(Note to the reader: this post deals with sports, but is not about sports. If you aren't a sports fan, tough it out, it gets better.)
John Lackey is not a terrible person. Actually, he might be. I have no idea what kind of person John Lackey is, but I'm assuming he's not a terrible person. He's most likely no worse than the worst person you've ever met, and a strong case could be made that there are many athletes more deserving of the adjective "terrible". To the best of my knowledge, he's never been arrested, never been accused of any sort of domestic disturbance. He's never even sat in the back of his SUV while a friend drove it and led police on a low-speed chase through Orange County. However, as a teammate and employee (which, despite being accurate, seems like a ridiculous title to give anyone making as much as he does), he's among some of the worst, and it's this aspect of his career that I think about the most.
Lackey is scheduled to start tonight's game against the Seattle Mariners. Assuming that happens, it's a very safe bet that he won't finish the game. Maybe he has a rough outing and gets pulled early, or maybe he throws well and becomes a victim of Boston's pitch-counting. Either way, at some point, Terry Francona will walk out to the mound and take the ball out of Lackey's hand, and Lackey will be pissed off about it. How do I know this? Because it is what he has done with almost perfect regularity since arriving in Boston before last season. There is almost no situation in which he feels that the decision to take him out off the mound is justified. After his most recent episode, glaring back at Francona while heading to the dugout after 5 and 2/3 innings, giving up 10 hits, 4 runs, and 3 earned, many in the media agreed with Tim McCarver (a statement which may never have been made before), who said that Lackey was showing up his manager. While this may be true, what Lackey was really doing was exposing his sense of entitlement. Certainly, he's not the only professional athlete with this flaw, but he displays it in a way that represents one of the biggest problems in American society.
We live in a culture where everyone has the ability to express themselves. This, fundamentally, is a good thing (even if it weren't, there is no way someone writing a personal blog for free could claim otherwise). The internet allows the average person to share their thoughts and ideas with people they would most likely never speak to otherwise. Even if you oppose it for being trite (it's hard to imagine deep thoughts coming 140 characters at a time), Twitter, along with Facebook and other social networking sites, Youtube, as well as countless blogs (Hi!!), provide an ability for the masses to exchange ideas, and there is something to be said for that. The problem with this is that the vast majority of the people taking part in said exchange are raised in an era where we are told we are all special and important. And maybe we are. I, personally, like the romanticized idea that everyone brings there own special ability to the global party. But with all of these people having the ability to put their ideas out in the world, the growing sense among the average person is becoming that every thought they have, no matter how ill-conceived or underdeveloped, is loaded with with inherent value.
Twenty-five years ago, if you wanted to voice an idea, you had fewer options to do so than provided today. You needed some sort of credential to get your words (in whatever form you put them in) to the public. There was no internet, at least not in the way we know it today. You couldn't just write something and have it be out there. The closest you could get to that, perhaps, was writing to your local paper, and even then, that would have to be approved by an editor before it would be published. In 1986, if you were giving away every thought that came into your head, you were probably insane and shouting on a street corner. We've essentially replaced that corner with the internet. Now everyone is crowding the sidewalk, cramming to find a place to express ourselves.
Okay, I know I mentioned this earlier, but it's worth repeating. I don't think this is a bad thing. I think more people trading more ideas is a good thing. It's part of why I do this. But I know that no one is obligated to pay any attention to these posts at all. I suspect some people understand this and feel the same way about their blogs/twitter/facebook/etc.., but I am also pretty sure that a lot of people don't. I think many (possibly most) people not only think that what they post is important, but that it deserves to be viewed by everyone. And if you don't believe me, check out your facebook sometime and see how many people "like" their own status.
This constant ability to express ourselves has given many people the sense that it is their right to express themselves about anything, at anytime, and that these expressions shouldn't be suppressed by anyone, for any reason. Well, maybe. I'm not exactly suggesting that we should have free reign to shut people up whenever we want (even though it may sound like that). I just think that the world and, in particular, our corner of it would be a lot better off if we suppressed ourselves a little more often, even if just long enough to consider the impact of what we might have to say.
Forgive the (cliched) sentiment, but we're all in this together. There are just under 7 billion people in the world, slightly over 300 million in the U.S., and about 1 million here in Rhode Island. There isn't enough room for us to force our thoughts out everywhere we go. Get them out there, by all means, just leave space for the everyone else.
I'll be watching John Lackey tonight. I hope he pitches well. I hope the Red Sox win. But most of all, when the time comes, I hope he leaves the game quietly, without incident. For all of us.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Good....meaning what?
Think about your favorite band/musician. Not your favorite one today, or who you've been listening to the most recently, or your "new favorite". Chances are, his/her/their music is something you've been listening to for years and, though there may be periods you don't listen to it much, if at all, you always end up coming back to it. My assumption is that you would qualify this music as being good. (I suppose there is a chance you don't feel this way, but if so, you're probably just a contrarian and I'm not that interested in your opinion. Sorry.) My question is this; what makes you consider this music good?
I'm not asking you to defend your choice. Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time with me has probably had to deal with me doing that anyway. (I spend a lot of time thinking about why people do things, and occasionally actually get people to question these things themselves. This may come across as criticism, especially if I disagree with whatever the topic in question is, but it's just sort of what I do.) What I'm asking you, more specifically, is what is your definition of good? What is it about that music that makes you consider it "more good" (a phrase that makes sense in terms of this piece of writing) than other music?
Surely, this is not the only band or artist that you would consider good, but there is a reason I asked you to think of your favorite. Most people, myself included, like some music (other mediums apply to this line of questioning, but more on that in a minute) outside of our normal range of taste, and like it for reasons that are probably quite different from why we like our favorite musicians. A song that reminds you of someone or a certain time in your life (many of the largely forgotten singles from the early and mid-90's). A band so catchy that you can't stop yourself from listening to them (Phoenix and, in particular, their single "Lisztomania", a song that sounds like what would happen if Franz Ferdinand wrote songs exclusively to be used in commercials for hybrid cars). A few of us might be willing to admit that, somewhere, lost in our iPods and CD collections, is music that we acknowledge as bad. We might even like it because it is bad (which is how I feel about almost anything I listen to from the 80's). Your favorite band isn't subject to these kinds of whims. You may have memories associated with them, but they either came after you had already liked them, or whatever memory you have is just what introduced you to them.
Labeling something as "good" is subjective, but we rarely mean it that way (if you don't believe that last sentence is true, the next time someone tells you that a certain band is good, reply with "no they aren't" and see what happens). When we say something is good, we don't mean the same thing as when we say we love or like something. When we say something is good, we are giving it a value that we feel others should be able to recognize. Even the more exclusionary of us out there, those who don't want others to like what they like, take pride in feeling that they see this value that others have missed. We may not think about it, but calling something good says more than simply stating that we like something.
So, where does the value associated with "good" come from? The easiest conclusion to make would be that how good something is comes directly from how much talent it took to create it. This makes sense on the surface, but doesn't hold up for long. Yngwie Malmsteen is widely viewed to be among the most technically skilled guitarists to ever live, yet his music has never really experienced widespread recognition. If Malmsteen is the heads of this proverbial coin, The Ramones would be tails. The Ramones knew 4 chords, wrote 3 songs, and are one of the most influential and well known bands of the past 40 years. You could make an argument (and probably a pretty accurate one) that their music, and the music they inspired (punk) was as much about the message and aesthetic as it was about the music, but does that make it somehow less good than the music of Malmsteen? What of the bands that took the philosophy put forth by The Ramones and punk? Bands like Guided By Voices and Pavement that seemed to actively try to hide their music in lo-fi recordings, largely ignored for large stretches of their careers, but have shown a heavy influence on later bands and found a place in the hearts of critics. Surely, there are people who enjoy Malmsteen simply for his talent, just as there are those like The Ramones for not having any (or, more likely, not flaunting it). So does technical skill even apply to the conversation of what is "good"?
Let's shift gears for a second. Start this whole process again with your favorite movie or television series. Again, I would assume you would describe whatever show or movie you came up with as being good. But what makes them good? You could make the case for talent again, but that rationale makes even less sense when applied to acting. Follow me for a moment: All of us, as fans of music (assuming you are), can recognize a technically skilled musician, even if we don't like the music they make. There might be some discrepancy in opinions on who is the most technically skilled, but we all see the ability that is there. How does that recognition of talent apply to acting, when opinions tend to be much more varied? Don't believe me? Ask a few people about Jack Nicholson's performance in The Departed. Chances are you'll get at least one person who thought he was incredible and a perfect choice for the role, and you'll get at least one person who thought he was embarrassing and should have taken it as a sign to spend less time in movies and more time watching basketball at The Staples Center.
You could make the argument that measuring a piece of film or television by the talent of its performers doesn't take into account the talent of the writers and directors who created the work (unlike music, where the performers and the creators are often the same person/s). Perhaps, but how do we measure that talent? Awards? Even if you put any stock in Emmys and Oscars (and it seems like fewer and fewer people do), that doesn't necessarily translate into success (another semi-meaningless measurement of value). No Country For Old Men won the Academy Award for Best Picture, and I can count on one hand the people I know who even think it is slightly above okay. Arrested Development won 6 Emmy Awards and was nominated for 22, but lasted only three seasons before being cancelled.
When we say something is "good", we are really saying that we think something should be important, understanding that if we said "this should be important", we would sound pretentious or ridiculous, and often both. So if we accept this use of good, but acknowledge that there isn't a clear, universal way to measure it, does the word have any meaning at all?
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe we can figure it out the next time we talk about why my music is better than yours.
I'm not asking you to defend your choice. Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time with me has probably had to deal with me doing that anyway. (I spend a lot of time thinking about why people do things, and occasionally actually get people to question these things themselves. This may come across as criticism, especially if I disagree with whatever the topic in question is, but it's just sort of what I do.) What I'm asking you, more specifically, is what is your definition of good? What is it about that music that makes you consider it "more good" (a phrase that makes sense in terms of this piece of writing) than other music?
Surely, this is not the only band or artist that you would consider good, but there is a reason I asked you to think of your favorite. Most people, myself included, like some music (other mediums apply to this line of questioning, but more on that in a minute) outside of our normal range of taste, and like it for reasons that are probably quite different from why we like our favorite musicians. A song that reminds you of someone or a certain time in your life (many of the largely forgotten singles from the early and mid-90's). A band so catchy that you can't stop yourself from listening to them (Phoenix and, in particular, their single "Lisztomania", a song that sounds like what would happen if Franz Ferdinand wrote songs exclusively to be used in commercials for hybrid cars). A few of us might be willing to admit that, somewhere, lost in our iPods and CD collections, is music that we acknowledge as bad. We might even like it because it is bad (which is how I feel about almost anything I listen to from the 80's). Your favorite band isn't subject to these kinds of whims. You may have memories associated with them, but they either came after you had already liked them, or whatever memory you have is just what introduced you to them.
Labeling something as "good" is subjective, but we rarely mean it that way (if you don't believe that last sentence is true, the next time someone tells you that a certain band is good, reply with "no they aren't" and see what happens). When we say something is good, we don't mean the same thing as when we say we love or like something. When we say something is good, we are giving it a value that we feel others should be able to recognize. Even the more exclusionary of us out there, those who don't want others to like what they like, take pride in feeling that they see this value that others have missed. We may not think about it, but calling something good says more than simply stating that we like something.
So, where does the value associated with "good" come from? The easiest conclusion to make would be that how good something is comes directly from how much talent it took to create it. This makes sense on the surface, but doesn't hold up for long. Yngwie Malmsteen is widely viewed to be among the most technically skilled guitarists to ever live, yet his music has never really experienced widespread recognition. If Malmsteen is the heads of this proverbial coin, The Ramones would be tails. The Ramones knew 4 chords, wrote 3 songs, and are one of the most influential and well known bands of the past 40 years. You could make an argument (and probably a pretty accurate one) that their music, and the music they inspired (punk) was as much about the message and aesthetic as it was about the music, but does that make it somehow less good than the music of Malmsteen? What of the bands that took the philosophy put forth by The Ramones and punk? Bands like Guided By Voices and Pavement that seemed to actively try to hide their music in lo-fi recordings, largely ignored for large stretches of their careers, but have shown a heavy influence on later bands and found a place in the hearts of critics. Surely, there are people who enjoy Malmsteen simply for his talent, just as there are those like The Ramones for not having any (or, more likely, not flaunting it). So does technical skill even apply to the conversation of what is "good"?
Let's shift gears for a second. Start this whole process again with your favorite movie or television series. Again, I would assume you would describe whatever show or movie you came up with as being good. But what makes them good? You could make the case for talent again, but that rationale makes even less sense when applied to acting. Follow me for a moment: All of us, as fans of music (assuming you are), can recognize a technically skilled musician, even if we don't like the music they make. There might be some discrepancy in opinions on who is the most technically skilled, but we all see the ability that is there. How does that recognition of talent apply to acting, when opinions tend to be much more varied? Don't believe me? Ask a few people about Jack Nicholson's performance in The Departed. Chances are you'll get at least one person who thought he was incredible and a perfect choice for the role, and you'll get at least one person who thought he was embarrassing and should have taken it as a sign to spend less time in movies and more time watching basketball at The Staples Center.
You could make the argument that measuring a piece of film or television by the talent of its performers doesn't take into account the talent of the writers and directors who created the work (unlike music, where the performers and the creators are often the same person/s). Perhaps, but how do we measure that talent? Awards? Even if you put any stock in Emmys and Oscars (and it seems like fewer and fewer people do), that doesn't necessarily translate into success (another semi-meaningless measurement of value). No Country For Old Men won the Academy Award for Best Picture, and I can count on one hand the people I know who even think it is slightly above okay. Arrested Development won 6 Emmy Awards and was nominated for 22, but lasted only three seasons before being cancelled.
When we say something is "good", we are really saying that we think something should be important, understanding that if we said "this should be important", we would sound pretentious or ridiculous, and often both. So if we accept this use of good, but acknowledge that there isn't a clear, universal way to measure it, does the word have any meaning at all?
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe we can figure it out the next time we talk about why my music is better than yours.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Of Sport and Art
I like lots of things. I have yet to find anyone who likes exactly the same things that I like. I haven't found anyone who likes all of things that I like within a certain area of likeable things (that sentence makes sense). I haven't even found anyone who likes all of the things that I like, simply because they like everything. Even those people don't like something that I like. And that's fine. I don't like everything that other people like. I suspect that I'm not alone in this, and probably far from it. Besides, meeting someone with the exact same interests would probably be boring, and at the very least, would never lead to finding new things to like.
As you may have already guessed, sports are among the things that I like. They have been at least partially involved in my life for as long as I can remember. I've been supporting the local teams before I even knew how to say their names. The Patriots, Bruins. Red Sox, and Celtics. I have memories for all of them. And while much has been made lately about how "spoiled" New England sports fans have been, I've seen the other end of it too. Don't get me wrong, I know that at 28, I've seen more from my sports teams than most other sports fans will see in their lives. I don't say that to brag or rub it in to the less fortunate sports cities, I say it because I know how special it is (as a sports fan) to see what has happened over the last decade. And I know I would love my sports teams just as much if none of it had happened.
Now, I have a lot of friends who share my love of sports. Many of them even love the same teams I do. There are some people, however, who don't like sports. More than that, they actively dislike sports, and they think my love of sports is foolish and a waste of time. They think my time would be better spent doing almost anything else. The interesting part is that I share many other common interests with these people. Music, literature, film, television. We have more in common then we don't, and yet these people still can't get past my love of sports, and often take a moment or two to tell me about it. And the more I think about that, the less I understand it.
When it comes to art, there is no accounting for taste. Most people seem to know this, even if they don't understand it. No one expects everyone else to like their personal favorite song or movie or book. They don't always understand why someone won't like it, and may even get mad when someone else claims to dislike it, but everyone seems to know, that's just the way things work. But even though we all like different things in the art we choose to take in (depending on the form), how different are the things we take away from art?
Whether we listen to an album (and I mean really listen, not just throwing it on as background music), or watch a movie, or read a book, aren't we all doing the same things? We allow these artists to take control of our lives, even if just a for a few minutes. We let them put ideas in our minds, making us think about things that never occurred to us or look at topics from a different perspective. We let them make us laugh, cry, smile, or get upset. We surrender ourselves to them, temporarily. We hope to get a glimpse into their lives, and hope to be able to take something away that will make some sense of our own. Sports may not give us the same insights into our lives, but it does allow us to escape from our own for a little while. Getting ourselves worked up over a game gives us a chance to not be worked up over our own problems.
There are those who will try to argue that athletes are nothing but mindless jocks, overpaid men who are simply products of superior genetics. Listen, I know that there are more than a few stories about athletes that would illustrate that very point. I'm sure almost every Division 1 college has, at some point, looked the other way while one of their "student-athletes" forgot the full meaning of that designation. At this very moment, there is no possible joke I could make about Plaxico Burress that hasn't already been made. But does that mean they are all bad? The truth of it is, most professional athletes are probably decent people. Let's be honest, most of the time, news is just barely disguised entertainment, and that's especially true of sports. There is no room for stories about a baseball (or any other sport) player who comes in, works hard, and goes home to his wife and kids everyday. And make no mistake, every one of them, even the spotlight seeking "divas", works hard. To say that any professional athlete got where they are because they were born that way isn't giving them enough credit. Yes, many of us were born with bodies that never would have made it as a quarterback or power forward, no matter how much work we put it. But being born with a body that could make it doesn't guarantee that you will. Many of these men and women have worked their entire lives to be in the shape that they are in, to do the things that they do. Which is just another way sports can be like art.
We, as people, tend to believe that the artists (again, choose your medium) we love are among the best in their field. There is nothing wrong with this belief (provided you understand that it's a subjective one). We want to see the best do what they are good at. Of the four major sporting leagues in America, all of them are the premier leagues for their respective sports. Whenever you watch a broadcast from the NFL, MLB, NHL, or NBA, you are watching some of the best in the world at what they do. We tend to forget this, because we compare professional athletes to other professional athletes, and we do it all the time, even though it isn't always fair. Player A is matched up against Player B. Player A is an average athlete, while Player B is a perennial all-star. On most nights, even is Player A is performing up to his usual standards, he is going to look bad. Fans of Player A's team are going to call local radio shows to criticize him. And that's okay, that's the way sports work. But does that actually make Player A bad? He's still better than you at whatever sport he plays, and he's more than likely better than anyone you've ever known (A common phrase in sports, that the worst player of X is still better than anyone you've ever known at X. Most of the people reading this probably know someone who knows Rocco Baldelli, so I felt the need to alter it slightly. Rocco Baldelli wasn't exactly Babe Ruth, but he was never the worst player in baseball).
Not everyone gets exactly the same things out of the art they choose to open themselves to. There may be someone out there right now reading this who never thinks new things when they read a book, or doesn't think there is (or is unaware of) anything remarkable about the musicians they listen to. While that may be the case, I'm willing to bet that everyone has talked about the music/movies/books that they love with someone else. Think about your close friends. Think about the conversations you have with them. How much time is spent talking about these things? Probably a pretty big chunk. I would even be willing to bet that it's the second most common thing people talk about, with "other people" being the most common (everybody is a gossip). This is because art brings people together. And sports are no different.
My dad is not a very vocal person. He's opened up a bit more as we've both gotten older, but no one would ever call him effusive. I'm not sure my father has ever experienced an uncomfortable silence. Silence of any sort works well for him. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, but as a young kid, I didn't always understand it. Except when we were watching sports. When a game was on, we didn't need to say anything. We both knew what the other was thinking, because we were both thinking the same things. We loved our teams, and we loved each other.
I took some time out of work recently to make sure I was able to watch the Stanley Cup. Of course I wanted to be able to pay more attention to it than I would have been while at work, but more than that, I wanted to watch it with my dad. There were a lot of great moments from those seven games, but all of them were made better by the fact that he was watching it with me. For 2 weeks now we've been randomly shouting "Stanley Cup Champions!" to each other, but the reason it has meaning beyond the words themselves is because we were able to shout them the first time with each other. It's possible you have no idea what I'm talking about right now, but if you got your love of sports from your father, like I and so many others have, you don't even need to read this to know what I mean.
Sports and art aren't the same thing, I know that. I know that as happy as it made my father and I, the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup didn't really change anything about the world. Neither did the Mavericks beating the Heat in the NBA finals, a point a petulant Lebron James was quick to make. When an athlete is competing, he or she is almost never trying to "reach" the fans or get a larger message to them, where as every artist almost always is. Even when art is supposed to mean nothing, it was actively constructed that way. Sports aren't actively constructed to convey anything, other than the sport itself. But just because there is no meaning behind sports, that isn't to say they don't have meaning.
As you may have already guessed, sports are among the things that I like. They have been at least partially involved in my life for as long as I can remember. I've been supporting the local teams before I even knew how to say their names. The Patriots, Bruins. Red Sox, and Celtics. I have memories for all of them. And while much has been made lately about how "spoiled" New England sports fans have been, I've seen the other end of it too. Don't get me wrong, I know that at 28, I've seen more from my sports teams than most other sports fans will see in their lives. I don't say that to brag or rub it in to the less fortunate sports cities, I say it because I know how special it is (as a sports fan) to see what has happened over the last decade. And I know I would love my sports teams just as much if none of it had happened.
Now, I have a lot of friends who share my love of sports. Many of them even love the same teams I do. There are some people, however, who don't like sports. More than that, they actively dislike sports, and they think my love of sports is foolish and a waste of time. They think my time would be better spent doing almost anything else. The interesting part is that I share many other common interests with these people. Music, literature, film, television. We have more in common then we don't, and yet these people still can't get past my love of sports, and often take a moment or two to tell me about it. And the more I think about that, the less I understand it.
When it comes to art, there is no accounting for taste. Most people seem to know this, even if they don't understand it. No one expects everyone else to like their personal favorite song or movie or book. They don't always understand why someone won't like it, and may even get mad when someone else claims to dislike it, but everyone seems to know, that's just the way things work. But even though we all like different things in the art we choose to take in (depending on the form), how different are the things we take away from art?
Whether we listen to an album (and I mean really listen, not just throwing it on as background music), or watch a movie, or read a book, aren't we all doing the same things? We allow these artists to take control of our lives, even if just a for a few minutes. We let them put ideas in our minds, making us think about things that never occurred to us or look at topics from a different perspective. We let them make us laugh, cry, smile, or get upset. We surrender ourselves to them, temporarily. We hope to get a glimpse into their lives, and hope to be able to take something away that will make some sense of our own. Sports may not give us the same insights into our lives, but it does allow us to escape from our own for a little while. Getting ourselves worked up over a game gives us a chance to not be worked up over our own problems.
There are those who will try to argue that athletes are nothing but mindless jocks, overpaid men who are simply products of superior genetics. Listen, I know that there are more than a few stories about athletes that would illustrate that very point. I'm sure almost every Division 1 college has, at some point, looked the other way while one of their "student-athletes" forgot the full meaning of that designation. At this very moment, there is no possible joke I could make about Plaxico Burress that hasn't already been made. But does that mean they are all bad? The truth of it is, most professional athletes are probably decent people. Let's be honest, most of the time, news is just barely disguised entertainment, and that's especially true of sports. There is no room for stories about a baseball (or any other sport) player who comes in, works hard, and goes home to his wife and kids everyday. And make no mistake, every one of them, even the spotlight seeking "divas", works hard. To say that any professional athlete got where they are because they were born that way isn't giving them enough credit. Yes, many of us were born with bodies that never would have made it as a quarterback or power forward, no matter how much work we put it. But being born with a body that could make it doesn't guarantee that you will. Many of these men and women have worked their entire lives to be in the shape that they are in, to do the things that they do. Which is just another way sports can be like art.
We, as people, tend to believe that the artists (again, choose your medium) we love are among the best in their field. There is nothing wrong with this belief (provided you understand that it's a subjective one). We want to see the best do what they are good at. Of the four major sporting leagues in America, all of them are the premier leagues for their respective sports. Whenever you watch a broadcast from the NFL, MLB, NHL, or NBA, you are watching some of the best in the world at what they do. We tend to forget this, because we compare professional athletes to other professional athletes, and we do it all the time, even though it isn't always fair. Player A is matched up against Player B. Player A is an average athlete, while Player B is a perennial all-star. On most nights, even is Player A is performing up to his usual standards, he is going to look bad. Fans of Player A's team are going to call local radio shows to criticize him. And that's okay, that's the way sports work. But does that actually make Player A bad? He's still better than you at whatever sport he plays, and he's more than likely better than anyone you've ever known (A common phrase in sports, that the worst player of X is still better than anyone you've ever known at X. Most of the people reading this probably know someone who knows Rocco Baldelli, so I felt the need to alter it slightly. Rocco Baldelli wasn't exactly Babe Ruth, but he was never the worst player in baseball).
Not everyone gets exactly the same things out of the art they choose to open themselves to. There may be someone out there right now reading this who never thinks new things when they read a book, or doesn't think there is (or is unaware of) anything remarkable about the musicians they listen to. While that may be the case, I'm willing to bet that everyone has talked about the music/movies/books that they love with someone else. Think about your close friends. Think about the conversations you have with them. How much time is spent talking about these things? Probably a pretty big chunk. I would even be willing to bet that it's the second most common thing people talk about, with "other people" being the most common (everybody is a gossip). This is because art brings people together. And sports are no different.
My dad is not a very vocal person. He's opened up a bit more as we've both gotten older, but no one would ever call him effusive. I'm not sure my father has ever experienced an uncomfortable silence. Silence of any sort works well for him. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, but as a young kid, I didn't always understand it. Except when we were watching sports. When a game was on, we didn't need to say anything. We both knew what the other was thinking, because we were both thinking the same things. We loved our teams, and we loved each other.
I took some time out of work recently to make sure I was able to watch the Stanley Cup. Of course I wanted to be able to pay more attention to it than I would have been while at work, but more than that, I wanted to watch it with my dad. There were a lot of great moments from those seven games, but all of them were made better by the fact that he was watching it with me. For 2 weeks now we've been randomly shouting "Stanley Cup Champions!" to each other, but the reason it has meaning beyond the words themselves is because we were able to shout them the first time with each other. It's possible you have no idea what I'm talking about right now, but if you got your love of sports from your father, like I and so many others have, you don't even need to read this to know what I mean.
Sports and art aren't the same thing, I know that. I know that as happy as it made my father and I, the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup didn't really change anything about the world. Neither did the Mavericks beating the Heat in the NBA finals, a point a petulant Lebron James was quick to make. When an athlete is competing, he or she is almost never trying to "reach" the fans or get a larger message to them, where as every artist almost always is. Even when art is supposed to mean nothing, it was actively constructed that way. Sports aren't actively constructed to convey anything, other than the sport itself. But just because there is no meaning behind sports, that isn't to say they don't have meaning.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Fear Itself (and everything else)
The future doesn't excite me. I'm not talking about MY future, I'm talking about OUR future, and that's part of the problem. When I say "our", it's not even clear what that means. It could mean everybody. Or it could mean nobody. It could mean a lot of things, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
There are plenty of reasons to be bummed about the coming years. Michael Bay films, the end of the Tim Thomas era (too short to begin with), climate change (and whatever comes with it), the continued existence of reality- or vampire-based television (vampire reality series?), political unrest, global economic crises, and the transition to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The post-apocalypse itself will vary depending on your sources; Totally bad-ass (Mad Max), odd, personal, and quest-based (The Fallout series), or with an abundance of snacks (Andrew Bird's Tables and Chairs).
I'm not a pessimist. I'm not a misanthrope. I can be cynical, but I wouldn't consider myself a cynic (there may be some who disagree with that statement). All of that being true, I try to think about things from every angle I can come up with. Most of the time, the level of importance of these things isn't nearly as high as the amount of time and energy I invest in thinking about them, and the end result is me slightly less mentally stable than I was before. Sometimes, however, the things I think about are (or at least could be) important, and I think this is one of those times.
If he has his way, Raymond Kurzweil will never die. I suppose this sentence could be said about most people and it would be somewhat true, but Kurzweil is probably doing more about it than anyone. Spurred by his father's death from heart disease, along with being diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, Kurzweil has worked with doctors specializing in longevity, and now takes between 150 and 200 pills a day. But that's just were it starts. Kurzweil wants pills that think.
Kurzweil is one of the leading voices on the Singularity. The Singularity is the name for the moment when humans create a computer that is more intelligent than humans, and while no one is sure exactly when that will happen, Kurzweil thinks it will be around 2045. If his prediction doesn't sound like it means anything, consider this; he accurately predicted the rise of the internet (as well as access becoming mostly wireless), the fall of the Soviet Union through (then) new technology, and even that a computer would one day beat the world's best chess players. He's not without detractors, but he's been right often enough for people to listen.
One of the problems with anticipating the changes that would come with an event like the Singularity is considering how big an event like this would actually be. Kurzweil likes to talk about how technology grows exponentially. and he's right. He's created a chart based on Moore's law (which states that the number of transistors you can fit on a microchip doubles roughly every two years). Kurzweil charted how many calculations per second you can buy for $1,000. His chart moves much like Moore's, a steadily rising curve technological advancement. And if he and others are right, the Singularity is when that curve reaches a point even he doesn't fully understand. If computers ever become capable of strong A.I. (artificial intelligence that meets or exceeds human intelligence, more on that later), the belief is that they could then start designing more powerful computers, which would then design more powerful computers, and so on. This is when the possibilities become seemingly endless. Among some of the more incredible predictions are medical nanobots that will practically live inside of us and extend our lives significantly, mind uploading, which would allow us to "live" mentally inside of a computer, implants and enhancements that will allow us to live more productive lives, possibly forever, and virtual immersion devices that people will spend much of their time in. If that last one sounds like The Matrix, you read it right. Kurzweil himself has claimed that The Matrix is a good example of what's possible, but without the dystopian twist.
The Matrix is far from the only movie that paints a bleak picture of a future dominated by machines, and that's not my intention right now, but this seems like a good time to discuss this point. While Kurzweil admits the possibility of super-intelligent computers posing a threat to humanity, he doesn't consider it likely. One of Kurzweil's predictions involves computers that can interact with and show respect for humans. This is when the concept of "strong A.I." goes a little fuzzy for me. Truly strong A.I. isn't just a computer that knows a lot. It's a computer that can act intelligently. A strong A.I. would be as intelligent as a human being, and probably more intelligent than the smartest human being, and by the definition, would be able to formulate its own thoughts. When Watson appeared on Jeopardy!, it showed that it was more intelligent than the two very intelligent people it was put up against, but only in that limited capacity. Watson had to be programmed to understand the answers it was given in order to find the appropriate question. Watson is an incredible piece of technology, but it's still being told what to do by its programming. If something needs to be told by programming how to behave/act/talk/etc..., it is not strong A.I. So how would anything like this know to "respect" living people? It might choose to be respectful, but it might not. It's probably not a stretch to consider that, assuming we get to the point when we are making computers that need this kind of control programming, it's only a matter of time after that when they don't get it. And while we can run projections and make guesses, no one is really sure how such a computer would respond.
But we're not talking about that.
Obviously, a lot of good could come from these possible advances in technology, but even the positives lead to more questions and uncertainty? Who decides who will have access to these advances? Will we need to apply for a license for extended, or even permanent lives? Will it simply be a matter of financial resources, with immortality going to the highest bidders? Will anyone be able to scan their "self" into a hard drive? Will Obamacare cover medical nanobots? What about food for a planet filled with immortal hyper-beings? Kurzweil has talked about food that is grown (constructed?) using technology we will eventually create. What happens if we don't? Or if it proves too difficult to produce enough food in this way for a planet that would most likely go through a population explosion like it has never seen before? Personally (for some), living forever would seem like the greatest accomplishment possible for man. Socially, it's most likely a complete disaster, at least as we (and again, we don't know what "we" even means in this scenario) transition into living with this technology.
I don't understand the appeal of living forever. There are certainly interesting things that will happen long after I die (or long after my essence is converted to iTunes) that I would like to be around for, but does that give me the right to force myself on the world forever? And is that curiosity even worth it? This might seem like it goes against statements I made earlier in this post, but at times, I find life exhausting. While it's possible I do a lot of it to myself (refer to the third paragraph for an example), it seems to be how I deal with the world, which makes the world at least partially at fault. I like to slow things down from time to time, and that usually means getting away from the devices that have already augmented our lives. Don't get me wrong, I like having the ability to contact friends and family whenever I want, or to get directions on the fly, or even update facebook with whatever mostly meaningless thought goes through my head (hey, everyone else does it). But it's also nice to cut myself off from the objects that give me those options, even if it's just for a little while. Well, what happens when those objects have become an actual part of us? What happens when we become walking smartphones, or more? Kurzweil talks about a point in time when the entire planet becomes, in essence, a giant supercomputer. He even talks about eventually doing this to the entire universe.
I'm not opposed to moving forward. And I'm not saying that these things, if possible, shouldn't happen. I like that we are trying to push forward as a species. I applaud Kurzweil and men and women like him who challenge themselves to think bigger than those who came before them. What I'm saying is that people, throughout history, have shown a tendency to believe that being able to do something was reason enough to do it. It's not. The future that Kurzweil and others presents us is loaded with more potential than we can possible make sense of, and we need to do just that before we get there.
As for me, I like being able to turn things off from time to time. And I want to live in a world where I still have that option.
There are plenty of reasons to be bummed about the coming years. Michael Bay films, the end of the Tim Thomas era (too short to begin with), climate change (and whatever comes with it), the continued existence of reality- or vampire-based television (vampire reality series?), political unrest, global economic crises, and the transition to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The post-apocalypse itself will vary depending on your sources; Totally bad-ass (Mad Max), odd, personal, and quest-based (The Fallout series), or with an abundance of snacks (Andrew Bird's Tables and Chairs).
I'm not a pessimist. I'm not a misanthrope. I can be cynical, but I wouldn't consider myself a cynic (there may be some who disagree with that statement). All of that being true, I try to think about things from every angle I can come up with. Most of the time, the level of importance of these things isn't nearly as high as the amount of time and energy I invest in thinking about them, and the end result is me slightly less mentally stable than I was before. Sometimes, however, the things I think about are (or at least could be) important, and I think this is one of those times.
If he has his way, Raymond Kurzweil will never die. I suppose this sentence could be said about most people and it would be somewhat true, but Kurzweil is probably doing more about it than anyone. Spurred by his father's death from heart disease, along with being diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes, Kurzweil has worked with doctors specializing in longevity, and now takes between 150 and 200 pills a day. But that's just were it starts. Kurzweil wants pills that think.
Kurzweil is one of the leading voices on the Singularity. The Singularity is the name for the moment when humans create a computer that is more intelligent than humans, and while no one is sure exactly when that will happen, Kurzweil thinks it will be around 2045. If his prediction doesn't sound like it means anything, consider this; he accurately predicted the rise of the internet (as well as access becoming mostly wireless), the fall of the Soviet Union through (then) new technology, and even that a computer would one day beat the world's best chess players. He's not without detractors, but he's been right often enough for people to listen.
One of the problems with anticipating the changes that would come with an event like the Singularity is considering how big an event like this would actually be. Kurzweil likes to talk about how technology grows exponentially. and he's right. He's created a chart based on Moore's law (which states that the number of transistors you can fit on a microchip doubles roughly every two years). Kurzweil charted how many calculations per second you can buy for $1,000. His chart moves much like Moore's, a steadily rising curve technological advancement. And if he and others are right, the Singularity is when that curve reaches a point even he doesn't fully understand. If computers ever become capable of strong A.I. (artificial intelligence that meets or exceeds human intelligence, more on that later), the belief is that they could then start designing more powerful computers, which would then design more powerful computers, and so on. This is when the possibilities become seemingly endless. Among some of the more incredible predictions are medical nanobots that will practically live inside of us and extend our lives significantly, mind uploading, which would allow us to "live" mentally inside of a computer, implants and enhancements that will allow us to live more productive lives, possibly forever, and virtual immersion devices that people will spend much of their time in. If that last one sounds like The Matrix, you read it right. Kurzweil himself has claimed that The Matrix is a good example of what's possible, but without the dystopian twist.
The Matrix is far from the only movie that paints a bleak picture of a future dominated by machines, and that's not my intention right now, but this seems like a good time to discuss this point. While Kurzweil admits the possibility of super-intelligent computers posing a threat to humanity, he doesn't consider it likely. One of Kurzweil's predictions involves computers that can interact with and show respect for humans. This is when the concept of "strong A.I." goes a little fuzzy for me. Truly strong A.I. isn't just a computer that knows a lot. It's a computer that can act intelligently. A strong A.I. would be as intelligent as a human being, and probably more intelligent than the smartest human being, and by the definition, would be able to formulate its own thoughts. When Watson appeared on Jeopardy!, it showed that it was more intelligent than the two very intelligent people it was put up against, but only in that limited capacity. Watson had to be programmed to understand the answers it was given in order to find the appropriate question. Watson is an incredible piece of technology, but it's still being told what to do by its programming. If something needs to be told by programming how to behave/act/talk/etc..., it is not strong A.I. So how would anything like this know to "respect" living people? It might choose to be respectful, but it might not. It's probably not a stretch to consider that, assuming we get to the point when we are making computers that need this kind of control programming, it's only a matter of time after that when they don't get it. And while we can run projections and make guesses, no one is really sure how such a computer would respond.
But we're not talking about that.
Obviously, a lot of good could come from these possible advances in technology, but even the positives lead to more questions and uncertainty? Who decides who will have access to these advances? Will we need to apply for a license for extended, or even permanent lives? Will it simply be a matter of financial resources, with immortality going to the highest bidders? Will anyone be able to scan their "self" into a hard drive? Will Obamacare cover medical nanobots? What about food for a planet filled with immortal hyper-beings? Kurzweil has talked about food that is grown (constructed?) using technology we will eventually create. What happens if we don't? Or if it proves too difficult to produce enough food in this way for a planet that would most likely go through a population explosion like it has never seen before? Personally (for some), living forever would seem like the greatest accomplishment possible for man. Socially, it's most likely a complete disaster, at least as we (and again, we don't know what "we" even means in this scenario) transition into living with this technology.
I don't understand the appeal of living forever. There are certainly interesting things that will happen long after I die (or long after my essence is converted to iTunes) that I would like to be around for, but does that give me the right to force myself on the world forever? And is that curiosity even worth it? This might seem like it goes against statements I made earlier in this post, but at times, I find life exhausting. While it's possible I do a lot of it to myself (refer to the third paragraph for an example), it seems to be how I deal with the world, which makes the world at least partially at fault. I like to slow things down from time to time, and that usually means getting away from the devices that have already augmented our lives. Don't get me wrong, I like having the ability to contact friends and family whenever I want, or to get directions on the fly, or even update facebook with whatever mostly meaningless thought goes through my head (hey, everyone else does it). But it's also nice to cut myself off from the objects that give me those options, even if it's just for a little while. Well, what happens when those objects have become an actual part of us? What happens when we become walking smartphones, or more? Kurzweil talks about a point in time when the entire planet becomes, in essence, a giant supercomputer. He even talks about eventually doing this to the entire universe.
I'm not opposed to moving forward. And I'm not saying that these things, if possible, shouldn't happen. I like that we are trying to push forward as a species. I applaud Kurzweil and men and women like him who challenge themselves to think bigger than those who came before them. What I'm saying is that people, throughout history, have shown a tendency to believe that being able to do something was reason enough to do it. It's not. The future that Kurzweil and others presents us is loaded with more potential than we can possible make sense of, and we need to do just that before we get there.
As for me, I like being able to turn things off from time to time. And I want to live in a world where I still have that option.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Might This Be Giant?
In short, probably not. As some of you who may be reading this now (and I am equal parts amazed and thankful that you're doing so) are aware, I've been thinking about the possibilities of becoming a writer for some time now. I'll spare you the details, but I want people (at least those here) to know that neither the desire to be a writer nor the idea to start this blog were spur of the moment. I'm aware that, especially in the early going (and probably well after that), the number of people who see this will be limited at best. Few as the visitors may be, it's a safe assumption that those who do stop by will be people close to me, which is a part of the reason I'm doing this.
I was talking to a close friend of mine recently about being a writer, and in the course of our conversation he told me that there is no reason that I can't be writing now. It was such an obvious idea I didn't even want to acknowledge it at first. As I thought about it, I realized he was right. Look, I know that I'm not the first aspiring (i.e. wannabe) writer to start a blog. I know I wouldn't even be the first person to start a career in writing through a personal blog (not something I'm expecting, just making an observation). That being said, sometimes a good idea is still a good idea the next time around (and even the time after that).
I don't always know what I'm going to write about here. I have a few things in mind for specific posts, but I imagine the only real connection between the things I write here is the fact that I wrote something here. I'm sure some topics will overlap, and a similar theme or trend may emerge over time, but that will happen if and when it does. For now, this blog functions as a place for three things. First, it provides me with a forum (forum is a tad grandiose for a personal blog, but run with me for a moment) to write whatever it is I feel like writing about. Secondly, it gives those writings a place to be seen by a few more people than whatever word document or notepad I may jot something down in. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, it gives you a chance to give me something back. I realize it's a lot to ask for people to come here and actually read through whatever I put up, but I'm asking for more than that. I want to know what people think. I want to know what you find interesting, what you find funny, what you find painfully unreadable. If you have comments on the layout itself (which will most likely always be changing) I want to know those too. I also don't want anyone to feel like they shouldn't comment on something. If you have found your way to this blog or some post on it, I want to know what you think.
That's it for now. If you're reading these words right now, thank you. You've just made it through the first of what will ideally be many posts here. I hope it was as painless as possible, I hope they get better, and I hope you are all a part of it.
(I'm not sure yet, and it may not bother anyone as much as it bothers me, but I can't seem to indent my paragraphs. Minor details, but it's not sitting well with me.)
I was talking to a close friend of mine recently about being a writer, and in the course of our conversation he told me that there is no reason that I can't be writing now. It was such an obvious idea I didn't even want to acknowledge it at first. As I thought about it, I realized he was right. Look, I know that I'm not the first aspiring (i.e. wannabe) writer to start a blog. I know I wouldn't even be the first person to start a career in writing through a personal blog (not something I'm expecting, just making an observation). That being said, sometimes a good idea is still a good idea the next time around (and even the time after that).
I don't always know what I'm going to write about here. I have a few things in mind for specific posts, but I imagine the only real connection between the things I write here is the fact that I wrote something here. I'm sure some topics will overlap, and a similar theme or trend may emerge over time, but that will happen if and when it does. For now, this blog functions as a place for three things. First, it provides me with a forum (forum is a tad grandiose for a personal blog, but run with me for a moment) to write whatever it is I feel like writing about. Secondly, it gives those writings a place to be seen by a few more people than whatever word document or notepad I may jot something down in. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, it gives you a chance to give me something back. I realize it's a lot to ask for people to come here and actually read through whatever I put up, but I'm asking for more than that. I want to know what people think. I want to know what you find interesting, what you find funny, what you find painfully unreadable. If you have comments on the layout itself (which will most likely always be changing) I want to know those too. I also don't want anyone to feel like they shouldn't comment on something. If you have found your way to this blog or some post on it, I want to know what you think.
That's it for now. If you're reading these words right now, thank you. You've just made it through the first of what will ideally be many posts here. I hope it was as painless as possible, I hope they get better, and I hope you are all a part of it.
(I'm not sure yet, and it may not bother anyone as much as it bothers me, but I can't seem to indent my paragraphs. Minor details, but it's not sitting well with me.)
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