Believing isn't Knowing

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time,

but it ain't goin' away.

— Elvis Presley

Wisconsin pharmacist and flat-earther Steven Brandenburg is in deep kimchi for destroying 500 doses of the Covid-19 vaccine. He insists the vaccine contains a microchip designed by eugenicists. (He also insists the sky is a shield deployed by the federal government to prevent us from seeing God; but that's another matter.)

British judges call Brandenburg's willful ignorance "blinkered," "blind-eye" or "Nelsonian" knowledge, after Lord Nelson's brave deceit. When faced with a hostile force, the admiral would hold his telescope to his blind eye and announce that he saw no enemy ships.

In the US, we like to say, "ignorance of the law is no defense." In the UK, the principle is better stated: "It is dishonest for a man deliberately to shut his eyes to facts which he would prefer not to know. If he does so, he is taken to have actual knowledge of the facts to which he shut his eyes."

Do we have the right to shut our eyes to facts and believe whatever we want?

Right now, right-wingers say we do; but that's bullshit.

Beliefs only aspire to truth; they don't entail it. Believing isn't knowing. Earth might be flat, but isn't. The vaccine might be microchipped, but it isn't. The sky might be a shield, but it isn't. It's absurd to hold any of these beliefs, as it's absurd to say, "It's raining, but I don’t believe it's raining." Believing it isn't raining isn't authoritative. The rain is.

I really don't care how you came to your asinine beliefs, Mr. Brandenburg. Maybe their source is your crazy uncle Cal; your born-again minister; your loser drinking buddies; the voices in your head; an angel named Jack; Jim Carrey; or Q. All I care about is that your asinine beliefs denied 500 people their vaccinations.

Your beliefs aren't only false, they're irresponsible and morally repugnant. You're not entitled to them.

You're woefully willfully ignorant.

Neologisms

Writers like words, and speculative fiction writers in particular
like to make them up.

― Zara Poghosyan

Children of the '60s will be happy to learn The Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction, published this week, includes the word grok.

   

Grok—meaning "to perceive or understand fully"—was coined by sci-fi novelist Robert A. Heinlein. His Hugo-winning Stranger in a Strange Land was a staple among readers in the '60s—even among those who, like me, didn't much care for science fiction. 

Along with The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird and Catch-22, the Library of Congress has named Stranger in a Strange Land one of the "Books That Shaped America."

The novel recounts the adventures of Valentine Michael Smith, a super-cool Martian who can't comprehend why Earthlings act so desperately. 

Despite enjoying a psychic's abilities, Smith is a naïf—no match for the cunning creatures he meets during his brief visit to Earth. 

But Smith does manage to leave one lesson behind: he teaches Earthlings to grok, to know and love all beings, the way God does. Literally (in Martian) to "drink in" all creatures great and small.

Sci-fi writers like Heinlein seem gifted in their ability to mint neologisms. 

And while not all sci-fi writers' verbal concoctions come into vogue, plenty do.

Among the latter are these gems—all coined by sci-fi novelists, playwrights and screenwriters, and all in common use today: outer space, deep space, cyberspace, hyperspace, warp speed, zero gravity, blastoff, spacesuit, time machine, scanner, transporter, ray gun, robot, genetic engineer, alien, extraterrestrial, replicant, computer virus, computer worm, fanzine, flash mob, unperson, thought police, Big Brother and Frankenstein.

One Man's Trash

 

"The best ideas come as jokes," Mad Man David Ogilvy said. 

Better than most, Ogilvy understood humor's power in advertising.

So I wonder what he'd think of the postcard that arrived in our mailbox yesterday.

I've worked for and with a lot of creative directors and can't imagine a single one allowing this garbage to be seen by the client, much less the public.

But, hey, the proof's in the pudding. 

Maybe the response to this masterpiece will set records.

In that spirit, I offer the advertiser, EG, my tagline:

Because chocolate just goes to her hips

Serial Killer

There is no comma between the penultimate item in a list and "and"/"or," unless required to prevent ambiguity.

— Oxford University Style Guide

The serial comma—also known as the Oxford comma—is the comma often needed before the conjunction at the end of a list.

When you omit the serial comma—as Rudy has—you kill the meaning of your statement.

You might argue Rudy saved a stroke. 

But he induced a stroke among his followers, by pitting the party of Reagan, Trump and the traitors (whoever they are) against that of Lincoln.

A single comma would have been the life-saver.

While Rudy's sin of omission is exquisite, my all-time favorite remains this book-dedication by a fellow right-winger:

This book is dedicated to my parents, Ayn Rand and God.

Although you might think so, the book's author wasn't Mike Lindell. 

The author merely shared similar parentage.

Be Careful Who You Cancel

You are a den of vipers and thieves.

— Andrew Jackson

My high-school history teacher, Mr. Gray, dwelled for more than a month on the battle over banking between Jefferson and Hamilton. His point was to prove our nation was built on greed.

So I was troubled to learn yesterday that Joe Biden will rush to replace Andrew Jackson's portrait on the $20 bill with that of Harriett Tubman.

Don't misunderstand me: Tubman is one of our country's noblest heroes. Tribute to her is long overdue. But Tubman's portrait should replace Hamilton's on the $10 bill, not Jackson's on the $20.

If Tubman cancels anyone, it should be Hamilton.

Hamilton, after all, put us on the path to concentrating wealth and power in the hands of a few. As the architect of our "rigged" banking system, Hamilton is the father of the 1%.

Jackson, on the other hand, went to the mat to take Hamilton's plutocratic system apart, calling its advocates "vipers and thieves." 

The champion of the little guy, Jackson was in fact so hostile toward the rigged system, Congress censured him in 1834 and eventually reinstated Hamilton's bank.

In my view, Jackson, friend of the forgotten, doesn't deserve to be removed from our money; Hamilton does.

If you don't think he was sleazy, consider just one of Hamilton's maneuvers.

In 1789, he helped spread the lie that the Treasury would default on the $44 million in war bonds held by veterans of the American Revolution. 

At the same time, Hamilton advised his rich cronies to follow his lead and scoop up the "worthless" paper for pennies on the dollar. 

Once he and his cronies owned all the bonds, Hamilton ordered the Treasury to pay off them in full. 

Cha-ching 1%! Cha-ching.