The Casual Blog

November 22, 2009

How can we eat animals?

Not eating animals is, for me, a matter of conscience. It seems to me plain that unnecessarily killing sentient creatures for human consumption is wrong. I’m very conscious that this is a minority view. That’s being too kind: this is a fringy view. I feel good — that is, both healthier and happier — about eating plants rather than animals. But it’s not pleasant to take a stand on this that is at odds both with the majority of the community and with most of the people I care about and respect, and I would not do so if I saw a principled alternative.

Because the topic is a difficult one, I was heartened to see in today’s NY Times an opinion piece by Gary Steiner setting out the animal rights point of view._ http://tiny.cc/GfNrJ Steiner is a professor of philosophy at Bucknell who’s written extensively on animal rights. His basic argument is that animals possess inherent dignity, and that human desire cannot justify their slaughter.

Steiner has trouble explaining why most humans seem untroubled by this. As he notes, the classic arguments that support treating human animals as privileged to cause unlimited suffering on other animals are embarrassingly weak. It is difficult to square our general understanding of ourselves as beings embodying and constrained by morality with massive indifference to the pain of our fellow creatures.

Part of the answer is that the problem is at once overwhelming and easy to ignore. According to Steiner, there are 53 billion animals slaughtered each year for human consumption, which is more than enough misery to inspire hopelessness. There are also nested issues of economics and tradition. Humans have lots of other problems. This week the NC press had stories about NC pork farmers going bankrupt, who were pleading for people to save them by eating more pigs. It would be wrong to dismiss the plight of the farmers, but their voices at least get a hearing — unlike the pigs, who would undoubtedly prefer to live. Steiner also alludes to the Thanksgiving turkeys who will be consumed this week recalling happy memories. How could we give up such a joyful tradition?

The answer is, it isn’t really that hard, once the horror of the slaughter is brought into view. There are many intractable problems of human society, but this one is not intractable. It’s just difficult.

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November 15, 2009

Privacy and exposure

How important is privacy? I ask this question at a moment when I feel more than usually publicly exposed and vulnerable. In recent times, I’ve come to think that for most of us the concern with privacy is exaggerated. But exposure to the full glare of modern social media raises the question for me in a new way.

For most of us, or at least for me, the privacy question is usually more theoretical than real. Most of the time, we’re private by default. At least for non-celebrities, generally no one cares one way or the other about our (to us) valuable personal views and secrets. Getting serious attention from one person, never mind the mass audience, doesn’t happen by accident. It takes effort.

My operating assumption in recent years is that, for an individual, too much seclusion is more detrimental than too much society. We are social animals; we wither and die without others of our kind. And socializing means discarding some of our shell of privacy. I’ve made it a rule to try sharing, rather than hoarding, when I have information or experience that could be helpful and of interest to others.

The possible benefits are: helping someone, forming a human bond, making the world a little better. The possible risks are: risk of being wrong, of seeming ridiculous, of offending or upsetting someone. And I do an informal cost-benefit analysis before I venture into the public arena on something controversial. But I try not to let fear be determinative, and to give weight to the possible benefits even when they are somewhat speculative.

Some months back I, along with others, appeared in a video on open source software and intellectual property, where I took a position that challenged granting patents for software. Last week the video was posted on Patently-O, a prominent patent web site. It generated dozens, if not hundreds of comments. The vast majority of them were critical of my position, and some were critical in terms that were, shall we say, less than kind. I was left with the firm impression that there are a lot of people who felt angry at me.

Being a target of a large amount of focused dislike is a new sensation for me. It’s different from being disliked by an identifiable individual, when there is sometimes an understandable reason, and at any rate a finite problem. It’s funny that it should matter, since I do not know these individuals, and I have never before relied on their respect and goodwill. It may well be I would not care for their good opinion if I actually knew them. Even so, it’s surprisingly bothersome. It caused an uncomfortable feeling in my gut. There’s nothing to be done. It might be that with more experience one builds up defenses. I’m hoping.

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October 25, 2009

Human beings in our prisons

The Raleigh News & Observer’s headlines for the past few days have blared the news that several dangerous persons in the state’s prison system are about to be released. I ignored the story initially, on the theory that this surely happens every day without devastating consequences. Prisoners serve their time, and they get out. It’s very common.

Thinking about prisons and prisoners is painful, and it’s easy not to think about them. They’re usually well out of sight. I drive past Central Prison on the way to work every day, but I barely see it, because it’s unsightly and I’ve gotten in the habit of looking the other way. But the N&O stories reminded me that we need to deal with a terrible situation.

Imprisonment as we in the U.S. now practice it is in many cases horrific for the prisoners and it’s hard to say if it makes us any safer. It locks away some dangerous people, but it also creates more dangerous people. We lock people up for years in dehumanizing conditions, which has a tendency to make people angry and violent, then let them out. Many then commit more crimes, so we send them back to prison, and repeat the cycle. Multiply this by millions.

Depressing as it is, it’s even worse that our governor and our newspaper are seeking to whip people into a frenzy about particular convicted criminals getting out. The particular circumstances relate to a new case interpreting the meaning of a “life sentence.” For a lot of years in many places, it didn’t mean “till the prisoner died.” The North Carolina courts found it didn’t mean that for these prisoners, but rather meant 80 years minus good behavior time. So a group of felons who’ve served at least 40 years are due to get out.

The problem is similar to Guantanamo, where even after we admitted what we did was wrong, we’ve got a problem with outplacement of the prisoners. They may not have been dangerous when they went in, but in whatever case, they’re likely to be more dangerous having spent years with fellow prisoners who are violent jihadists for their only friends.

In terms of human misery, the U.S. prison system is enormous. We’re at or near the top in per capita rates of imprisonment. We have no concept of what we’re trying to accomplish other than punishment.

We need to reserve our prisons for the truly dangerous. And we need to treat those people humanely to see if we can help them become less violent. It doesn’t matter whether you argue the point in terms of human rights or pure self interest — the result is the same. But we’d feel more like decent human beings if we got rolled up our sleeves and got to work on this.

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October 17, 2009

Returning to swimming

Swimming has always seemed to me like it should be easier and more fun. Our distant ancestors were all water creatures, and our bodies are mostly water, so it seems like something we’d enjoy naturally. Immersion in a different element is naturally exciting. Water does all kinds of interesting things, and splashing in it is fun. But actually traveling under human power for any distance is hard. I find it much more difficult than running. Also, it evokes in a small way a primal fear (drowning).

I first took swimming lessons at age 9 at a YMCA. Initially, and in retrospect, it seemed strange that they required the little boys to take the class naked. The stated explanation for this was that it was for hygienic reasons. More likely, of course, it was a matter of some adult pedophiles getting a thrill. At any rate, I was never molested and had no lasting ill effects. I was initially successful in the class, and won the prize for holding my breath under water the longest. But moving from one end of the pool to the other was hard. Our graduation ceremony involved swimming the crawl up and back for our assembled families (with suits, despite the possible risk to health). I hit the exhaustion/panic wall on the last (that is, the second) length and had to get towed out with the long handled hook. It was an embarrassing disappointment.

But I did not give up. I participated in the swim team at our pool at age 13. The practices were exhausting, but it was good to be with other kids and talk to girls. I’m confident I never won a race, but I believe I collected at least one ribbon for third place in the breaststroke.

The next summer, at Boy Scout camp, I obtained the swimming merit badge and undertook the mile swim with my friends Jimmy and Don. The mile was across the Raven’s Knob lake and back, and was done with a row boat escort. Jimmy and Don quickly determined that we could possibly set a new camp record, and we began to pass other groups and their boats. Unfortunately, I hit the wall again, and had to limp along with some side stroking to regroup. We didn’t set a record. I’ve always felt I let the team down on that one.

Perhaps that feeling of a job undone was always in the back of my mind. Certainly I’ve always believed that swimming was a healthy exercise, with low risk to the joints and large benefits to the cardiovascular system. Last January I decided to take the plunge and do some regular swimming in the pool at Lifetime Fitness in Cary. I quickly discovered that it was every bit as exhausting as I remembered. My heart felt quickly reached the red zone. I set a goal of swimming a mile. Two or three times a week I got up at 5:30 a.m., headed to the pool, and pushed ahead.

This summer I observed a group of master’s swimmers at the pool being coached by a young fellow who seemed both knowledgeable and pleasant, and I asked him if he’d give me some private instruction. He agreed, and ultimately I took four lessons. It was a good move. There are definitely better and worse ways to move through the water. I learned some better ones. It didn’t suddenly become easy, but it was definitely more pleasant.

My coach advised the following approach to the 1500: 25 meters (one length) and 5 seconds rest, 50 meters and 10 seconds rest, 75 and 15 seconds, 100 and 20 seconds, 125 and 25 seconds, 100 and 20 seconds, 7 and 15 seconds, 50 and 10 seconds 25 and 5 seconds, and repeat till finished. It worked. Last week I set a personal best for 1500 meters of 33:07.

I’ve had a small taste of the satisfaction of greater efficiency and grace in the water, but it’s still true for me that the best thing about a hard swim is the aftermath. The endorphins are terrific. It feels good.

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October 10, 2009

Taxis and Vermeer

When I first arrived in New York right after college, it didn’t bother me that I had barely enough money to share a tenement apartment and eat. It was just so great to be in the city. I loved epic scale — all that glass, all that steel, all that concrete. All those details — sooty buildings with gargoyles. The contrasts — suspension bridges, Central Park. The super charged energy of New Yorkers, with many ethnicities, languages, accents, customs, gestures, styles. So many, so much.

I continued to feel that way about New York, and still do. But by the time I left to go to law school five years later, I’d grown tired of being (relatively speaking) poor. It wasn’t that I desired any particular worldly goods. My ambitions involved freedom of movement. I was tired of running for and missing the subway, and waiting on a lonely platform, or squeezing into a crowded car. My great fantasy was to take a cab whenever I wanted, and never to look at the meter with anxiety.

Last week I had some great cab rides when I was in the city for two nights. Catching them was as easy as in a dream: one appeared almost every time I got ready to raise an arm. Going up Broadway and down Fifth, up Madison and over on 59th. The teeming pedestrians — all ages, colors, and clothing styles. I was briefly fascinated, then annoyed, by televisions in the cabs, and learned how to turn them off. Many cabs, wonderfully, now take credit cards.

I was tightly scheduled with meetings, but managed to carve one hour free to see the Vermeer exhibit at the Met. The centerpiece is The Milkmaid, loaned for the exhibit by the Rijksmuseum. It was a subtle and powerful work. The subject is as common as possible — a servant pouring milk into a bowl. As in other great Vermeer portraits, the light seems natural at first; the impossible vividness of it becomes noticeable only gradually. There is a hyper realism to the scene, and at the same time a dreamlike quality.

I disagreed with some of Peter Schjehdahl’s review in the New Yorker, who argued that The Milkmaid did not deserve to be placed in such a position of honor in Vermeer’s oeuvre. For me, it was worth much more than a cab ride, and perhaps even a trans-Atlantic flight. But Schjehdahl reminded me that Vermeer, perhaps more than any of the Dutch masters, changes our perceptions of ordinary life. After gazing at The Milkmaid, I was reminded that there was much more to see in everyday life than we normally notice. Even within the commonplace, hiding in plain sight, is otherworldly beauty. Thanks, V.

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October 4, 2009

Celebrating completion of the Bilski brief with interesting drinks

Last week I finished and filed an amicus brief in the Supreme Court for Red Hat in the Bilski case. The case concerns a difficult line drawing issue in patent law: the line between a process that is patentable and one that is not. The Red Hat brief argues that patents on software hinder innovation. We challenge conventional wisdom on patents in a way that I hope is provocative. Anyhow, I think it says some things worth saying. Here is is: http://tiny.cc/e8XvW

Filing a Supreme Court brief feels a bit different from other projects. There’s a sense of being a participant in history, of possibly leaving a footprint in the sands of time. It took a lot of effort to get the thing done, and most of that effort had to be exerted in addition to my normal work routine. In the end, it happened mostly at night and on weekends.

Sal and I celebrated last night by doing a neighborhood pub crawl and dinner. We started at Foundation, a tiny, downstairs bar on Fayetteville Street that features handcrafted martinis and has nothing but American ingredients. There appeared to be at least three dozen types of bourbon, of which Sal tried one. I tried a cocktail involving moonshine and sparkling wine. It sounded more interesting than it actually was, but it was worth a try. We had dinner at Dos Taquitos, where we had fantastic pure agave margaritas. Afterwards, we stopped by the Busy Bee, where the crowd was mostly young and hip. Then we walked over to Glenwood and went in Amras.

We were surprised to find an older crowd there, and a band playing hits of the 70s. It was good to see people with more gray hair who were still having some fun. Some even danced. The crowd as Busy Bee was, of course, more attractive, as young people usually are.

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October 3, 2009

Rigoletto gets a 7 on the Goosebumpameter

Opera is a forbidding art form. It’s often in an unknown foreign language. The productions tend to be long. The plots are frequently complicated. And the music is for many another unfamiliar language that’s difficult to penetrate. On top of the basic music and theater, there are particular rituals relating to clapping, sitting, standing, and shouting. So it takes some time and diligence to learn enough about opera to be able to enjoy it without conscious effort.

Why bother? For me, it was curiosity. The fact that some operas, with all their discouraging aspects, have survived for hundreds of years suggests there’s something interesting going on. Producing a single world class opera involves not only enormous financial expense, but also unbelievable human effort and struggle. Each individual singer, each member of the orchestra, each dancer has devoted years of effort to master their individual art. Beneath that mastery is the similar mastery of each individual’s teacher, and the generations of preceding artists before that that passed on their own understandings. Each performance is, for those reasons alone, remarkable. If there are no major glitches in a live performance, where the artistic demands are intense, it is amazing. And if the performance succeeds in connecting its many parts together, as intended, and touches us emotionally, it’s a miracle.

Remarkably, these miracles are not highly unusual. It sounds unlikely , but Sally and I have witnessed several of them in the last couple of years with the Opera Company of North Carolina. Last night we attended their Rigoletto. Gaetan Laperriere was a strong Rigoletto, Leoard Capalbo was a very macho Duke, and Sarah Jane McMahon was a lovely Gilda. The principals sang with assurance and power, and were strong actors. In the big, famous love-and-death arias, I measured a 7 on the 10-point Goosebumpameter. It was great.

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September 26, 2009

Death is the mother of beauty

Wallace Stevens writes, “Death is the mother of beauty.” The line, read in context in the great poem Sunday Morning, is dense with meaning. I’ve pulled it from its context (sorry, Wallace) to illustrate the difficulty of thinking and talking about death. Doesn’t just saying the line make you feel strange? Think of saying it to a group of friends. A conversation killer, for sure. The point is, it’s hard to talk seriously about death. Bringing up the subject in polite conversation is generally taboo. If you insist, you may be viewed as lacking in good taste, morbid, or depressed.

Artists are given special license to deal with death. Where would art be without it? Count the crucifixions in the Metropolitan Museum. Or the great books, plays, and operas in which death is the central event. And death is very common. As Lenny Bruce famously said, we’re all gonna die!

It is kind of funny that death is so ordinary and so frightening at the same time, but not laugh out loud funny. For most of us, death is scary. In fact, terrifying. It serves to define the ultimate in fear: to be frightened to death. It’s emotional in other ways, too. To think of the death of someone else causes feelings to sadness or despair. Death is not to be trifled with.

Even so, avoidance is not the best strategy. Not thinking about it will not make the problem go away. Not talking about it will not help anything. We need to deal with death like grown ups.

The current health care debate provides a case in point. Right wing opponents of reform cleverly started a false rumor that reform would make euthanasia official policy. This outrageous and on its face absurd, lie set off a huge panic reaction. The reaction suggests how hard it will be to address the real problem of our spending enormous sums to put off death when it is inevitable and the amounts spent yield nothing in terms of quality of life.

I was happy to see that last week Newsweek had a cover story entitled “The Case for Killing Granny: Curbing Excessive End-of-Life Care is Good for America.” It is possible to discuss this issue and to make good choices. It is possible to be sensible and courageous. Both my parents, when confronting terminal illnesses, thoughtfully and courageously refused low-probability-of-success treatments. Others have done likewise. Maybe good sense and strength will increase and spread. One can always hope.

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August 23, 2009

Slow language, and poetry

The slow language movement noted in my recent post is surely an old idea — even in living memory, people have read slowly — but the idea threatens to be submerged beneath the tide of texts that inundates us. For me, and for many, the flood of words that may be significant, that need to be taken account of, is overwhelming. I deal with hundreds of emails a day, and that’s a minor part of my personal deluge.

To survive, effective skimming is a must. But becoming a good skimmer means putting at risk skills in close, attentive reading. This is not a minor matter. Those skills are a potential source of enormous joy. The survival of great literature depends on the survival of thoughtful reading.

Today’s NY Times has an appreciation of Richard Poirier, the scholar and literary critic who died last week at age 83. Poirier taught that for the best writers, meaning cannot be pinned down, and that they use the resources of language to defeat straightforward interpretation. He was a proponent of close, hard reading, that explored the author’s struggle for self-definition and meaning.

My current personal program to avoid completely losing the capacity for thoughtful reading is to carve out a little time each day with great poetry. Lately I’ve been focusing primarily on Wallace Stevens, but I keep close at hand collections of Yeats, Frost, Tennyson, and the anthology by Harold Bloom.

This work is in many instances wonderfully compact. A lot of potential meaning and feeling is embodied in a small amount of text, so it is manageable even for a busy person. The poems demand repeated readings, but the readings can be spread out in time. This little oasis in a busy day often rewards me with a deep aesthetic shiver. I’m hoping over the longer term it will prevent halt further deterioration of the capacity for literary joy.

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August 22, 2009

Free at last of college tuition, and now for some poetry

Last week we passed a sweet milestone: writing the last college tuition check for the last child. For more than two decades, the formidable challenge of paying for college has loomed ahead, always a vague worry and gradually a bigger and bigger worry. As college costs steadily increased, it looked like a potential financial nightmare. Education of the young is a basic parental duty, and in bourgeois America it is — expensive. How sweet it is to put down that burden.

I woke up around 1:00 a.m. on Thursday and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up to do some reading. Not long after, I heard someone at the door, and then heard the door open. I was glad it was Jocelyn, and not an unknown intruder, who caused a a serious burst of adrenalin. She’d been out with friends at a downtown bar, and decided to spend the night with us.

Joc was in a jolly mood, and we had a great talk. I was so happy to hear that she’d fallen in love with English poetry and gotten surprisingly knowledgeable about some of my own favorites, including Wordsworth and Keats. We went over La Belle Dame Sans Merci to try, yet again, to understand what it means. I recommended some Tennyson, and she promoted some Coleridge. We shook our heads over the tragic early death of Keats, and I told her about Wilred Owen’s tragic early death in World War I. We discussed Yeats as well, and especially Adam’s Curse.

We marveled that there is such beauty and sadness in the world. I was delighted at her knowledge, sense of humor, and sophistication. She’s ready to launch. The tuition was well spent.

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