Update

If you're reading this, you are at the wrong place. You need to be going here: www.copyrightad.com Viva Durrant!

What are you doing here?

Really, what are you doing here? You should be over at www.copyrightad.com Seriously, I have my own website now. All the new rants and revelations will be found over there. So get going!

Poll Dancer

I want to avoid the Orwellian undertones of what happened to me this week because it has been my experience that most people invoke Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four without any real conception of book’s subject matter. Every slack jawed, gap toothed, spawn of a union between their father and his cousin can tell you that Big Brother is watching you. But, if you asked the aforementioned yochal to explain the doubleplus significant minitrue job of Winston Smith at “The Times”, a befuddled nod and smile would undoubtedly follow. To benefit those of you who have not read the book, Winston Smith was tasked with changing the past issues of “The Times” such that history reflected the government’s current position. For example, in April of 1984 Big Brother forecast no decrease in the chocolate ration. By November, there was a need to decrease the chocolate ration. Smith, and his ilk, would rewrite the past to indicate that the chocolate ration was in fact lower in April than what people remembered and the current decrease would be seen as an increase. Through proper use of doublethink, holding two opposing ideas to be true at the same time, all party members would be happy for the increase in the chocolate ration. Are you confused? Then you should go read the book because I am not explaining it any greater detail. Although I’m half certain that those of you who are confused will just go wikipedia the book rather than opening your mind up and actually reading something that wasn’t assigned to you by an authority figure. But, I digress. Last Friday as I was calmly reading through the Associated Press news on Yahoo, I found a story that revolved around a rather glib comment made by current US Vice-President Dick Cheney. Therein, he inferred that although the people of America – and I apologize for the paraphrase but the necessity will soon become obvious – want change, as voiced through early polls in the congressional and senate race, it does not matter and the administration is going to stay the course with respect to Iraq. I was floored by such a statement. I knew that I would have to push back my plan for this week’s post to be about environmental sustainability and talk about this flagrant offense against democracy. Temporarily stowing my outrage, I hit the bookmark button resolute that I would alert the internet come Thursday. Two days ago I went to pull up the article such that I could rekindle the Durrant rage and spend a good forty eight hours stewing about Dick Cheney. Much to my horror, the article had changed. Perhaps, just maybe, the mistake was mine. I re-read the entire article from top to bottom and nowhere was there any mention of Cheney positing himself as a modern oligarch. The AP through Yahoo had changed the story and removed what could have been a potentially ugly and embarrassing statement made by the second in command of America’s government. Emphasis on government not on the nation itself because for those of you not familiar with the notion of democracy – the thing that America claims to operate under – the people are in charge and elect representatives to public office. Ranting to anybody that was within earshot regarding what I viewed as the re-writing of history to suit the whims of the Patriot Act, I sought out any other evidence to substantiate what I knew to be true. Had I become like Winston Smith, the minority of one? Was I the only person that remembered things the way they had happened? Did the idea that I held as true get cast down the memory hole for all time? No. I knew what I had seen. There had to be some other media outlet that had the journalistic integrity to stand behind what they published. After an hour of serious introspection and searching, I came across a Financial Times article by James Luce published, ironically enough, on November 5th. Entitled “Cheney says vote will not deflect U.S. in Iraq”, I searched hoping to find the quote that so incensed my convictions. Success was to be my companion on this mission. Quoting from Luce, Mr. Cheney also said that a US withdrawal from Iraq would undermine the “war on terror” by sending the wrong signals to allies such as Hamid Karzai, the president of Afghanistan, and Pervez Musharraf, the president of Pakistan. “You cannot make national security policy on the basis of that [election outcomes],” he said. “These are people who are running for Congress and they are entitled to their own views...It may not be popular with the public. It doesn’t matter, in the sense that we have to continue the mission [in Iraq]...and that is what we are doing.” Afghanistan and Pakistan are allies to America? Really? I had no idea that they had been admitted to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. But it’s good to know that my country’s largest ally and trading partner keeps company with such liberal minded nations such as Afghanistan and Pakistan. How is it that America, a country that has had such a legal schism regarding the legalization of marijuana can keep company the number one producer of opium (107,400 hectares worth in 2005) in the world? Furthermore, how does Cheney sleep at night calling Pakistan, a militarist regime that practices nuclear brinksmanship against its closest neighbor, India, a friend? For more information on Afghanistan and Pakistan you can visit the CIA’s world fact book. The CIA: Cultural Learnings For Make Benefit Glorious Website of Copyright Adam Durrant. https://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/af.html - scroll all the way to the bottom to see the opium statistics. https://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/pk.html Quoth the Cheney: “It may not be popular with the public. It doesn’t matter, in the sense that we have to continue the mission.” WHAT? What kind of person elected to public office can actually say something so obtuse and take himself seriously? Of course it matters what the public has to say about things, they were the ones that elected you to office you dim witted ill spoken roustabout. I know I’m just a lowly graduate school educated Canadian, so call me naive if you will, but while the Bush administration was off spreading liberty and democracy to the three winds, it seems that Cheney, acting as mouth piece for the executive branch, has lost sight of freedom and democracy on the domestic scope. How, after a statement like that can people still delude themselves into thinking that America is anything other than an oligarchy run by old white men backed by wads of dirty money? It is the exclusive purview of dictators to claim that the desires of the people do not matter. Mr. Cheney you are not a king, nor a nobleman, you are a citizen supposedly elected to represent the people of your nation. So once again, here I am on a Thursday afternoon outraged by something that an elected official has done in the line of duty. Furthermore, I am shocked and disappointed in the Yahoo news for the “wiki” aspect of their journalism. They called it an update when they change a story. I call it an Orwellian approach to journalism where things that go against the established doctrines of the body politic are vanquished under anti-sedition laws. Yes, I know what you are thinking, that I am making an alarmist interpretation of Yahoo changing an article. But, if they change one story, then they could be doing this to other stories. That being the case, you have to question the validity of everything you read of the AP on Yahoo. Consider this one man taking a stand for the permanence of the printed word. Environmental sustainability will be the topic next week. Fear not because won’t be any less disheartening of the society in which we live than this week’s post.

You made me do this

I know I will probably get some nice hate mail for this one, but I don't care. This is for anybody that is more than sixteen years old and is paying money to go see Justin Timberlake. If this applies to you, then you need to do the following. 1 - Get a wrench 2 - Fit it around your neck 3 - Firmly but gently pull your head out of your ass 4 - Brace against a wall for balance 5 - Kick your own ass Repeat step five until you can come up with something better to do with your money. In the event that step five fails, please send the cost of the tickets to my paypal account and I will send you a stylish Copyright Adam Durrant t-shirt. My gods people. He doesn't write his own music, he sings through a vocoder and somehow still he needs backup singers. Slay the beast.

Fawkesy

There have been a lot of things on my mind in the past seven days. Some of which I would never have known about if I wrapped myself in the veil of ignorance that most people wear like a badge of honour. “Uh oh, the news is on and that’s just a little too real for me right now. Well that’s okay because it’s a new episode of Grey’s Anatomy tonight. Then, tomorrow night when it seems like there’s nowhere to hide from the freshly brewed events of the world, I can take comfort in the fact that the new season of the O.C. starts.” There are days when a life of sleeping awake seems oh so appealing, when faced with the consequences of those that have come and gone. As a counterbalance, there are days like today when I am confronted with a billboard of a balding old man holding a camera. Coming from the septuagenarian is a speech bubble stating, “I won’t raise taxes”. Well I’ll certainly vote for you in the upcoming mayoral elections based on a campaign promise given through billboard form. I mean if we can’t believe a billboard with a speech bubble, then truly we have descended to the level of animals. For it is only through the sacred covenant of the billboard speech bubble accompanying creepy picture of old man that local politicians are bound, much in the eternal fashion of a Mormon wedding, to their constituents. After passing this billboard my brain decided that it needed a break from all the serious contemplative behavior of this week. Acting on its own volition, my brain took things to a different level. Cue 1960’s announcer: It’s the Mayor, brought to you by Ajax dish soap. Ajax dish soap, the best friend of housewives across America, if you want a happy house and a happy husband use Ajax dish soap. Also brought to you by Viceroy cigarettes, if Steve McQueen smokes them, maybe you should too. The Mayor is brought to you in the splendor of Technicolor Cue generic off-beat knock off of the Magnificent Seven theme song In 1850’s printing press font, the words “The Mayor” appear and then two bullet shots sound, causing the words to spin. As the music rises in the background the camera fades from black to a morning sunrise in the old west and a lone figure riding out of the light. It’s the Mayor, starring Adam Durrant as the Mayor. One town caught in the midst of midterm city council elections. One man dispensing justice with a pair of six shooters in a made up, Manefest Desteny spawned, town in the American west. Square jawed, fast witted, faster on the draw, wearing a hat and always smoking because it’s the sixties, The Mayor. Unfortunately the show came along in the late sixties and the overt killing of “red injuns” and Mexicans was not received well by viewing populace of America. Killing of that quantity, with as many memorable one liners would not be seen again until a brave man named Paul Verhoeven made a seminal film called Robocop. By the time I pulled my car into the parking lot at Brock, The Mayor had been cancelled after only eleven episodes and was replaced by the less violent G.I. Joe versus the Commissar. Realizing that there was no real way I could make an entire post out of my half mad thoughts on the way to work, I thought I would take this moment to be a history teacher. Guy Fawkes Day is upon us once more and those of you of non-English descent, or who did not see V for Vendetta, probably have no idea that the fifth of November is something to be remembered. Has the rhyme jogged your mass media soaked mind yet? Remember, remember…the fifth of November? The year was 1604 and James I was dealing with a tumultuous reign as the King of England. Married to a Catholic and son of a Catholic, he was a natural Catholic sympathizer. However, James soon found out that governing a nation full of Protestants meant a great deal of pandering to the mob. By January of 1604 James was begging to arouse the ire of Catholics in his continuous attempts to please all of England’s religious sects. In a vain appeal to the Puritans and their wacky buckled hat ways, James went so far as to utter his outright detestation of Catholicism. The days that followed saw James exiling Jesuits and Catholic Priests as well as instituting of fines for practicing the Papist ways. Sufficed to say, this did not sit well with the Catholics. Especially to one Guy Fawkes. Seeking out allies to oppose the king, Fawkes traveled around England, Scotland and France. Somewhere along the road he got it in his head that he would blow up parliament, abscond with the king and his daughter and hold them hostage until the oppression against Catholics ended. With parliament dismissed until November 5, 1605, the timeline was set. Fawkes must have pulled the short straw because, his job was to ignite the powder in the catacombs of parliament. In theory he would spark the powder kegs and then go scampering into the night as to avoid bieng caught in the combustion. But the explosion was not meant to be. Loose lips sank the conspiracy and Fawkes and his co-conspirators were tried for treason before they could blow up the government. Some were hung, others were drawn and quartered. To celebrate the triumph of Protestantism over the dirty papists, effigies of Guy Fawkes were burned on successive fifths of November. Today, it is a major celebration in England where effigies are burned, fireworks are lit, and everybody has a wonderful time, despite having to go to work prior to the revelry. What began as nothing more than an attempt by Protestants to en masse rub salt in the wounds of dejected Catholics, is now an excuse to party. Fawkes will no doubt be spinning in his grave come Sunday when after my soccer game I go out to my buddy’s house in the country get drunk and burn an effigy. But what is the lesson we can learn from all this? That mixing fire and alcohol is probably not in my best interest? Probably correct. But beyond that piece of dollar store wisdom is a reminder that the franchise that some of us take so casually, should not be forsaken. 400 years ago people were barred from voting because of their religion - serves them right the dirty Idolaters but that's not the point. Each time that some person says, “it’s only a mayoral election, it is meaningless” they are taking one step closer to surrendering the only real power most of us will ever have in this world. A vote is force. That ballot is your will made manifest. One of the rare moments where society listens to you rather than telling you what you need. Go vote, even if to spoil your ballot because you hate all the candidates, go vote. Next week, we return to things that will depress you in my exploration of environmental sustainability. Eat your sushi now because in fifty years there won’t be any fish left.

October Revolution Redux

Buttons donned proudly by faculty, students and staff can only mean one thing, that the labour dispute within the walls of Brock University has officially reached critical mass. As I walked to the room where I teach, and then to my office in the history department, all I could think was, “That didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would”. Our department’s secretary explained to me that eighty-eight percent of the faculty who voted yesterday, October 25, 2006, cast a ballot in favor of striking. Although it will be another six weeks before they can walk off the job, the wheels have been set in motion. Something similar happened when I attended Brock as an Undergraduate. The union blustered, the administration retaliated with bravado and at the eleventh hour a resolution was reached. Life returned to normal. Two years later, the same thing happened again. This time, it was the teaching assistants that were touting Marxist slogans in the name of wage adjustments in line with other Ontario universities. Debates and protests among students and staff had only once prior reached such a high water mark during my tenure; the time that Stockwell Day was invited by the administration to give a campaign speech. I doubt that I shall ever see so many Libertarians protecting my rights to marry a chicken against so called ‘fascists’ ever again. But, I digress. The Brock administration took a page from Chamberlain’s lexicon and played appeasement. Teaching Assistants won the day. Presently, it seems that the administration is on war footing, unwilling to budge an inch in their rejection of the faculty’s demands. From what people on both sides of the dispute have explained to me, the crux of the problem is that part and full time instructors are working on year by year contracts without any sense of job security. They can be replaced on a whim by an assistant professor despite, in some cases, years of service to the university. While the administration seems to find nothing wrong with this policy, the union views this as an egregious injustice. Amidst the cat and mouse game of negotiations, there has been much talk about what is fair and unfair when it comes to hiring practices. Fair and unfair: An interesting choice of adjectives for this situation. One of the first lessons I learned within the walls of academia is that naïve notions of what is equitable and just must be modified if not abandoned. As some professors bluntly put it, university is not a fair place. No matter how apt and erudite a person perceives himself to be, there is always another that puts in half the effort and gets twice the grades. It is, in fact, a sense of scholarly Darwinism rules the campus. Those that are best fit to adapt to the nature of university are those that flourish within its often cold and lonely embrace. My particular field, the social sciences, finds success dependent upon the qualitative assessment of professors and teaching assistants. Appeals are slow and bear meager fruits such that only the most resolute of malcontents follow them through to conclusion. Pleas for tolerance and mercy often fall on deaf ears and acerbic comments such as, “If you don’t like it then find a job in the food service industry”. In an institution where fairness is marginalized, it is a high irony that unions invoke it in negotiations with administration. Before class began today, a student of mine brought up the impending strike and her thoughts on labour inequity. She mentioned how many of her instructors in the Classical Studies department are contract instructors, not assistant professors. This piqued my interest. I was further told that many of these instructors hold a Ph.D. As a person presently working on my Ph.D. applications, I am fully aware of the limited career opportunities that accompany those letters when they are newly awarded. Until an academic publishes, their career opportunities are often limited to lecturer positions. Sometimes, if the gods smile, an assistant professorship can be obtained but never with tenure. So if there really are Ph.D. holding instructors, who after ten years have not yet successfully obtained a professorship from Brock University I am left to wonder if there is not, in fact, something wrong with them? Have they not published, either in journals or their own books? Is the quality of their teaching so poor that the administration won’t reward them with a better academic position? And more importantly, why have they not courted other universities? It’s no secret that Brock’s reputation, not to mention coin purse, is nowhere near as deep as other schools in the province. Am I to believe that there is a legion of Ph.D. holding instructors that have published above and beyond the call of duty, received excellent reviews from their students, attended more than one university in their life (See, triple play of Bachelors, Masters and Doctoral work all at the same school. See also, shooting oneself in the foot) and committed no misconducts that would result in a blackball at Brock and the administration refuses to grant professorships to them? It seems an unlikely situation. If the unlikely turned out to be truth, my advice would be to polish up your Curriculum Vitae and start applying to other institutions, not a strike.

Perhaps though, I judge too harshly. Often times, the portrayal of labour activists in the media results in a dismissal, either on a conscious or subconscious level, of legitimate grievances by the masses. Those that strike within a teaching environment rarely find public opinion on their side because it is commonly accepted that teaching is a trust where you put the education of your charges before yourself. But the university is an unfair place. In that light, we often remind our students that being there is not enough, you have to produce something. If injustices are being done to honest and true academics then simper fides, but you should know the game well enough to find another school. For the rest, I think thou doth protest too much. Write a paper, write a book or reap the rewards of doing all your education at the same school.

A Call to Arms

Friends, Citizens and Country folk of the Copyright AD Fiefdom, As your benevolent Duke, I ask very little of you. I am satisfied in tasking you all to keep an open mind to the wonders that surround us, to think a thought for nothing more than the value of thinking itself and to never dismiss a critical mind as a mark of weakness. But today, I call you to war. With the assistance of one of Fiefdom's citizens, we have tracked down a distributor of the "Genuine White Boy" clothing. While I do not suggest returning hate for hate, I strongly advise all of you to email and snail mail this company demanding they cease their activities. Additionally, I call upon you to make your disgust known with your Member of Parliament such that a nation wide embargo can be placed against this company and their ghastly and sordid t-shirts. Here is their website: http://www.ssenterprises.com/covrpage.html Here is their mailing address: CINDY FIDDELKE PO BOX 5436 FRESNO, CA. 93755 LONG LIVE THE FIGHTERS

I Like To Watch

My apologies for all those who were expecting the Copyright Adam Durrant quarter century in review. By the time I had finished 1987, the post was more than three thousand words long and I had only managed to talk about was Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, Buck Rogers and fast food. How did I write eight hundred words on Buck Rogers? Well, most of it was a rant against Glen Larson and his overuse of Mormon theology that boarded on L. Ron Hubbard’s subtle infusion of pre-Dianetics Scientology theory into Battlefield Earth. The discourse really broke down into my crying over a highball of Jack Daniels as I found out that my literary hero, Robert Heinlien, praised Battlefield Earth as “A terrific story”. Say it isn’t so Mr. Heinlien, say it isn’t so! And now for something completely different. I recently found myself at the Fallsview casino and resort. There is nothing exciting or thrilling about the casino. Anybody that tries to tell you otherwise should be shot for telling such a heinous lie. Having been to Vegas, I find Niagara Falls to be rather underwhelming when it comes to “dealing excitement”. No free beers, no faux opulence, and no illegal Mexicans flicking prostitute trading cards at you (Gotta catch em’ all). Any halfwit that’s seen an episode of C.S.I. can tell you that Vegas makes Niagara Falls look like Pennsylvania Dutch country. So unless you have more money than brains what is there to do at this particular gaming establishment? If you’re like me, then the answer is simple: Make quiet commentary to your friends about the manic behavior of people with more money than brains. Case in point; Ray at the twenty dollar a spin slot machines. At the time, I didn’t know who Ray was, or why sat at that machine. All I did was watch him from five meters away, letting his story unfold before me. When I first found Ray he had ten credits in a slot machine where each credit represented ten dollars. Ray wagered two credits with each spin of the reels. In thirty seconds I saw him push the button four times. Eighty dollars passed on to the master coin bank and the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Association. The stoop in his posture betrays his middle age as Ray pressed the button again, trying to forget about his boring job as a shipping clerk On the last two credits he had in the machine Ray lined up three sevens. Barely aware of his triumph, Ray’s eyes ever so briefly darted to the reels before returning to the credit count. Little red diodes in the bowels of the machine respond to a rudimentary computer program, showing one hundred credits now at his disposal. One thousand dollars, it was enough money that Ray didn’t need to worry about the mortgage payment for this month and would still have enough leftover to buy his wife dinner at the Brazilian steak house around the corner. At least, he would if his wife hadn’t divorced him and taken the house. But Ray, is far from done. What’s a thousand dollars when, if it is your night, you can win a hundred fold that amount? Besides, it’s not his money anymore. Ray has all the angles covered now. Fifty more spins and none of it will cost him anything. Tonight has to be his night, the day when he finally gets what is coming to him. Everything that has happened to him over the last three months was all leading up to ‘Ray Day’. ‘Ray Day’: Where the equation that is his life gets balanced. There’s no need to gaze aside to the spinning sevens and cherries. All Ray has to do is bide his time. Soon the light above him will flash. He’s a good guy, he deserves to win. Or so Ray keeps telling himself with every other spin. Temporarily, I parted Ray’s company as the desire to explore overwhelmed my voyeurism. It was a Tuesday night, which translated to my being able to go to places that people like myself don’t usually get to see. Nobody questioned me as I strolled through the part of the casino where only people with six figure lines of credit get to gamble. Even as I put my feet up in the Platinum lounge Big Brother’s security minions had better people to scrutinize, leaving me free to bask in the presence of twenty dollar martinis. There was no reason dwell in the lounge. I knew, just as the people gambling one hundred dollars per hand of blackjack knew, that I did not belong. The excitement was in getting into a place not permitted unto me and then leaving of my own accord, not at the hands of a steroid addled security guard. It had only been five minutes since I left Ray and his thousand dollars. Turning my attention to his score counter, I saw that he was down to fourteen credits. In the time that it had taken me to charge and then retreat from the lair of my social betters, Ray had given the casino back nearly all of its money. Where was ‘Ray Day’? What had he done while I was gone to so forsake the gods? The stoic expression and lifeless eyes stared into the credit counter and I knew something raged within Ray. More than anything he must have wanted to rip the machine from the wall and tear its circuits out with his bare hands. Each push of the button was a desperate stab at the unholy heart of the reels. Until, he won another twelve hundred dollars. Maybe it was ‘Ray Day’. After all, he’s a good guy, he deserves to win. I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the show. Compared to what I measure a rational person as, a case could easily be made for Ray having a gambling problem. Although, I think people who play the lottery hoping for some Deus Ex Machina to turn their lives around have a gambling problem of a different sort, so I might not be the best person to judge. Psycho-socio arguments on neurotransmitter imbalance leading to predispositions for manic behavior aside, Ray seems like one of those people that simply did not know when to quit while he was ahead. He probably is a nice guy that is deserving of a ‘Ray Day’. But, to turn to a slot machine, and like an automaton feed it bills until the lights flash seems like a pathetic cry for validation. Gambling, if practiced with a modicum of common sense – a commodity that I have determined to be in short supply on this planet - is harmless. Once it becomes a hunt for something more than 30 seconds of cheep thrills its time to step back because you’re looking for something more than what the machine can give you.

Das Boot in the Mouth

Movie night: Is it possibly the greatest night that has ever come to pass? Methinks the answer is yes. From the popcorn romantic comedy starring generic white actor #1138 and generic white actress #451, to the indie art picture so laden with nuance and subtext that it demands of its viewers doctoral degrees in both political science and metaphysics, North Americans love their movies. Do we simply want to be entertained? Or do people find something more intrinsic about an evening out watching a talkie? Arguably, movies have always been a communal experience. Everybody seated in the theatre has at least one thing in common, they wanted to see that movie and were willing to exchange the fruits of their labour, money, to sit in the dark for ninety minutes to four hours. In a world where individualism is its own means to an end – a global community where people struggle to stand out from the masses and not simply be a product of institutional entanglement vis a vis university student numbers, a drone in a large corporation or any number of modern environments that reduce the individual to a kilobyte of information in a spreadsheet, it strikes me as interesting that so many of us choose to sit around in the dark with strangers on such a regular basis. Furthermore, not withstanding irreverent teens, we all abide by a set of unspoken rules while watching the film. Courtesy, communalism and a life affirming plot on screen, what more could a person ask of a night out on the town? Last Friday night I stood in line waiting to pay for over priced popcorn contemplating this very notion. Then I saw a Nazi. No, I am not talking about a poster featuring Mel Gibson and his upcoming movie that will no doubt beat me over the head with his moralistic sermonizing approach to cinematography. In truth, I am fairly certain that this gentleman was not an actual member of the National Socialist party. However, his dress clearly indicated that he venerated a certain organization; let’s call them the SS-Waffen for argument’s sake. Adorned with a red shirt upon which the words “Genuine White Boy” were embossed above the SS lightening bolts, this individual proudly ordered an extra large fountain drink. Still not sure what an SS lightening bolt is? Then here is a picture for you. The arms and back of this gentleman’s shirt also bore the above iconography and repeated the "Genuine White Boy" title. While I have little doubt over my own perceptive capabilities, I pointed out the shirt to a friend of mine who was also horrified to think that somebody would actually wear something like that in public. After I got home that night, I googled “Genuine White Boy” and various permutations there of, in an attempt to find the clothing manufacture that would have the chutzpah to sell something like that. Granted it was not an extensive search, but I could not track down the culprit. In telling this story to others, somebody suggested that it might have been a skater line of clothing. I restrained the urge to throttle said party, settling, instead, for a stern glance of contempt. While I don’t claim to be an expert on skateboarding, I’m relatively certain that the accepted skater norms of flouting the establishment and their “no skateboarding” signs does not extend to passive endorsements of fascism. Hopefully the guy wearing the shirt, probably a member of the same dinner club as Prince Harry, does not really comprehend how ignorant he is truly being. On the other hand he might be a Jew hating, Hitler loving Aryan youth counting down the days until hate and intolerance assert a chokehold over the world – spare me any commentary on “America is already like that man, open your eyes.” No it isn’t, go read a book you hippie. Hate for the sake of hate. That was the modus vivendi for Germany under Nazi rule. Sixty years later it seems that we have come to terms with the legacy of fascism enough that clothing can now be sold to the ignorant such that they can proudly wear about the town square. If that’s the case, and taking inflation into consideration, then the Copyright Adam Durrant line of “Go Saddam Go” t-shirts should be in stores by Christmas. Irreverence aside, the message this shirt conveys is one of fascism being trendy and hip and that, my friends, is simply something I will not stand for. I might not have had it in me that night to go up to that guy and punch him in the face, or tell him off for his ignorance – considering he was six feet tall and look like an angry Manchester United hooligan I stand behind my decision – but at least I can make my thoughts known in this forum.

Shanghai Moon

As a species, we have never really had any good motivations to go into space. Despite the altruistic humanism of John F. Kennedy’s support of the Apollo program, which in reality represents the high watermark of human achievement in space, the only reason we went to the moon in 1969 was because the Reds beat America to the punch on every other astronomical first. Lunar naysayers and conspiracy aficionados need not respond with accusations of a Hollywood fraud, nobody is listening. The perceived neutering of communist Russia made manifest by the slide rulers and pocket protectors of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, dulled the blades of American interplanetary cultural imperialism. Since Apollo seventeen, the last time man set foot on the moon, American space exploration has been uneventful. Fourteen astronauts have died and their noble sacrifices have been for what? To build the world’s largest orbiting Lego toy? Resting on the laurels of the Apollo program, America, Russia, the European Union and China have really just exploited space as a means to further telecommunications and espionage. Taking a page from the Viking attitude toward North America, we know space is there, we have seen it, and as a people we seem mostly content to leave it alone. Without any group or nation setting a moral benchmark to the great beyond, and the very real fact that we can barely manage earthbound affairs, outer space is in danger of becoming nothing more than another grounds for economic exploitation. Said exploitation, in its newest iteration, comes through Sir Richard Charles Nicholas Branson, dyslexic turned billionaire eccentric media mogul. Apparently being worth billions of dollars is now a knightly virtue. Branson, through his company Virgin Galactic, has planned to turn space into a tourist attraction beginning in 2008. For only a quarter of a million dollars you too can train in the Virgin Galactic spaceport and then strap into a commercial rocket for the most fun you can have clothed. Guffaws about joining the thermosphere high club aside, does anybody else not see the inherent wrong in this? Perhaps I am still somewhat moved by John Kennedy and his thoughts that space exploration and technology require man to give it a conscious and make it a force for the greater good. Some small shred of my soul that has not otherwise become filled with the malaise of 21st century North America, still believes that there is knowledge out there that is meant for all people. Now the door is open to anybody with six figures of disposable income and a desire for a cheep thrill. My nightmare ensues: Reporter: “Miss Hilton, Miss Hilton, what was it like going into space?” Paris Hilton: “Yeah space…its really empty and I think it would be really hot to have sex without gravity because you know gravity holds us all down and we should all be free without gravity” Reporter: “Tom Cruise how did you feel about your time in space?” Tom Cruise: “I felt a fear that the intergalactic Lord Xenu would detect my presence and come get me in his space plane. NO PICTURES OF MY BABY!” As much as we should consider that actors in space seems like a preamble to the apocalypse, there is a greater issue at hand. Since the Ansari X-Prize, an international contest to develop a reusable space vehicle, was won in October of 2004 it will have only taken four years for commercial space flight to become a reality. Virgin Galactic’s pimped out ride, the SpaceShipTwo, is, in fact, a direct descendent of the X-Prize winning SpaceShipOne. Assuming that Virgin Galactic launches on time and as projected, one is left to ask a simple question, what’s next? From Mercury 3 to Apollo 11 it only took NASA eight years to go from sub orbital fights to landing on the moon. If Branson has as much business interest in space as NASA had impetus to beat the Ruskies then we could potentially see a Virgin Galactic mission to the moon by 2012. For the record, G.W. Bush has promised that Americans will return to the moon no later than 2014. While the American’s planted a few flags on Lunar soil, it was always in the spirit of, “for all mankind”. What if, like a swaggering Spaniard of the fifteenth century, Richard Branson, or an appropriate proxy, goes to the moon and plants a flag claming the moon as an acquisition of Virgin Galactic and its shareholders? Is it really that unrealistic to expect? Space exploration requires more of a conscience than business, by its nature, can possess. Business is driven by bottom line day by day profits. Do we really want monopolies and economic competition defining our ventures into outer space? I don’t suggest that governments have any more of a moral compass than Virgin Galactic would, let’s be honest, the only way you could get America back to the moon in a hurry would be if Osama Bin Laden filmed a video from the Sea of Tranquility. So in the final assessment who is to say what would be worse, Richard Branson presents “The Moon” featuring Blue Man Group or American space marines leading a coalition of the willing to liberate the moon from the evil freedom haters that have oppressed it for so long? Should we really be forced to chose between these two options? Does it really ask too much of this cynical world to harkon back to the ideology of the past, even if it was an excuse for cultural imperialism, and have people believe that somethings are worth doing for intangible reasons? Becasue if nobody is willing to belive that there is a greater good that is worth the investment, then perhaps we should just let Branson conquer space.

Sci-Fi Friday

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Something Different

Dear Copyright Adam Durrant Feifdom, I'm not doing one today. I know this comes as a shock. Some of you, right now, might be crying, or preparing to cry. That corner of the room might be looking mighty comfortable for curling up in the fetal position and rocking back and forth, questioning the very nature of the universe. But, its okay, you don't need to do that. Tune in tomorrow, when we're going to be doing something a little different here at Copyright Adam Durrant. I know it might be a lot to ask, coming to my corner of the internet twice in one week, but I’ll make it worth it.

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Office hours are a mostly dull and uneventful time. There are, however, a few exceptions. These exceptions occur mostly when a due date is impending and undergrads need last minute reassurances that their ideas are not as weak as a Frenchman’s courage in 1940. After the first office hour I spent climbing the walls out the sheer boredom of being confined to a windowless Teaching Assistant office, I learned to always bring something to read. So there I sat today, feet resting upon the furniture like I owned the place, reading. One character in the book asked another why he went on a four hundred mile trip through the mountains and his answer was, “[for] The augmentation of the complexity and intensity of the field of intelligent life.” Sufficed to say I was enthralled by those words. Thanks to Ursula K. LeGuin I now have the perfect answer when somebody asks me the most asinine question in the universe, “Why would you want to do that?” This brings me to the topic that I want to address this week: Sentience. An interesting word, and an even more interesting condition. Tackled quantitatively it is relatively simple to define. The axiom of cogito ergo sum is the historic proof. I think, therefore I am. Possessing the awareness to recognize the fact that you are a thinking creature validates your existence. If life is a dream of the divine, your own sense of awareness validates your role within the dream. But does sentience end there? Is fusion of self-awareness and consciousness limited to the realm of the quantitative? Does our sentience plateau upon the first utterance of the first person singular? Maslow would argue that it doesn’t and then cite his infernal hierarchy of needs. However that still seems like quantification and reduction of sentience to a dualism of needs met and left wanting. Besides, his discourse is weak. (Just for you RK) Is sentience lost in some people? Somewhere in a person’s cognitive, physical and spiritual development can you lose the self awareness to turn your perception inward? A person like that would regress to nothing more than a being responsive to conditioning and training. Insert stimulus, observe reaction, repeat as necessary for sixty to one hundred years. As an acute observer of humanity I could give more than a dozen examples of people that I think exist on a day to day basis responding only to outside stimulus without any sense of awareness in their life. If the qualification for sentience is nothing more than a childlike statement from Descartes, where you recognize yourself as a thinking creature, should it not follow that as we grow to adulthood the definition of sentience must be expanded? Simply being aware of your location within a room, going to work, doing your taxes, can not qualify as sentience. A job is worked to satisfy basic needs of home and hearth. Taxes are paid because you are told to pay them lest go to prison. Red lights obeyed for self preservation and because you are trained to stop. But Adam, you say, I am aware of the fact that I am doing my taxes and working my job, doesn’t that make me sentient? No. That’s called being awake. We must be measured by what we are capable of achieving. A dog who knows not to go into traffic is doing quite well for itself because the average dog thinks its tail isn’t part of itself. Humans have minds with the capacity to think any thought that we have the will and courage to conjure. The limits of our consciousness are only those that we place on ourselves. We are all born titans of thought, even if some of us either lose our way or choose to abandon sentience in lieu of a path more easily traversed – a Newtonian life of actions and reactions. Sentience must be something that is grappled with throughout life, not as a goal but the journey itself. The pursuit of sentience therein must take on the form of an individually directed purposeful introspection for the sake of the augmentation of the complexity and intensity of the field of intelligent life. In considering the nature of sentience I am more than willing to entertain the notion that I am wrong. Perhaps, all that is necessary is the ability to speak the first person pronoun and be aware that you are talking about yourself. So if that is the case, then it would mean that this is the world that sentient man, gifted with limitless imagination, has created. If this is what we have created at the height of human conscious thought and awareness then I am left with no other conclusion than there is something rotten within the essence of humanity. That being the case, Terra should be wiped clean humankind before we pollute the cosmos. However, if we admit that we still have much to learn as a species, then this place will come to pass as more people grapple with their sentience and shape the world as one that befits a race with limitless potential.

Wordacus Maximus

Language: Twitching muscles and an expulsion of air from the lungs disrupt the space surrounding a body. A limited scale Doppler carries the disruptions through tympanic membranes, cochlea and other science words that really don’t mean much to anybody other than scientists and Gill Grissom. Then, if the brain has been trained properly, those wavelengths and sonic disruptions are conceptualized into mental images both abstract and tangible. From its humble origins as “grunt, counter-grunt, club in the head” to the most the erudite lectures of academia, humans have dug themselves in a nice rut of using sound to convey various messages to each other. At some point we, as a species, decided to start writing down our ideas. Cuneiform to glyphs to characters, this fad called writing seems to be one that is not going to die any time soon. Over the last sixty years the diffusion of spoken and written language, fueled by unprecedented technological advancement, has allowed for near limitless communication. Anybody with an internet connection can read my blog and then instantly respond. Voice over internet protocol technology is rendering telephones archaic and allowing for free as ISP fees communication around the world. While I am still a proponent of face to face conversations and negotiations whenever possible, I am content with the current electronic exchange of thought and idea. However, there is one sine qua non for successful electronic interchange, the ability to write clearly and effectively. (Insert grammatical/ironic pokes at Copyright Adam Durrant here!) But, it seems that when you open something up to the masses, the masses have a way of bringing it down to their level. Shorthand for cell phones, gamer talk, abbreviations that are not real abbreviations and this bastard here, “ :) “ devastate written English. For example, telling a person they are “l33t” carries with it such a subtext that an entire volume could be written on the subject, “The cultural significance of being l33t”. So rather than contextualize the abstract notion, the transcendental awe and respect such that you will deem another mortal soul l33t humbling yourself and all progeny yet to come, an act which would require considerable perspicacity, we shuffle along rather than forcing ourselves to truly grasp the notion by calculating it in our heads and translating into our language of choice. Of course, some would argue that this is the growth of the language. English expanding to reflect the technophile nature of Western civilization and “greifers” like myself are just literary Luddites. But growth of language isn’t my issue. My gripe is net jargon being used as an excuse for bad writing, or worse still the only form of writing that people are capable of producing. Not withstanding the fact that our broken high school system does not train people in how to effectively write, that is a different post for a different day, do we really want to live in a world of where English is subject to slang jargon phonetics? ‘Net talk is nothing more than a new way to justify the ugly fact that most of us can’t write to save our lives. But since everybody is doing it, we are all too willing to chalk it up to the times and wave the white paper of appeaement. "Oh Durrant," you say. "You just couldn't think of anything better to talk about this week so you picked something at random." Fine, don’t listen to me. Just keep on LOLing, ROFLing and LMAOing your way through communications and wonder why when it comes to matters of importance, the written word fails to communicate the complexity or even subtlety that you had imagined it would. Enjoy the forty pieces of sliver made manfiest through a few less keystrokes. If what we write is how we are remembered by history, do we really want to be the generation that led to the utter stupefaction of the English language? The clockwork apathy of people will allow for the translation of written trends into spoken language. And then one day, rather than laughing at a joke somebody will adapt the ‘LOL’ abbreviation into an actual word. On that day, I will have one more reason to shake my head at the world. For now, I hope those of you who assimilate without understanding and further demolish the language that I work in won’t be too upset from being Pwn’d so utterly and throughly. Oh irony thy name is Durrant.

Heretic Nation

I would like to begin this week with a little thing that scared me out of a bar one night (thank you very much Merchant Ale House and your attempts to culture those who seek escape through inebriation), a poetry slam.

There's a plot to beguile

An obstinate isle.

Great Britain, that heretic nation.

Why so slyly behav'd

In the hope to be saved

By the help of the curs'd reformation.

There's power enough

And combustile stuff

In thirty and odd trusty barrels,

We'll send them together.

The Lord can tell whither

And decide at one blow all their quarrels.

When the King and his son

And the Parliament's gone

And the people are left in the lurch,

Things will take their old station

In the curs'd nation...

And I'll be the head of the Church.

(Author Unknown, but possibly a Jesuit priest) - For the record, I did not write the part in brackets, they came with the poem. But, if I had to field a guess who wrote this poem, or on whose behalf it was written, I would have to go with hmmm oh well I don’t know THE POPE!!!! Click here for the webpage where this was originally located.

While desperately trying to come up with a pun that worked with the word Heretic, I stumbled across this poem. I read it, it made me smile. Because within the words of that AABCCB rhyming scheme, which incidentally fails at line fourteen, is more ammunition for the Tommy Gun of enlightenment that I brandish today. Today, Copyright Adam Durrant takes a swing at religion. One of the most devious means of control that mankind has ever loosed upon itself. Make no mistake, I am not talking about a supreme being that may or may not have created the universe. This is about religion. Religion defined as all of the stories, belief structures and institutions that we as humans have created over the last few thousand years. Yes most of them feature a deity at one point or another. And I’m sure that some of you are gearing up to tell me that religion is divinely inspired. But to use that argument against itself, just so we can move on with things, I will employ some sharp as a bear trap logic. Point 1 – I, Adam Durrant, was created by the Judeo-Christian-Muslim ‘One God to Rule Them All’ Point 2 – The ‘One God’ is active in the life of Adam Durrant and has set a path for me in all its determinist glory. Point 3 – That path is to be a writer and to use my brain. Therefore, that which I do is then an act of god. Therefore, my writing is inspired by god. And as god is infallible, everything that I have to say today is correct. Have fun with that one kids. And, if you think that my Ontology is self serving, allow me to cite one of Descartes’ proofs of ‘One God’ and then you tell me who is self serving. Point 1 – Whatever I clearly and distinctly perceive to be contained in the idea of something is true of that thing. Point 2 – I clearly and distinctly perceive that necessary existence is contained in the idea of God. Point 3 – Therefore, God exists. One goal Team Durrant, one goal Team Descartes, see you in overtime bitch. In case that show of irreverence did not make things painfully clear, I champion the cause of the Heretic. Heretics: those individuals who do not agree with the orthodox doctrine and choose to develop their own views toward the metaphysical. Born into the Christian faith, anointed in an Anglican Church before I achieved sentience, I, Adam Durrant am a heretic. And I will make no apologies for it. The heretic has no reason to apologize for making other people uneasy in their beliefs. Furthermore, the heretic should be praised for they have the courage to stand alone in the religious world and be counted apart from the masses. Religions formed because people are willing to listen and then hold has truth that which others have to say. The power of any church lay in the collective groupthink of those who attend, thus giving meaning and weight to that which is taught. No better (satirical) example of this can be pointed out than in Monty Python’s Life of Brian when, in an attempt to escape from the Roman centurions, Brian spouts off random rhetoric which stirs the hearts of the crowd. Praised as a messiah, his symbols the gourd and sandal, Brain is chased into the mountains by his unwanted disciples where he runs a foul of a naked man. Any groupthink par excellence will then lead to a measure of control over those people participating. You can start to create moral and value structures around your groupthink and before you know it you have people talking, dressing and eating the same…like say not eating meat on Friday? Everybody having to wear hats and bonnets? Sure it might not be law, but when everybody else is doing it and not doing it is ‘bad’ rather than ‘illegal’ it is potentially more powerful than law. Let simmer a few hundred years and what started out as an innocent groupthink has evolved into an entity that has both temporal and spiritual investment (control) in the lives of the people it guides (oppresses). This can pose some problems. Today, it only leads to awkward first dates where you start quoting Nietzsche to your companion who has just mentioned that she goes to church every Sunday. In days past, it would get you seasoned with the inquisitions’ special herbs and spices while cooking in your own juices on a rotisserie. Then the inquisitor would really start to work you over. Which brings me to my point this week; the heretic is not a person to be shunned. The heretic is one of the most courageous personality archetypes in the lexicon of human behavior. Where other people are content to accept the status quo, never questioning doctrine, never wavering from the establishment, the heretic is willing to suffer personal injury to exercise their right to say, “Why?” Why should I think the way you think? Why should I do everything that you do when you don’t even have a good reason for doing it? Why should I be afraid of something that is only made manifest because your resolute support of it? Why should I be afraid at all? The heretic dares to stand aside. In doing so they are shunned by the community at large. Facing exile from social and political circles, the heretic confidently steps forward from the ranks. Think, how many openly atheist, agnostic, spiritualist or other non conformist religion devotees have been elected to public office? Every Prime Minister and U.S. President that I can think of all tout themselves as followers of Christ in one fashion or another. Who is the worse person then? The heretic honest in their questioning of orthodoxy and tradition or the fraud who boasts piety for votes? The heretic risks damnation. “Believe what I tell you to believe or else you will burn,” says the evangelist to the heretic. It is something that every heretic must consider. The last time it was brought to my attention was over beer and chicken wings. Desipte my virtue, I was told that everything I have done in my life is for naught because I do not accept the proper deity as my salvation. A heretic will send away the clergy at their death bed and die well aware that they may have made a mistake. Choosing not to shoulder the burden of inherited social and moral conventions, the heretic dies with self confidence in their life’s value. The heretic does not need to be saved. A heretic sees clearly. Attempts to convert persuade or enlighten only reaffirm a heretic’s belief that the minions of orthodoxy have been blinded and so thoroughly conditioned by their religion that they refuse to, or have lost the ability to, conceptualize other possible dynamics of the universe. Within this one chosen dynamic the orthodox find comfort, safety and security. The heretic lives without that comfort, standing strong and steadfast in their own values and virtues. Courage, self confidence – not pride or arrogance but self confidence – and an open mind are the companions of the heretic; things that are virtues and classically defined as part of “the good”. Embrace the heretics, for they think the thoughts that others are not willing, or have lost the ability to ponder. The universe is infinite, and only the heretic who is willing to reject conventions that would limit that their view will ever be able to glimpse that which has been laid out before us. Mythology will not awaken you to that which surrounds you. Only the courage to stand alone and think will provide that opportunity. Now, my challenge to all of you that read this is to think genuinely and honestly about what you have seen. Have a reaction and go with it, anger, insecurity, support, the desire to throw cabbage at me whatever you choose. Ask me nicely and I might even let you throw that cabbage at me…well maybe not a cabbage but a lettuce. I would also invite everybody, and I do mean everybody, to post commentary on this. As a proud heretic I always enjoy the ideas of others, even if I don’t agree, even if I think they are wrong.

Until next week...unless the Inquisition tracks me down and decides to persecute me for my blog. If that happens then well who wants my playstation?