that must be destroyed. Perhaps then, being messed up has something to do with the idea that a person lacks humanness. So, I'm assuming that it goes something like this: person + dead = messed up, messed up = not human. This seems to be the sentiment that not only runs through Romero's movies, but throughout other zombie flicks as well ( I think a funnier description of the messed up state of dead people is said by the character "Rhodes" in George Romero's Day of the Dead. Rhodes calls the undead "fuckin' lunatics". I say this because Rhodes may have been onto something and not known that he was). This assessment, of course only leads us to more questions. I ask, if one can lose his humanness, what is humanness? Does the fact that we die mean that we have to lose what makes us human (or at least morally considerable)? Also, I ask, when do we stop being human (this is important in the real world when we consider those who are only mostly dead, like someone who is in a persistent vegetative state or is "brain dead")? Do we stop being human? Are we more than the sum of our parts? In the average zombie film, it seems that there is an inextricable connection between being human and being alive. This is exemplified by how the dead are described in the various films of the genre -- "things", "them", "ghouls", "stenches", zombies", "undead", "deadites", etc. They are called anything but "human" or "people". If these movies reflect how we actually feel about the dead, then being a human (and thus morally considerable) is being something that is a body imbued with life. It would take up too much time to get into the various views on what exactly life is, but for the sake of argument, let's say that a thing that lives is something that breathes, has a discernible heartbeat, has a body temperature roughly around 98.6 degrees Farenheit, and neither rots nor attempts to eat the flesh of the living. So, if life is a qualification for human classification, why do we worry about how the dead? Why do we worry about how dead bodies are treated (like why necrophilia is illegal in most states. I think that there are still a couple where you can have sex with any dead person that you want to get it on with), or why are we strongly discouraged from speaking ill of the dead? Afterall, they're not there to see us do anything to or speak ill about them. Why do we keep promises to dead people? Seems like a waste of time to hold a promise made to a dead guy over our heads. Perhaps our concern has more to do with our fear of ghosts, or visits from restless spirits, or divine retribution. Speaking of, I hope that Thomas Jefferson was haunted by the spirit of a dead friend whom he promised to use the friend's money to buy the freedom of slaves when he died. Jefferson didn't. But the question remains. If a zombie is messed up and morally unconsiderable, can we somehow cause harm to a zombie or other unliving person? Since it's so fun, let's look at zombies. A zombie, according to Random House College Dictionary (def. 1), is "the body of a dead person given semblance of life by a supernatural force". So, by definition a zombie is someone who has the outward appearance of something that is living but is not. A zombie moves (or shambles), makes noise in the form of moaning, and in the case of Re-Animator's Dr. Hill, it will perform oral sex on you (it's a visual pun). Zombies are put through various abuses throughout the pantheon of film: In George Romero's Land of the Dead, zombies are made to fight each other over food (the "food" is a live person thrown into a cage with two zombies). In the 2004 re-make of Dawn of the Dead, the heroes play a shooting game where they shoot zombies who resemble celebrities. In Shaun of the Dead, zombies are used as contestants on a game show. In Tom Savini's 1990 re-make of Night of the Living Dead and in Romero's Diary of the Dead, zombies are used as target practice by local hillbillies. In movies, zombies are killed, or re-killed in ways that we would never imagine treating a living person. This is because they're all messed up -- that is, not human. There is a body but no one to offend. Since they're dead already, you're not killing anyone. "Killing" a zombie is no different than playing the latest RPG video game. But for some of us, this sentiment doesn't sound right. Zombies look like us -- they used to be regular people. It seems counterintuitive to treat someone who is dead in any way that we please. Being messed doesn't completely disqualify someone as morally considerable. We do take care not to offend the dead, either by words or by deeds. In Tom Savini's Night of the Living Dead, Barbara (who survives this time around) says about the zombies, " They're us. We're them, and they're us". Barbara says this when she sees the local yahoos having their way with zombies. In Barbara's view, a zombie is still a person. They're more than their physicality. They don't lose their personhood or humanness upon death. We're still capable of committing violence against them. Their violence against us doesn't seem to warrant mistreatment by the living. There is a common thread that runs through the zombie films of Georre Romero that sets his films apart from other films in the genre. Namely, that Romero's films may be entertaining, but they are also meant for us to think. This is a good thing. The question (and the finer point) that runs through his zombie films is "who are the monsters?". There is an obvious answer and there is the one that makes us a little uncomfortable. Barbara discovered the answer when she saw the townies abusing the zombies. When we think of an individual doing another person harm, there are two individuals that come to mind -- the victim and the perpetrator. We consider the act, but we also consider the intent of the person who committed the harm. This is where (I think it was) Kant was going when he suggested that it is wrong to break a promise to a dead man. The moral transgression isn't in that we harmed the dead person, so much in that it speaks to what kind of person we are morally. We evaluate the intent of the agent. If I promise to buy the freedom of slaves with the money of my friend's estate after he dies, and I do not, the moral harm is that I have shown myself to be untrustworthy, that I do not honor my promises. It does not matter who I made the promise to -- I gave my word and I should honor my obligations to keep my word. (It's funny that there is a reason [one might say excuse] as to why Jefferson acted as dastardly as he did. Jefferson wrote, " The Earth belongs... to the living. The dead have neither power nor rights over it". Asshole.) A better example to use with zombies is how we treat animals or people with demished capacities. As Rhodes observed, zombies operate much like "lunatics". That is, a zombie, as we are reminded in zombie flick after zombie flick, cannot be reasoned with. Likewise, people who have no control over themselves (perhaps because of mental illness) are not rational. Like animals and the mentally ill, it is incumbent on us, the rational ones, that we care for those who cannot control or care for themselves. So perhaps we should think of zombies (or those who are mostly dead) more like we think of the mentally ill, or people who suffer from an addiction or compulsion. They cannot be but what they are. We should treat them sympathetically. For instance, my dog does not understand that there is a legitimate reason why he is not allowed to poop in the house. If I attempt to demonstrate my very well thought-out reason, he won't understand it. I cannot treat him as if he should understand. I would not hold him to the same rational standard that I would another adult human. Therefore, when he does leave an "accident", I cannot punish him in the same way that I would if he were a grown man who had crapped on my livingroom floor. If I did, I would be out of line for doing so. If I do (which would entail some asskicking), then I am in the moral wrong for my behavior. My willingness to overpunish my dog reflects on me as a rational moral agent. My moral aptitude is demonstrated by my actions. So, if I string a zombie up and poke it with sticks for shits and giggles, it says much more about what kind of person I am than about how dangerous the zombie is. And that's precisely what Barbara saw. It wasn't the zombies who had lost their humanity, but the living as well. The living had ceased to act like humans. Their intent was to cause harm -- it just so happens that their targets were people that they could get away with treating so badly. Like the man who makes a promise to his dying friend and then breaks it, they treated the zombies harshly because they knew that they would get away with doing it. To them , a zombie is nothing more than a thing. It is not a person. It deserves no moral consideration. It deserves no respect. An interesting side note is that we can see this attitude (maybe not to such a degree) in our electronic world. Websites such as Second Life enable people to enter a "reality" where they can act and do what they choose. A person can indulge any and every desire. The idea is, is that if there is no real person, then there is no moral transgression. There is no living being to offend. This is the same idea that is behind the idea of virtual child pornography. Since the child in question is the product of a computer and there is no real child who corresponds with the virtual image, then there is no moral wrong with having (virual) sex or viewing sexually explicit images of children who do not exist. But, as we all know, it takes two to tango. There is no actual being, but there is an actual someone who is having sex with virtual children. If one doubts that there is a problem here, all one needs to do is ask this question: would you feel comfortable alone, camping in the woods with someone who you discovered enjoyed rape/murder fantacies in a virtual world? Would it matter at all is the person didn't do it to anyone who actually existed (that they only did it with/to a virtual person, an automaton, or god forbid, a zombie), or would the fact that that person even entertained those sorts of intentions cause you to turn down the invite to go camping this weekend? What matters isn't that the victim (there I go, thinking like Barbara) is dead and all messed up, but that, like Romero suggests, the monsters -- the moral monsters -- are us. The end scene in Diary of the Dead is the perfect example of this point of view: The end scene of the film depicts a couple of gunsmen who have rigged up zombies for target practice. The last target is a female zombie who has been strung up from a tree by her hair. One of the gunsmen shoots, blasting her body away from her head. As her body drops, the top half of her head and her hair remain rigged to the tree. As her head dangles, a single blood tear streams from the corner of her eye. This final scene, the zombie's tear, suggests that despite her condition, she still retained some bit of her humanity. Perhaps she wasn't as messed up as Chief McClellan has believed. Somehow she still feels. This, of course, is how we think about souls. The body my die and whither away, but there is some part of us that remains. The soul is what may be harmed by the actions of the living. I feel that many people, when they think of people who died, tend to treat the dead according to this view. But of course, any atheist (or strict materialist) would object to notions of souls existing past death. We'll grant them that (primarily because this is how I believe myself). So, in real life, the dead do not move around and eat the living, and we may not believe in souls, but we do have, in our own minds, memories of those who have passed. Perhaps we can or should honor that. There's an old cliche -- that a person isn't truly dead so long as we keep them in our hearts. This may be why we are offended by the idea of treating a dead person improperly -- why the idea of necrophilia or cannibalism (unless we happen to be stranded in the Andes mountains with our soccer team), or procuring organs without the original owner's consent, are abhorent to us. The body is material and will eventually rot and turn to dust. But the body is also symbolic of the person who once was. And to that, we feel have a deep moral obligation. Until we are completely forgotten and lost to history, we may argue, when we die, we become more than the sum of our parts. At least as long as those who remember us are living, our existence, our humanity, becomes transcendent. More importantly, how we regard the dead reflects on who we are -- that those who are left behind are honorable, moral people. So, it is indeed possible to harm the dead, because when we harm the dead, we harm ourselves. Treating the dead harshly takes away from our own moral standing -- we become less human when we do so. The short of it is, is that when we die we don't lose our humanness. And being dead isn't so messed up. Well, it's either that, or we really are afraid of visits from good old Jacob Marley and his rattling chains. ..... or even worse, that kid from The Ring.

Monsieur Descartes, My Clocks Usually Don't Bleed: On the Moral Status of Animals

I was listening to a radio show some time ago. The topic was anything in general, but somehow drifted specifically to the subject of animal rights. The host talked to a caller who is dedicated to preventing the mistreatment of dogs in New york (in New York because that's where she lived). The host spoke some time about PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). Now, I like animals, I own one. He's cute and I like him. And I generally try to treat (most) of my fellow living beings, human and not-so-human, with some degree of respect, but I CANNOT STAND PETA! I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with any organization that seems to like animals more than they like people. I agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly. There are some animals that are totally more likable than some people. But, whenever I hear one of their non-celebrity spokespeople speaking (speaking would make one a apokesperson, wouldn't it?), I get the creeps. These people are hiding something. Some really unpleasant agenda that entails breeding more jackrabbits and breeding less people. Which brings me to why I'm writing this in the first place. Despite the fact that I have this blog, I don't do much in the way of web surfing. Only recently was I made aware that the frontman for my favorite band did some bit for my least favorite animal-crazy organization (that organization being the aformentioned People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). It seems that there is some sort of market for the wearing of animal furs out there. Since wearing the hides of chinchillas or mink or Siberian white tigers is not so PC -- as this activity tends to cause animals to go extinct -- the fur marketeers, instead of not selling fur, simply moved on to a more available source of fur -- namely cats and dogs. I was totally not aware of this. So, I was trolling the web, and Icame upon this very topic (using cats and dogs for fur) when I was looking for info about the latest nine inch nails cd, The Slip (an outstanding cd, I might add). It seems that Trent Reznor did this thing for PETA about the use of cats and dogs for fur. The first thing I thought wasn't, 'wow, this guy is really cool and super compassionate. he cares about our furry friends'. No, it wasn't at all like that. My immediate reaction was something like, 'et tu Brute?'. I mean really, don't you just hate it when someone you dig does something so not diggable? I like his band, and I think he's hot (I am such a girl), but I SIMPLY CANNOT STAND PETA!!! And really, think about it: if there's any group of animals that, if we should wear fur, it should be cats and dogs. I can say right now that there are approximately four dogs and an infinte number of stray cats currently running around my neighborhood at this time and all would make fine coats. Especially that mottled cat that has taken to shitting all over my front lawn. Now, let me get one thing straight. I don't think that people, unless you live somewhere near the North or South Poles, should be in the habit of wearing fur. And, I definitely think that animals shouldn't have to endure what could only be described as "torture" to get their fur off of their bodies so I can look good ( as if that were possible). But, I confess, I eat meat, I think cows are pretty much useless, and I have at least one pair of shoes with genuine leather uppers, so I realize that I'm not entirely off the hook. And I'm not so dumb to not realize that there's a slight hypocrisy in saying that wearing animal fur is bad, yet enjoying the taste of said animal's flesh with cheese and thousand island dressing. Worse yet, I'm not immune from "cuddly animals syndrome" -- the tendency of humans to not care one lick about animals who aren't cute and adorable (but then, we treat people the same way, which explains alot about why I am here writing this post, and not out doing something with other people). The way that I feel -- about fur, about my dog, about animals in general, has to do with the way that I feel about whether they do or do not fit into our moral sphere. The question of fur simply put is a question of moral status. When we consider moral status, for humans and animals, we are asking , among many questions, who counts morally and why and who should be included and what justifies the inclusion? So, looking at something close to home, when I think of my dog, I think that he is a being that is worthy of my concern and care. I try to make sure that he is well cared for and that he lives his life as pain free as possible. Why? Why do I feel morally obligated to care for him? First off, he's not human. Second, he is unable to care for me (at least in a way beyond barking whenever he feels that there is a "danger" -- which includes barking at the wind, at birds chirping too loudly outside, at the neighbors getting it and out of their cars...). But, I still care for him. I more than care, I feel that if I did not, I would be in the wrong. Somehow, my dog fits in with all of whom I feel morally obligated to care for. He's in my moral sphere despite the fact that he is not human. The fact that he is a mere dog is not a difference significant enough to count against him. I see what I'm busy doing here: when I think of why my dog is morally includable, I automatically shoot through a list of criteria for inclusion. I see at the top of my list is the question ' is it human?' . For some, this has been and is a deciding factor for inclusion or exclusion in the moral sphere. So, when I consider my dog, I have in my mind a set of criteria that he must meet for moral inclusion. These criteria include his similarity to humans, whether he can speak or reason, etc. These, when considered, make up a list of morally relevant characteristics. These are the characteristics I will consider when I decide whether another being will or will not be included in my moral sphere. Wait, I'm beginning to jumble my words as well as my thoughts. I'm trying to think up too much at one time. Let me try to write this a little more scholarly. When we consider any being, be it animal or human, we look for any morally relevant characteristics that we'll consider when we determine whether that being will be included in our moral sphere. These characteristics are morally significant -- in that they make or break a being's inclusion. Historically, the fact that other animals were not human was more than enough for moral exclusion. The Bible (well, actually it was God) gives man dominion of all the animals. The book of Genesis states: Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds if the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth (Genesis 1:26). The ancient Greeks pretty much held the same view: In his Politics, Aristotle stated that man's rationality (as opposed to the biblical view that man's superiority over animals rested in the fact that he was created in God's image) placed him above all other creatures. Aristotle states, " all tame animals are better off when they are ruled by man". Asistotle reasoned that animals were passionate and governed by their urges. An animal that is subject to the whim of his passions cannot, by nature, rule himself and therefore, must be ruled. Since man (and he did mean MAN) was governed by his intellect, he was naturally fit to rule. Aristotle wrote, "the other animals exist for the sake of man, the tame for use and food, the wild... for food and the provision of clothing and various instruments". Man was supreme, and all other animals (and a fair number of other people) existed merely to serve the needs of Man. The birth of modern philosophy, starting with Descartes, didn't do much to change the classic attitude. Descartes claimed that animals are (get this) machines. Although animals communicate with people, Descartes wrote, the fact that they lack the capacity for "real speech" indicated that they lacked the intellect that qualified them for inclusion among sentient beings. According to Descartes, the fact that animals lacked the capacity for speech indicated that animals lacked the capacities for "pure thought" and that speech was the only indicator that we could be certain that a creature possesses the capacity for rational thought. Like the ancients, Descartes also believed that animals lack the ability to control of their "natural impulse". So, for Descartes, the mere machines we call animals were fit for whatever use we saw fit -- including nailing them to walls and disecting them. The sounds of their wailing in pain, Descartes claimed, was no different from the twangs and pings made by a clock as one dismantles it. So ignore the shrieking and blood, Rene says. It's just makes that noise when you unscrew its parts. I'm not kidding. Darwin's theory of Natural Selection challenged the old ideas of man on top ( I could insert a dirty joke here -- I just did), and apart from nature, in favor of a view of man as a part of nature. According to Darwin, man's intellect made him better at some things (better than animals) but in other capacities, say the capacity for flight, non-human beings had the advantage. For Darwin, "better" did not automatically infer superior (at least in the sense that one animal is superior to all others in all capabilities). Better, according to Darwin, was a matter of successful adaptation to one's environment, rather than an innate superiority to others beings. In The Descent of Man (1871), Darwin intends to show that "there is no fundamental difference between man and the higher animals in their mental faculties". As for the "lower" animals, Darwin states that the they "like man, manifestly feel pleasure and pain, happiness and misery". Darwin writes, "Terror acts in the same manner on them as on us, causing the muscles to tremble, the heart to palpitate, the sphincters to be relaxed, and the hair to stand on end". Darwin, breaking with the traditional view, further states, " the difference in mind between man and the higher animals, great as it is, certainly is one of degree and not one of kind... the various emotions and faculties... of which man boasts, may be found in an incipient animal, or even sometimes in a well-developed condition, in the lower animals". I suppose this is where someone would say Descartes can shove it. According to the Darwinian view, the fact that man possessed speech or even reason gave us no reason to assume, based on those qualities, that man was naturally superior to all other animals. Our ability to speak may be, in the evolutionary sense, a mere result of homo sapiens adaptation to his environment. The fact that other animals lack speech isn't a sign of inherent inferiority so much as it reflects the possibility that other species did not need speech to successfully adapt to their environment. Our differences are manifestations of adaptations from which we cannot confer moral biological or moral superiority. This, the Darwinian view, is how we look at many animals -- that is, for most of us, mere biological differences bear little or no moral significance when we decide who counts for us morally. Wait, that's not exactly true. We, as humans, tend to be inpressed by the visual. We tend to cast our moral nets over those who seem most like us. We would be less likely to exclude a gorilla who "speaks" using American sign language from our moral sphere than would exclude a honey badger or a totally un-cute animal like a shrew. We still count what can tell us "ow!'. If I step on my dog's foot, he yipes in pain. If I slam a 6 foot python around, it doesn't make a sound. And besides, my dog is cuter than a python. My dog can learn to do tricks and has a bit of a personality. From his body language, I can tell when he is hungry (which is all the time), when he needs to go outside and do his business, when he's upset, or scared... but the python just lies there. I can't tell anything about him -- even if he's living or not. So, I find myself applying a bit of Cartesian morality when I think of snakes. The snake, from my point of view, cannot articulate anything to me. It lacks any capacity to communicate at all to me. This is a problem. How do we include something that doesn't seem to interact with us at all? I think that someone would have to be an absolute weirdo to deny the fact that many humans see themselves as something different or apart from other animals. Even though many of us care about animals, we still hold on to the notion that humans (generally) hold a place apart from other beings, and the fact that other animals are not human plays (whether we like it or not) a part in our moral attitudes and practices. Human are special, and that's that. Enter moral consideration. Peter Singer suggests that we approach our moral attitudes from the view that we consider the needs of other animals when we behave in a manner that will affect other non-human species. The only thing is that we consider their needs equally. Singer's approach isn't a claim for equal rights, but a claim for equal moral consideration. In Animal Liberation Singer writes, " Equal consideration for different beings may lead to different treatment and different rights". Even if we consider how other animals will be affected by our actions (say, for instance, we're planning to cut down a section of Brazillian rainforest to raise beef for McDonalds), we might decide that our needs outweigh those of the animal. If we planned to slaughter millions of potentially life-saving tropical plants and animals in order to feed overweight Americans juicy BigMacs, we may, after considering the needs of the rainforest's flora and fauna, decide that we should get to slashing and burning right away. The point is that we considered the needs of the animals before we killed them and destroyed their home. BigMacs aren't really all that juicy, come to think of it. Singer says the fact that we (humans) are physically different from other animals gives is no moral justification for simply dismissing the needs and interests of other species. Singer parallels our moral attitudes towards animals to the way that we once thought about race and gender. At one time, one's gender or race dictated one's opportunities or treatment. If, for instance, a person were born a woman, she was considered property of her familt and then, if she married, the property of her husband. Her needs and interests were not up for discussion. But, as we've become more enlightened, we've seen that the lack of a penis does not make one's status less than an individual who just so happens to have been born with one. And more importantly, it shouldn't count for unequal moral consideration. Women, like men, feel anger, happiness, fear, pain and suffering equally. And as Darwin (and Bentham) noted, animals also possess the capacity to feel these emotions as well. Bentham says that the capacity to suffer is a vital characteristic for moral consideration. The ability to feel happiness or pain transcends the capacity for language or the ability to perform complex operations like mathematics (thank god for that!). I step on my dog's foot, and he cries out in pain. Likewise, if I drop Clorox into the eyes of a rabbit, it will probably make some sort of "that hurts" noise. If someone belts me a good one, I'm probably going to tell them that it hurt a little. If someone decides to wrap a guy's head in towels and pour water on their face to simulate drowning, they'll probably describe the experience as painful or unpleasant. In all of these situations, each animal, human and non-human experienced pain and indicated it. The fact that If an animal can suffer, Bentham says, means that we cannot ignore the fact that it does. Singer also uses the capacity to suffer as a morally relevant characteristic. Singer states, "if a being suffers there can be no moral justification for refusing to take that into consideration". But wait, someone says. If I have to consider whether some animal is going to suffer every time I do anything, I won't do anything because I'll be too worried about inflicting pain on some gnat or something. This is a concern especially from those who care about the suffering of animals but still want to eat the occasional chicken sandwich. The fear is that we'll be so worried about doing anything harmful, that everyone will become a vegan, and no one will ever find the cure for cancer. But Singer himself says that suffering isn't the same as killing. We should remember that equal consideration doesn't mean equal treatment. For instance, we understand that children lack the same capacity for reason than adults. Let's say that a 6 year old child had killed his best friend while playing with his mother's Ginzu knife set. We know that a child does not operate on the same intellectual level as an adult. We may think that he did not fully understand the possibility that plunging a butcher's knife into the heart of his BFF would result in his friend's immediate and irreversable death. The fact that the child lacks the capacity for reason does not mean that we throw the kid out to the wolves. In fact, we feel an even greater moral obligation to him because he does not know what he did. We feel that the child deserves the same fair trial and protection under the law as we would extend to any adult. When we decided to charge the little tyke as an adult, we considered the fact that he's just six year's old. But, after w considered that fact, we decided that the demonseed needed to fry anyway. Which is where, I think, Singer was going when he said that inflicting suffering on a being isn't the same as killing it. If there was no other way to cure a certain disease beyond performing animal research, then, in the interest of saving human lives, we might go ahead and do the research. We know that there are speedy and virtually painless ways to slaughter animals ( that is, unless you consider death itself a harm, but that's a different issue for another philosopher). There are some situations, Singer admits, that we cannot treat animals equally. I appreciate the fact that this is the way that I'm supposed to feel about animals. And if I were a real philosopher who was concerned about appearing to be enlightened, I would probably feel more inclined to travel along the same lines as Singer. But I'm not. I admit that, no matter how hard I try, I cannot divorce myself from the feeling that being human carries more moral weight than some of us believe it does. I reject the idea the humanness is not a morally relevant characteristic -- and that different (in the Darwinian sense) does not mean better. The fact that I cannot say what makes humans different does not mean that there is no thing that does. And, because I totally reject the notion of my being a philosopher, I will leave my opinion at that. I got some music I gotta go listen to.

Two Words: Coleman Francis

I like bad movies. No, that's an understatement. I like shitty movies. Real crap. Now, there are people that will name all sorts of supposedly bad movie directors: John Waters, Renny Harlin, Ed Wood... but absolutely no one ever made such magnificent turds as the late Coleman Francis. If I were a meaner-spirited person, I would say that it's a good thing that Coleman Francis is no longer among the living. I might say that it's a good thing that god decided to end his life so that he is no longer able to force his cinematic swill onto the movie-going public. I might have said that, if I were that kind of person. Like many horrible movie watchers, like myself, I saw my first Coleman Francis movie on Mystery Science Theater 3000. The movie was "Red Zone Cuba". If there is some dictionary that has moving images along with the definitions, the word "unwatchable" would be accompanied by this movie. There are almost no words to describe what this movie does to me. It's kind of like when there's an accident right in fromt of you and the only thing you can think is to stare wide-eyed making all sorts of monosylabic sounds and giggles. There are so many things wrong with this movie that you can't name just one thing. First off is the plot itself. Three middle aged men somehow get hornswaggled into volunteering to invade Cuba with a force of, if this movie is historically accurate, about six men. Six equally physically not-adept men. Equally so, it's amazing how someone could take one of history's most politically stirring events, the Cuban Missile crisis, and turn it into a film that watching it ranks only slightly preferable to a swift knee to the groin. There are no words to describe the absolute pain this film will inflict on you. I thought, since I have made it my business to think of all things philosophically, how either this movie, or its creator can be analyzed through the philosophic lens. Kant said that we have certain moral duties not only to others, but to ourselves as well. One of his duties to self is to not let our talents rust. If we have a certain ability to do something, it is wrong to not do it. So, if I had an ability to run as fast as the wind, I would be doing myself a moral disservice to not use my talent to do something. (what that something is, I have no idea). Ok, so let's say that our dear departed Mr. Francis thought that he had a talent for filmmaking. So, if he didn't make "The Beast Of Yucca Flats" he would have actually been committing a moral wrong by not doing so. Ok, so according to the Kantian, he's in the clear. But, is it possible that doing your Kantian moral duty is so dreadfully wrong according to another moral theory? Not only wrong, but impermissible? That making shitty movies is a moral threat to everyone? What would the utilitarian say? Ok, so let's say that Coleman Francis releases his movie. And it's dreadful. People actually experience unhappiness when they see this film -- and not the good unhappiness like after seeing "Sophie's Choice", or after listening to a good Cure cd, but real unhappiness. In fact, you can say that it's unhappiness bordering on pain. Physical pain. So, if we're following Bentham, we need only to consider the amount of pleasure we are losing whenever we see a Coleman Francis film. We discover that we would be happier if we don't see movies like "Red Zone Cuba". The best thing to do, we may say, is to stop the production of bad movies. After devising an actual method of determining what a truly awful movie is, we decide to implement the stop crappy movies program. No more bad movies means more happiness for all. But is this right? Even though I'm happier that I won't ever have to see another Roland Emmerich movie again there is still something nagging at my conscience. I'm suddenly thinking about my happiness coming at someone else's expense. Somehow I feel that I am denying someone their happiness. And worse yet, I'm suddenly hearing Kant yelling imperfect duties to self in my head. So, are we doing something wrong when we tell people that the visualization of their talent isn't so good for the rest of us? Should we continue to let a bad filmmaker like Coleman Francis make his art if not for his own happiness but because he has moral obligations to himself that demand that he continue to make rotten movies? This question, of course, goes beyond Coleman Francis and his movies. Is it possible that our duty according to a moral theory -- and not even a competing theory -- end up not being the right thing to do? And what if it's not a matter of moral wrongs, but a matter of someone who just isn't as talented as they might think that they are? Should we encourage him to let his talents rust for the sake of the net happiness of all or does the Kantian view of "talent" have anything to do with quality at all? I don't watch "American Idol" (no one does, right?), but I realize that there are at least a couple pf people who aren't plants put there to sing badly for our entertainment. Some people actually think that they have a real gift for singing. So, they go on the show, just to have their dream crushed by the acid tongue of Simon Cowell. And so, after a public lashing, they decide to give up their dream of a life on the stage. We might think, hurray! score one for the utilitarian. NO crappy music. But, did Kant tell us that we had to be good at that talent? Is it a matter of only putting the things that we are good at to use, or is it the idea that we should pursue what we may feel is a calling? Maybe if the no-talent on "American Idol" wasn't humiliated on national television, they would have pursued a career singing to the homeless at soup kitchens, which would have in turn, lifted the spirits of some homeless people, who, although the voice wasn't the best voice, it was a voice of someone who cared enough to get up and try to lighten a few spirits. Perhaps the real moral wrong was Simon's cruel comments, which in the long run, caused less happiness overall (the problem with utilitarianism is that it's horrible at predicting long-range goods and harms). My god, where was I? Was I anywhere? My point is, if I had one, is that Coleman Francis is a bad filmmaker. And that after I watch his movies, I really do feel real pain (usually in my gut), but the fact that watching his films has enabled me to write this one entry has, in some way, benefitted me. And because I am continuing to think philosophically about life and stuff, I am benefitting my fellow man (it's a stretch, but it sounds nice). The films of Coleman Francis and all who follow his lead are the silver lining on this cinematic storm cloud. A storm cloud with a top end made of poo.

On Being Sci-bi: Star Wars, Star Trek and Why Being and Unfeeling Android is Better Than Being a Neurotic 'Droid

I was listening to NPR today. There was this philosopher guy who wrote a book about dolphins and why we should be concerned about them. It reminded me of a class that I had awhile back about moral status. We read some Peter Singer. My opinions about Singer aside, I appreciated his efforts to get us to realize that we humans aren't the only life on this planet. But, as a human, I still have that problem with taking any life that doesn't look human seriously. I don't go around smashing hamsters or nailing dogs to walls, but I am willing to admit that I suffer from the all-too-common humans first syndrome. As well as having a fondness for philosophy, I also have a fondness for science fiction. Some people are squarely in a particular camp, meaning that they prefer to watch "Star Trek" or that they prefer the lightsaber-wielding jedi of George Lucas' "Star Wars" saga, or even, god forbid, they like "Farscape". I haven't been one to so narrowly squeeze myself into one category of fan over another, as I have realized that there is some amount of tension between fans of any given particular science fiction program. I hadn't really had a name for what a person like me is ( except for maybe uberdork), until I listened one morning to a radio show where another multiple program watcher called himself "sci-bi". Being sci-bi meant that he was not going to be labeled. He was not going to be cornered into claiming allegiance to Roddenberry or to Lucas. He was free to appreciate both or either if he so choosed. Which brings me back to the point of all of this. I had this class on moral status. We were discussing the question, "what is a person?". The question, it seems, isn't as easily answered as we may have thought. If I was to give the standard response, I would say that a person is a human, short and simple. But, it seems, the philosopher is supposed to say that that speciesist response is no longer viable in light of the data that "proves" that we humans aren't the only intelligent life on the planet. (there's all this stuff about what constitutes "morally relevant" characteristics that determine whether a being is morally considerable. we can suppose that these same criteria can also be used to determine whether a being is a "person"). Since I am a fan of science fiction, and I also know that Gene Roddenberry was a nut about putting philosophy in to his "Star Trek" plotlines, I immedaitely recognized that my favorite incarnation of "Star Trek" (TNG, or the Next Generation for those who aren't in the know) had a plot dealing with that very issue: what is a person? Giddy with pop culture-infused zeal, I email my professor, explaining an episode of a TV show that would perfectly depict the conflict of personhood -- especially when we consider the personhood of non-humans. I volunteered the episode "Measure of a Man". Now, I could get into all sorts of really geekified backstory here, but suffice to say that the episode did fit into the class discussion. But then, that got me thinking... As far as science fiction goes, Roddenberry's characters are more "real", meaning they are future people who reflect who we are now. We are supposed to be philosophically challenged or enlightened by them and their actions. We see the people that we are to become when we look into "Star Trek" and the near-utopic future it presents to us. I guess, in the long run, that's the difference between a philosopher and a storyteller. Being that I am sci-bi, I also appreciate the work of George Lucas' "Star Wars". Truth be told, I know more about these characters than I know about my own family. I can trace the geneology of the Solo twins more readily than I can trace my own heritage. Seriously. Whereas Roddenberry shows us what we might become, Lucas shows us what we want to be. He shows us heroes and villains that find redemption through the love of our sons. Lucas' focus is on the mythology of mankind. The story where the people come first. Which is where I am focused now. I have a sort-of sci-crush on the character "Data" on "Star Trek". Now, my thing is not on Brent Spiner, the actor who plays "Data", but the character himself (itself?). I think that the point lof the android character is so that he's a mirror to our own humanity. Because he's emotionless and always trying to be more human, he reflects our constant struggle to improve ourselves. whatever. Captain Picard advocated on Data's side when Starfleet wanted to dismantle him and use him for research arguing that Data was a mere machine and was not a person. Picard argued, successfully, that Data possessed the same qualities that we humans say defines us as human, namely, we are self aware, we are sentient, and we are conscious of ourselves and our surroundings. And I guess the philosopher in me would agree wholeheartedly that, despite the fact that Data was not human, he was a person who is entitled to all the rights and privileges that all humans are entitled to. So far, so good. But then I was hit by a sudden apprehension -- what about poor C-3PO? If he were the subject of a question of personhood, and if he were in Roddenberry's universe, he would certainly meet Data's personhood test. Anyone familiar with 3PO knows that he doesn't want to die ( he is horrified by being shot in The Empire Strikes Back, and later in the film tells Chewbacca that he doesn't want to die), he is aware of himself, as we see that he constantly bemoans his "lot in life", and he, unlike Data, is emotional. C-3PO can be best described as a "nervous wreck". But yet, in George Lucas' universe, any resemblance to humans will do you absolutely no good if you're a droid. You will be used, abused, dismantled, sold without your consent, given away to Jabba the Hutt without any consideration of how you might feel about the deal, and if you know too much, your memory will be wiped. It doesn't seem to matter to either George Lucas or his characters whether a droid expresses fear or dread at being condemed to the spice mines of Kessel -- they ain't human. And that, to the "Star Wars" universe, seems to make all the difference. So what does this mean? I guess I could say that George Lucas' movies reflect the old-world mentality that told us that animals didn't have souls and that they only made noises when you cut them open because that noise was like the pings and prangs of the springs of a clock when it is taken apart. I could say that we should be more like Captain Picard -- ready to defend our non-human friends when their lives are on the line -- for only the fact that they are people too. Or, I guess the better way to see all of this is to stop looking at it all so seriously, and just enjoy the flashing lights and the soaring music.

what can i do?

There was always some time left over. When I was a political science major, I always had time left over. You know, time when you could only fit in one or two classes in your major in your schedule, so the vacancy had to be filled with something. I chose philosophy. I decided that, since I was a poly sci major, and had no need for that philosophy crap, that I would take the easiest classes -- which meant restricting any philsophy class that i would take to the 190 level. Easy lifting. No biggie. But then, as what commonly happens, I realized that I had a knack for the stuff. Now, to this day, I wouldn't be able to tell you if I had a true knack for problems philosophical, or if I had a knack for bullshitting, but either way, I managed to do well. I managed to convince people that I was not only good at this philosophy, but that I actually liked it. I hadn't considered taking it on as a major until a couple of professors asked me if I was interested in becoming a philosophy major. I had always said that I was ploy sci through and through and that I was just doing philosophy as something of a hobby. That dodge worked -- for a while. I was in my last quarter when the recruitment happened. I had slugged my way through two and a half years of political science. I had a wild and raging love affair with the political process. I loved reading the Bill of Rights, I wanted to follow the path of Lee Atwater and Karl Rove. At least at that time I wanted to.... I was taking a class, which, because we had fallen so dreadfully behind, that ended up centering on David Hume. I hadn't really thought about the problem of induction, (as it was never a proble for me or anyone else I knew), but I enjoyed reading and thinking about something that some philosopher found so dreadfully important that was ultimately useless. I enjoyed the class less for it's philosophic importance, than more for the fact that it made me giggle at the fact that people actually got paid to study and teach all of this stuff that they had convinced themselves was of vital importance. (Reading this stuff was supposed to change my life, I think I had one heard). But, as I had a knack, I was recruited by a professor -- who suggested that I should become a philosophy major. I would be glad that I did, he said. Wrong. As of this date, I haven't really made any use of that damned philosophy degree, other than to get a couple of the obilgatory philosophy questions on Jeopardy!. Sure, I can tell you all about Hume's Fork or Xeno's Paradox, or muddle my way through a half explanation of Kant's Transcendental Idealism, but what use does that serve? Can it help me to fix a tire? Can it hurry the Minnesota recount and declare Al Franken the winner? Can it get me a job with a fair wage and a decent health plan? (The answer to that question is no). A couple of nights ago, my neighborhood had a blackout. I was sitting on the sofa with my dog, eating my dinner, and suddenly, all darkness. Luckily my nephew was just outside, and as he is a smoker, he supplied me with a lighter that I used to find my way to some candles. But for a moment, right after the lights went out, I was helpless. I sat peering into the darkness hoping that I would be able to feel my way to the stove where I could turn on one of the burners but suddenly realizing that the ignition is electric. I thought to myself, what if my nephew wasn't outside? what would I have done then? I would have sat in that dark room panicking until the power was restored. (which would have been a good 40 minutes). That's what I would have done. Last night, I was listening to "Coast to Coast". The guest was talking about what we would have to do to survive if technology failed us. We'd have to grow our own food, make our own shoes, even. I thought: my god, I can't do any of that. I can't do anything! I have so much education but absolutely no skills to show for it. If tomorrow it all hit the fan, I'd starve to death. Probably while clutching a copy of The Critique of Pure Reason. If my degree of usefulness determined whether I ended up someone's dinner in a raging blizzard, I'd be the first person eaten in the Donner Party. At least that way I'd been useful. Not too long ago, I was listening to former MTV vj Kennedy on her local radio show. Like myself, she is also a holder of a philosophy degree. She and her co-host were talking about what they would do if civilization as we know it collapsed and mankind was left to fend for itself. She asked, "What can I do?". She said that at that point she realized that having a degree in philosophy isn't exactly .... well.... impressive. It doesn't prepare or even instruct someone as to how to grow seeds or tan leather. Nada. If I recall correctly, Descartes was busy hiding from war while he was busy realizing that he existed. Now, this may be biting the hand that feeds, but I think that we could have all gotten along fairly well if Good Old Rene had actually gone off to fight instead of hiding in his nightgown staring at a piece of wax. I'll be the first to admit that if I were in a life raft adrift on the ocean I'd likely hike the philosopher overboard in favor of saving the botanist or the EMT. Sure, I could say that it's the philosophers who build civilizations, and I could point to Plato or Aristotle to show for it. Ok, that excuses them. But how do I excuse myself? Except to claim that my utilitarian value to society is dinner.

should i be saying something important?

the world is going to hell. At least that's what is happenaing if I believe the countless array of conspiracy theorists that I listen to every day on the radio. (Actually, I only listen to two, and occasionally to Coast to Coast). The globalists are taking over, and we're all being threatened by genetic tampering and false flag operations carried out by the new world order, so they can manifest their plan for world domination. That's what I'm supposed to believe. Now, if I believe this, I should feel as if I am obligated to do something about it. That would be the Kantian thing to do, wouldn't it? But, even if I truly were an egoist-- and I'm not saying that I'm not-- I'd still be obligated to do something, if not motivated by my own self-interest not to be genetically tampered or new world ordered. I really should be doing a Howard Beale, screaming from the rooftops, or at least out nof my window, about how if we don't conquer the rising tide of new world orderdom, humanity is lost. But somehow, in the midst of all of this hell-going, I feel like ... well, not saying anything important at all. It's not for fear of being called "kooky" or a conspiracy nut or a foil head. It's not that at all. I mean, what's really the worst that could happen? Ok, so the globalsist take over, and they implement a plan of destruction that kills 80% of the human population. Is that really so bad? Now, before anyone accuses me of skipping towards Hitlerville, let me explain: What can a globalist do that nature isn't going to do already? I mean, if they (whoever "they" are) kill me, well... that was kind of going to happen no matter who is in charge. Like every other human, plant or animal, I'm going to die. I suppose there's something to do with the methods of killing that "they" might use -- firing squads, toxic gasses, starvation (that might take awhile in my case), death camps, weaponized viruses, and the like -- but still, any way it happens, all roads lead to Rome, so to speak. The end is the same. And would be the same whether I die peacefully at the ripe old age of 137, or whether it ends suddenly and horrendously at the hands of a minion of the new world order. The point is that no matter what any of us does, we're ... well... you know the rest. I was thinking that maybe I'm just too existentialist to care about the badness of death, so I can't see any importance in teling people that going to hell is necessarily a bad thing. I know that every man, in addition to being condemned to freedom, is also condemned to die. And really if that's the worst that can happen to any of us, then knowing and getting acquainted with its inevitability is the best thing to do. If fear is false evidence appearing real, then once we see the truth surrounding our own mortality, we are free to not fear it. So I can say, "Death? No biggie." I know, I know, I'm starting to sound like that dude in Romeo and Juliet who teases Romeo about love, and Romeo says something about his friend jesting at scars that have never felt wounds (or at least I think that's how it went, I didn't pay that much attention to Shakespeare in high school English class. And I'm not really sure how this fits the context of my discussion, anyway ). I've seen death, I mean really seen it. I've had the distinct "pleasure" of watching a loved one die, and I've lost a few others along the way. But that doesn't change the way that I feel. I still don't see what all these conspiracy folks are worked up about. I still don't feel motivated to spread the word to my fellow man. Is that wrong? Now, whether the conspiracies are real or not, and assuming that there is something important about telling them, is telling something important to people a moral obligation? Or, can my choice to not say anything important be a equally good moral judgment? Can I be doing good by not doing anything at all? I'm not so convinced that what I'm doing -- thinking and writing about philosophy and all that stuff that ultimately doesn't change anything, and not saying anything important -- is morally wrong. Maybe there's a hidden moral correctness to all the Britney Spears, Gerard Butler's, and Mary-Kate Olsen's out there. Maybe we don't see it, but they keep us from getting so caught up in all of the important stuff. Maybe they're here to remind us that we are, above all, mere human beings. Who wants a world full of Kants and Wittgensteins? I certainly don't. Sometimes we need reminding that we are but people here for only a short time, and that even when all is going to hell, we need to enjoy what we've got, which includes the ability to be trivial and frivilous. And that all of our points of view, be they important or not, are perfectly acceptable. So the globalists can have their world, I'm going to listen to "Circus".