Questioning our pop-culture obsession

I have come to think that our culture, i.e., our society's obsession with pop culture and all of its "stars" and "icons", has gone over the edge of a cliff. We have OCD when it comes to the lives celebrities, but one can wonder what would happen if we just stopped caring; if we stopped tracking their every move; if we stopped photographing them coming out of a porto-potty; if we stopped shoving microphones around corners, through windows, into flashbulb lite faces. I don't deny that the people we see on television and in film, whose music we listen to on the radio and download on iTunes,  and whose books and articles we read may live fascinating—lives that we want know more about. But does that necessitate the level of obsession we now display?  I wonder what would happen if we turned a blind eye to the raucous and risky as well as to the heartfelt and caring. Perhaps it is inevitable to idolize those in the arts; those who have "more" than the rest of us; those who can perform acts of sport that few in the world could hope to achieve.

Preface

a pseudo Preface to all posts before and all posts yet to come:

I know that these are only being read by 2-5 people, but that does not diminish my need to often times type out my thoughts.

An interesting moral quandary

I recently heard an interesting story that allows for a discussion of the different positions of those major moral theorists Aristotle, Kant and Mill. So, I will paraphrase:

A crack-addict came upon a couple getting out of their car. He noticed their car had a nice stereo and as they were walking away tried to jimmy the door. The couple came back and the man tried to stop the addict. The addict was suffering from severe withdrawn and pulling out a knife he attacked the couple, killing them both. Breaking the window of the car he grabbed the stereo and ran. Later he was arrested and faced the possibility of 4 consecutive sentences of 25 years to life.

Now it just so happens that this same man, a few years earlier, had come upon a burning building. He heard someone yelling from inside and, without a moments hesitation he rushed in, found a man inside, and dragged the man from the building. Afterwards the rescuer was presented with the "Citizen of the Year" award for his act of heroism. His rational was that he was "a good person".

Now, what would each philosopher have to say about this man (who described himself as "a good person")?

INTERMISSION

INTERMISSION

feel free to stand up

stretch your legs

partake in a beverage

(hot or cold)

and come back in, say,

another month?

Thank you

-Management

War of Writing

He was a violent writer—every page, every paragraph, every sentence, every word was a battle in that great war of writing. He would often erupt in a outburst of criticism, questioning the competence of the tactics being used. Scrunching his face up, hands over his eyes or fingers running over his stubbled hair, he would renounce the entire campaign only to turn around and renew the fight, swearing before god and all creation that "i can finish this". Often a fog would descend just as the battles were starting, the weather forcing him to backtrack or even forget where he had started a few moments before. The confusion drove him to a near frenzied state of anxiety, turning from the enemy to himself he would scowl, clench his fists, scratch the ground, alternate between standing and sitting, only to witness the fog burn off in a blaze of illumination from where he knew not. By the end the battle he would stagger away utterly exhausted, barely able to stand or speak—filled with relief at the battle's finality he would sigh at the tentativeness of his survival and the certainty that he would relive the same series of events again and again. Any victory would come with the caveat that his actions, regardless of their success, would always be subject to scrutiny and uncertainty. Never could he leave the past, never could he forget what happened before, never could he let his footprints alone—for as soon as trod the ground he would turn and question the path he had just taken. Writing was but a weight that drove him towards a dark depth of nothingness, an inky blackness that could either engulf him in hopelessness and futility, or else be a rabbit hole that offered the promise of a wonderland of knowledge and understanding beyond. 

An expedition

I am continually hunting the elusive Snark

They told me you had been to her...

They told me you had been to her,
And mentioned me to him:
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.

He sent them word I had not gone
(We know it to be true):
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.

My notion was that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it,

Don't let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.

-Lewis Carrol