Persuasion is dead
In a recent NYT op-ed, David Brooks publicly wondered if persuasion was a dead art. That is also to say, whether or not people like him were still relevant. In short, his premise was that given how liberals only read liberal literature, conservatives toe the party line regardless, might it be that nobody can be successfully influenced to adopt a diametrically different stance by someone of an opposing persuasion? If so, then anyone with a publicly expressed opinion is merely preaching to the converted.
In Thomas Kuhn's seminal but sorely misunderstood
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, he argues that in the transition period between paradigms, a majority gradually emerges with a new scientific Weltanschauung, not because they have been convincingly persuaded to think different from the old perspective, but because the old guard have slowly died out. Which suggests that people don't generally change their viewpoints, even when confronted with incongruous evidence. Not all of us are and can be David Humes; but if even scientists are such dogmatic stick-in-the-muds, then there isn't much chance that laymen will be more flexible in their thinking.
Kuhn also said that "... the competition between paradigms is not the sort of battle that can be resolved by proof", putting paid to the maxim that one simply cannot argue with facts. This doesn't bode well for the resolution of conflicts between systems based on falsification vs. systems based on indisputable received knowledge, opposition ideologies based on varying interpretations of the same facts, and systems based entirely on opinion and the nature of the adherents' personalities. Personally, I have little reason to believe that people can converted (in a loose sense) by systematic, reasoned presentation of solid facts. In a democracy, this means that my opinion, however informed, has no more value than someone living in a proverbial well. But the well-dweller could turn out to be right of course, especially in matters more grounded in opinion and personal temperament than fact.
The spiritual leader of a billion people fears that sheer numbers could prove to be the undoing of his institution in a democratic continent. Since it is manifestly impossible to convert the burgeoning demographic he finds so distasteful, then a way to curb their numbers, and thus political influence, must be found. There are three basic methods: one of them is by boosting one's section of the population by encouraging large families, while simultaneously preventing the other group from having so many children. The Blues can talk all they want, but if they don't screw enough to have more kids, then they themselves are politically screwed. The second method is to stop the growth in unwanted people inhabiting your lands by restricting immigration. Good idea, but unwanted people also do unwanted jobs. The third is the most effective: systematic elimination. One joker gave it a shot more than sixty years ago, and his ambitious plan is still reaping benefits today, even if he's not around to enjoy them. Better not say too much, before Gahmen ask me to attend revamped history curriculum. The cute thing of course is that the other group might also get the same funny ideas and decide to exercise their destructive muscles on their hosts. I've heard that forced coercion is more persuasive than a thousand catechisms, but don't take it from me.
Halls of residence
Uni halls of residence currently having their orientations, or what I call 'much hullabaloo about nothing'. I wish they would restrict their activities within the confines of their hall as much as possible, so as not to disturb jaded fourth-year students. Some of you who know me might not believe it, but I just about made the most noise in my orientation group, leading cheers and such. Helps that I know some highly unconventional songs and cheers, which must have impressed 19 year-old female freshies, heh.
Speaking of which reminds me of the NTU mass dating gimmicky-stunt. I once heard from a source close to the NUS administration that lecturers are actually encouraged to facilitate male-female student interactions during their tutorials. But I'll say that I'm unsure how much of that is true, before anyone accuses me of irresponsible amateur journalism. Sekali the NTU activity was 'kindly brought to you by MYCS and SDU', like some of our TV shows.
I'm less concerned with a lack of male-female interactions across the board than chronic inequalities in that respect. It's highly demoralizing to see people emerging from their partners' hostel rooms early in the morning. Everyday. Needless to say, I never did anything of that sort (Hi, Mom!). Hall regulations on this issue are frankly redundant- hostelites are more worried about being caught with an undeclared fridge than their pants down or mouths full. For me, it's either 'make some show of effort to enforce regulations' or scrap the darn rules altogether. Short of draconian surveillance measures, one cannot envisage the rules being enforced to any significant degree of breadth or consistency. But trust the ever-innovative Romanians to come up with something:
"A Romanian university has slapped a 'sex tax' on students inviting their partners to spend the night with them in dormitories. The Alexandru Ioan Cuza Univeristy in Iasi charges £4 each time a boyfriend of girlfriend spends the night with one of the 1,800 people living on campus.
One dormitory manager said: "If they want to spend the night with their girlfriends or boyfriends then they should pay. This is not their home. And it is not such a high price to pay." He added that hundreds had already paid the charge, with male students particularly keen to pay and saving the receipts to show friends.
The university hopes to raise about £28,000 a year which will go towards repairs at the dormitories." (from Ananova)
Everything Bad is Good for You? Go tell my mother
Steven Johnson is famous. His book
Everything Bad Is Good For You: How Today's Popular Culture Is Actually Making Us Smarter has caught the attention of both the liberal intelligentsia and parents who chide their kids every other hour for gaming a little too avidly. I confess I haven't read the book. His previous publication
Mind Wide Open was too 'pop sci' for my taste. Besides it didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, since I studied this in school.
Everything Bad is a similar rehash of research findings that rarely enter public discourse. At the same time, we ought to be grateful for the Steven Johnsons of the world for sharing academic arcana with the average reader. Physics and cosmology books written for the masses have had significant success, now it's the turn of psychology and neuroscience.
To be sure, I didn't know that evidence for the hypothesis that long-term exposure to video games worsens attention spans in children is equivocal at best. While I don't believe that popular media per se makes children less able to concentrate on a given task, I might argue that the fast-paced, pastiched palimpsest nature of our onscreen stimuli causes us to be less patient with sustained visual narratives. Continuous shots lasting more than five seconds are impossible to find in Hollywood blockbusters. Any conversation with more than five lines of dialogue will be considered boring. So I always hear how such-and-such a film is slow and boring, just because the characters speak like normal people do. I was reading this interview with David Thomson, a noted critic, where he was lamenting about how lousy mainstream movies are nowadays because the studios are only interested in profits, while underestimating the audience's intelligence. I think people still appreciate a complex narrative, since TV dramas are getting better in general. Yet somehow they don't want to see this complexity transferred to the big screen. I could be wrong though.
There was a feature article in the ST a while back about teenagers multi-tasking. I often read while a CD is playing. My mother asked how I could study properly when there's so much noise in the background. Differences in music tastes aside, I know that she's probably right. Whichever cognitive model of attention you subscribe to, the bottom line is that one cannot perform two mentally-taxing tasks well at the same time. Therefore I can read while music's playing because I'm not really listening carefully. I don't do anything else when I listen to a CD for the first time. Teenagers these days can juggle three or four tasks simultaneously. Why they do so and whether they do the tasks well, I have no idea. Could one of the reasons be that doing something for a certain amount of time without cross-modal switching is too much for them to bear? Or do they want to fill up every available fragment of spare time? Is doing nothing while the brain fires seemingly-random impulses that painful?
Blood type and Commencement
Today's Chinese papers had an article on Lee Dong Gun, star of
My Boyfriend is Type B. I told a friend jokingly that I was only marginally less attractive than him. But he said matter-of-factly that I was better-looking than him. Not because I'm particularly pleasant to look at, but rather because the Korean actor was ugly. Dunno lah. This guy hah; first his name is very similar to mine, second my blood type is also B and he's spoiling my prospects with Japanese and Korean women by perpetuating the stereotype in this movie. Hmmph! Blood type B men are supposed to be selfish, hot-headed and flirts. Not true! I'm only quite selfish, somewhat hot-headed and a little flirtatious.
NUS Commencement ceremonies happening over the past week or so. I didn't guess that the girl who had been grousing about the painful and complicated gestation of her thesis to me for the whole of last semester turned out to be the valedictorian. Well, it seems like those who seem most preoccupied with their studies are the very ones who perform outstandingly. A truism, perhaps.
Proud graduates awkwardly attired in academic gowns and mortar-boards are swarming around town, taking pictures of themselves in unusual places at unusual times. I would know, because I was right there at unusual locations during unusual hours. My friend and I were peeing in a toilet of one such location when I told him how strange it was for us to be hanging out at such a place, at such a time. He said that as a matter of fact, he enjoys loitering round such areas, and also expressed his gratitude that I was willing to join him in the formation of a suspicious-looking trio (along with another guy who had decided that his bladder wasn't full enough).
Actually I don't know the other guy, though he did look vaguely familiar. Contrariwise, he knows me by name. I didn't think I was that (in)famous in secondary school, but lots of former TCHS boys from my batch seem to know who I am. Dunno if that's a good or bad thing. Then there was this guy who talked to me like he had known me forever, even though I've never seen him before in my life. I pretended to converse with him as though I remembered who he was, while trying to pick up clues indicating his identity and background without blowing my cover of ignorance. Lo and behold, he turned out to be a TCHS boy from my year. The conversation lasted a full ten minutes without me catching scent of his name. And I didn't ask.
Back to the subject of commencement. Just the thought of having to attend the graduation ceremony makes my skin crawl. Unlike females, I actually have good reasons for not wanting to attend (there's a chance I won't be able to make it anywayl). I call them deliberated principles, and obviously I am a man of sacrosanct, inviolable principles. Don't confuse principles with morals though. I have friends like me who intend to skip the darn thing altogether. Makes me feel better, a man of principles can get lonely at times. Another friend prefers the word 'guailan' to describe my attitude (on this issue specifically, though he wouldn't hesitate to broaden the scope to include all that I am). That is so unfair, but I understand: A man like me will be misunderstood.
Supporting a football club
"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide." Thus begins
The Myth of Sisyphus. Similarly, by analogy, I'd submit to you that there is but one truly serious demotic problem, and that is support. Support of a football club, that is. To abjure from the hermetically sealed microcosm of football is choosing not to live, to watch football without following a team is philosophical suicide.
Keeping with the theme of mythical Sisyphus, Graeme Souness hit the nail on the head when he famously declared that the only thing certain in football is eventual disappointment. The ball moves forwards, backwards, laterally, up into the air, into the onion bag and out of bounds.That is all to it. There is endeavour and there is Hustonian ultimate futility of endeavour. But is the Sisyphean supporter happy?
The beauty of following a club is that there is always next season. The principle is most clearly illustrated on the final day of the season. Amidst the bitter tears of relegation, we see young boys raising scarves or placards above their heads, defiantly stating their ambition and determination to be back among the elite next season. These boys are learning lessons in life: even as the club descend a division, potentially into a financial quagmire, they take with them memories of giant-killing acts and heroic last stands. These might hardly have mattered in the greater context of the final reckoning. Yet at the same time, the supporters would have realized that it is they who are the masters of themselves and have chosen to push the rock up the treacherous slope. "The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
One notes that the cyclical nature of football reminiscent of Buddhist teachings sans the teleological dimensions of Nirvana realization. In an oddly paradoxical way, the being trapped in the football cycle has the power to opt out, and for certain reasons, usually chooses not to. Personally I wonder why the traditional Nirvana is so desirable though. Not all of us face the extremes of being princes or paupers, Champions League qualifiers or relegation certainties. Most have decidedly modest goals of securing mid-table safety and at most, a UEFA spot. That is all right, because we believe in accumulating enough football karma to achieve a better position in the next stage of samsara. We often fail, and failure has unfortunate carryover effects. Never mind, we adjust our expectations and move on. I find in this an elegant simplicity and dignity.
American sports are much different. Because of peculiar characteristics in the American personality (hope I'm not making overly negative value judgments), evening the playing field is a desideratum. Nobody honestly believes that draft picks, salary caps and the like can make the equivalent of Wycombe Wanderers Premiership champions though. There aren't any Wycombes in the first place because promotion and relegation are not practised. Franchises can be dissolved and moved to other regions. There are people who prefer this system (ironically even advocates of laissez-faire economic policy, even though the 'rest of the world' football system is a far more accurate depiction of cutthroat capitalism), I just find it ...... different.
Nymphets
As I watched a topless 15 year old Isabel Corey in
Bob le Flambeur (1955) a few days back, a thought came to mind: Hmm, they don't seem to do such things anymore. Undressed underage actresses in perfectly respectable films, I mean. Depending on your orientation, this could be good or bad. But a person sexually interested in prepubescent girls is likely to find other avenues to satisfy his perversion than in mainstream films anyway. If it makes anyone feel better, Isabel Corey didn't look fifteen in the film. At least I didn't guess that she was underage (if there were age restrictions on nudity back then), but then again my judgment is uncalibrated to match Caucasian standards.
Maybe the degree to which we accept nudity in teenagers would depend on how young the girl actually looks. There are plenty of pornographic sites out there purporting to feature teens, but I doubt that many of the models are under 20. This assuages the pricky conscience without diminishing the desire for sexually attractive girls who are meant to look as young as possible. On the other side of the coin, if the girl looks twenty-something but is really under sixteen, somehow we feel less like paedophiles even though her actual age is known.
Franco Zeffirelli's
Romeo and Juliet (1968) was a controversial film because it featured the star-crossed lovers in bed. Moreover, there was a brief glimpse of Juliet's breasts. Juliet was played by 15 year old Olivia Hussey. Most would concur that 'stunningly beautiful' is about the best we can describe her without hyperbole, and she did look like a fresh-faced mid-teen. Ironically, she's still too old since Juliet is supposed to be fourteen. Hussey hasn't aged well, but she can take pride in the fact that she was the most beautiful teenager in the world for a while. The point is: would or should we be less comfortable seeing Hussey's breasts as compared to Corey's? I don't know, since I haven't asked any middle-aged viewer how excited or uncomfortable he got when he saw Juliet in bed.
A little more recently, 12 year old Brooke Shields starred as a child prostitute in
Pretty Baby (1978), where she was scandalously undressed. I haven't seen the film. If you have an uncensored copy, I think I hear the police knocking on your door. I'm not asking the aforementioned question in this instance, because my assumption would be that only deviant individuals would be excited at the sight on naked little Brooke. But I could be wrong. Brooke Shields of course went on to star in
The Blue Lagoon (1980), and unsurprisingly displayed her mammaries again. Maybe I'm not that attracted to Shields, since I was more excited by the sight of perpetually under-dressed 15 year old Milla Jovovich in
Return to the Blue Lagoon (1991). Think she's way prettier back then, her looks have deteriorated since
The Fifth Element.
Which bring me
Lolita. The novel is one of my all-time favourites. "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta...." But I have watched neither of the two film adaptations. Adrian Lynne's version was released in 1997 featuring Dominique Swain as the nymphet. I vividly remember reading Newsweek in secondary school (we had reading periods), and there was an article about the film with a photo of Swain. And we boys were salivating. Dominique Swain was a 16 year old playing the part of a 14 year old, though the character in the book was 12-13 at the beginning. There was vigorous debate over whether to block the film's release in certain areas. I read something written by one of the British film censors. And what he said essentially mirrors my thoughts. In a nutshell,
Lolita was passed because Swain didn't look young enough.
Most normal males would find Dolores Haze, as played by Swain, sexually appealing. In a story about a paedophile, that defeats the purpose. We are not supposed to find Dolores sexy. She is but a child, supposedly a very pretty child but a kid nonetheless. I would want to cuddle or kiss her, but not in a sexual way. But if the ordinary viewer, to put in bluntly, wants to have sex with Dolores as Humbert does, then the film has lost its meaning altogether. We cannot judge Humbert as a paedophile, or will our sympathy towards him have any greater emotional dissonance, if we are on the same level as him.
London's burning
London's burning, London's burning
London's burning dial 99999
London calling to the faraway towns
Now that war is declared- and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look at us
All that phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing
The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in
Engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear error, but I have no fear
London is drowning- and I live by the river
London calling to the imitation zone
Forget it, brother, an' go it alone
London calling upon the zombies of death
Quit holding out-and draw another breath
Perils of not wearing underwear
In the coming month or so, I want
- Julio Baptista to sign for Man United for a relatively low fee (£10-12 million), and be granted a provisional work permit. He's but a notch slightly lower than Adriano, but a whole lot cheaper. Not to mention that he wants to play in the Premiership.
- Cristiano Ronaldo and Rio Ferdinand to sign their new contracts.
- the great Ronald Koeman to suffer a lapse in judgment (which I suppose he's in the midst of right now) and buy Kleberson on a part exchange, with Miguel heading in the opposite direction. This would allow us to sell either Wes Brown or John O'Shea to whoever is silly enough to want them, i.e. Souness or Benitez. I wouldn't mind Phil Neville leaving either.
- either Louis Saha or Alan Smith to leave the club for no less than £7 million in order to accomodate Baptista. If Ruud van Nistelrooy, according to tabloids, really want to join Real Madrid, then let him do so. In that case, we would accept only a full-cash payment and not in exchange with some Scouse striker plus cash. Especially since the Real player is currently over-valued. Armed with the transfer windfall, we would test Atletico and Lyon's resolve over Fernando Torres and Michael Essien respectively. Don't forget Essien prefers a transfer to United as he's a fan.
- United to sign a winger (preferably) with a killer dead-ball (must) willing to sit on the bench half the time. Because of the criteria, Luis Figo suddenly doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Our free-kicks around the area lack threat, thus allowing the opposition to foul the players with impunity. This would of course be considered suicide against Brazil or Argentina.
- Chelsea to fail in their attempt to sign a world-class striker. They appear to be doing that perfectly right now. But since a striker is imperative to Chelski's cause and so they will succeed, let them spend a record-breaking fee on say, Alberto Gilardino who will go on to flop in the Premiership. I would greatly relish Frank Lampard and John Terry suffering long-term injuries in compensation for them playing 50+ games last season.
- And on a personal level, my proposal to be accepted.
We were playing football on Saturday. After a tussle the result of which is the ball going out for a corner, J said to L,
"Don't tug at my shorts leh, nearly pulled down just now. I'm not wearing underwear."
L is bemused but not surprised (since we've known J to do crazy stuff since Sec 3). "Why on earth are you not wearing underwear?"
"Why is there a need to wear underwear?"
Pause. "Erm, well that's a hard question to answer."
Another friend pipes up, "Day to day you don't wear underwear, that's fine. But don't you feel the need for more support when you're playing football?"
"Sekali we kick the wrong ball," L laughs.
Cancer & Cabiria
NKF Cancer Show this Sunday, but I suppose hardly anyone knows of this event since they obviously skimped on publicity. Oh by the way I've forgotten what NKF stands for, National Kancer Foundation? Don't get me wrong, we need as much health-care subsidies and handouts as we can. Afterall we work hard most our lives to earn enough money for the treatment of the cancer that will eventually kill us or an angioplasty we don't actually require. As my health psychology professor would say, everyone eventually dies and they must die of something. Ergo, once we've spent enough money to frighten the cancer into remission, we must get up as quickly as possible to raise funds for the next dehabilitating ailment that'll come our way. The battle wages on until a) we succumb to the inexorable advance of disease when the cash flow inevitably runs short, b) we succumb to complications owing to the disease in the process of pouring liquid assets in the medical cement mixer, or c) we succumb before we had the chance to throw money at the problem. Option C is clearly the most attractive, unless the cause of death is unnatural or unbearably painful, or both.
When my aunt learnt that I was taking the triple science combi back when I was an innocent JC1 boy, she laughed and said, "You cannot be doctor lah. Next time you'll be telling your patient "you are gonna die soon anyway, no need to waste money on treatment, can leave more to your children"" (it's funnier in Mandarin). Then another aunt said something about me advising the family to settle funeral arrangements while the patient's still alive and kicking (so he can provide input mah). Wah lau, dunno how they got the impression about me. I where got so chia lat? Anyway I never intended to enter the medical profession, so any comments about my bedside manner or palliative skills are pretty much moot.
Watched
Nights of Cabiria (restored version) two nights ago, and did some reading on Fellini films yesterday. Whenever I see Giulietta Masina onscreen, I just smile and smile. I think her performance's better in this film than in
La Strada. Prostitutes with hearts of gold are supposed to look like Masina or Wu Jun Ru, not Julia Roberts. Of course I wouldn't possibly know how kind and naive hookers look like in real life, heh.
