It occurred to me the other morning that nothing has any value except that which an individual gives it.  To some, this probably seems simplistic.  For me, it was a minor revelation—perhaps even an epiphany.  It was, in some sense, a recognition of perception in an area that I thought was almost completely objective.

The invisible hand that guides the market place cannot be denied.  If a government fiddles with supply then price changes and demand changes.  If a consortium fiddles with a price, then demand changes and supply suffers either glut or scarcity.  Based on the truth of this, I somehow assumed that a thing has a certain intrinsic value.  I now believe this to be untrue.

Here are the examples with which I played:

Gold has a market price.  That is essentially an average measure of the value placed on it by the people who are willing to buy it.  For me, gold is virtually worthless.  I buy some now and again as a trinket for my wife.  But, it’s not the gold that’s worth something.  It’s shaped and beset with stones and I may like this one or that one depending on its appeal to me when I see it.  But a hunk of gold?  What do I want it for?  It is a gambling token.  It might go up in market value.  It might go down.  I would only hold it for that reason.  I can’t eat it.  I can’t smoke it.  I can’t bathe with it.  For me personally, it is an expensive paperweight.  I get more value out of a good pizza.

An episode of Cheers once revealed that Sam carried around a squashed bottle cap.  The cap was a talisman of sorts that had helped him through tough times while recovering from alcohol addiction.  He describes nights he spent squeezing the cap, trying to avoid grabbing for the booze.  I seem to remember him talking about blood, sweating, and tears.  I can’t imagine what some alcoholics must go through to beat the addiction.  At any rate, the bottle cap is simply an old mashed cap.  You might find it’s identical twin in the parking lot of the local 7-11.  But the two caps have very different values.  Sam’s is worth more to him than he can imagine.  He spent long nights putting the value into it.  (Even this phrase is a misnomer.  He put no value into it.  Rather, he developed a relationship with it.)  The one found at the convenience store is trash.  To anyone else, both bottlecaps are worthless.  Sam can attempt to reveal the value of his by telling his story.  But, even then, the value they place on the cap depends on the value they place on Sam.

What is breathable air worth?  What is drinking water worth?  Our very lives depend upon it.  Its abundance has made it nearly worthless.  Does it have some objective or intrinsic value?  No, not really.  It only has the value that we as people place on it.

I suppose, in the end, “value” must have two parts.  It must have a “thing” and it must have a “recipient”.  Nothing has value in and of itself.  Can this thinking be applied to people?  Do I have some intrinsic value?  What does that even mean?  Certainly, I have value as an income provider to my family.  I hold some value for my employer.  I may be valued by my colleagues.  I have value for Todd in that I converse with him about interesting topics and I blog on his site when he slumps.  But do I have intrinsic value?

Given my argument above, I guess I don’t.

This has been your Depressing Thought for the Day.

Which group is more civilized?  No “in-duh-viduals” rose up and protested by attacking the man’s wife and kids, or kidnapping people, or burning embassies.  The community came out and mourned with the family of the killer.

Sensational.

Unfortunately, we turned over and pulled the covers up–a typical Monday morning response.  I’ve watched the world seem to spin out of control these last five years.  Five years ago, I was ready to flatten the middle east and turn the place into glass.  I came to understand later that people are people and not all of them are evil just because they live there.

Yet, it breaks my heart to see them chant their hatred, swear genocide on our allies, and mock our efforts to stop them.  The United Nations embraces Islam in spite of its broadcast intent to wipe out all Jews.  How long ago did the UN send forces into Yugoslavia to stop genocide?  Who were the victims?  I could have it wrong, but it seems that the victims were Muslims.  Apparently what’s good for the Jews is not good for the Muslims.

We apparently still don’t get it.  I watched a little of The Path to 9/11 last night.  I watched as the Pakistani women wore bright red scarves over their heads, showing full face and made beautiful with make-up.  These are not the black-robed women who must fear death if they brush too close to a man, while cramming spaghetti behind a veil.  The latter is reality.  The former is, well, sure, it’s Hollywood.  But must we be so ignorant?  Islam is not about women’s rights.  Islam has one law, and men administer it.

The villains were made out to be madmen who had no real grasp on Islam.  Is this the truth?  Well, I suppose I can’t speak to that.  But, from what I’ve seen on the news, fairly well dressed and normal looking men can chant “Death to America” as easily as madmen.  Why must we see this as a fringe faction?  Why do we put up with this crap?

When I was in college, I had to listen to a series of tapes on the virtues of Islam.  (I was performing a QA function for the library.)  At any rate, I listened as the speaker devoted an inordinate amount of time talking about how Christianity will fall to Islam. I wonder about a “religion” that has as its main focus, the elimination of the rest of society.  It’s not about religion really, it’s about hate.  And hate is the thing we have been trying to eliminate from our culture.  Yet, Islam is revered as a religion of peace while we are told that Christianity is intolerant.

WTF?

Maybe we haven’t forgotten the act that was committed five years ago today.  But, I think we have forgotten who did it.  I think we have forgotten our freedoms.  As I watched my wife remove her shoes and step into a sound-proof lobby, I wondered, am I really safer?  If so, why am I so afraid? 

I can’t kiss my wife as she steps onto a plane.  We touch hands through bullet-proof glass like a couple of prisoners.  I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.  This is the work of Allah.

After delivering a passionate speculation about the nature of God and physics in college, I was chided by one of my classmates.  “I thought we killed God,” he said.  To those who believe so, I encourage you to look back on the last five years.  If we’ve killed god, I think we might have missed one.  Because he killed 3000 of our countrymen not too long ago.  I guess we’d better look a little harder.  Obversely, perhaps we killed ours but theirs is still alive and we now have nothing with which to fight back.  That’s disheartening.

Allah enslaves his people and demands death from those who will not convert.  I remember, as a kid, watching movies where people like that were considered the bad guy.  Now we say he’s the author of a religion of peace and the guys going in to free the people are the villains.  How could we have been so wrong back then?  And, if I may indulge in a bit of sarcasm, I have to wonder… If Islam is a religion of peace, I guess that’s why it’s been so peaceful over there in Arab land for so long.

Well, I’ve rambled long enough.  Todd will probably revoke my access after this.  It’s pretty much a rambling tirade.  I’m sleepy, angry, fearful, dopey and docked.  But that’s the beauty of a blog.  I don’t have to care to much that it’s perfect.  Right?

I hope you get the spirit of what I’m trying to say here.  Wake up! The world is nuts.  Let’s fix it before it’s too late.

I’ll probably delete this tomorrow.

A few weeks ago, my son and I went to John Ball Zoo in Grand Rapids.  Entrance was free and we had a great time looking at the wildlife.  Most of it was curled up on nice cool rocks to stay out of the heat.  But, it was still fun.  Then, we found the stingray pool.  For a buck each, we would be allowed to touch them.  We paid and played.  It took some coaxing, but finally CJ reached in and touched the slimy skin of these fearful things.

The staff assured us that their stingers had been removed and there was no possible way they could harm us.  (I wonder what they are saying now.)  We stayed and pet them for a good 15 or 20 minutes.  It was a wonderful experience.  It was bonding time for father and son.  We neither one had ever done that.  It was kind of like petting a slimy dog, only a little more exciting.

Also, in the past three weeks, I have started listening to some training courses by Dave Ramsey. He teaches people how to have financial peace.  At any rate, at around the 2nd or 3rd CD, Ramsey uses Steve Irwin as an object lesson.  I think it went something like, “If you play their game your gonna get killed.  One of these days, that crocodile guy is going to get it.  I hope it doesn’t happen right after this seminar or I’m gonna have to go back and edit that out.”  Well, it didn’t happen right after that, but it did happen right after I heard it.

So, in the last month, I have have had two events cemented into my historical memory by the death of Steve Irwin.  Was I psychic?  Was the world twisting in some pseudo-scientific way such that it culminated in this freakish accident that happened to the Crocodile Hunter?  Perhaps the world flexes itself every now and again and the ripple causes correlated events.

I’m not saying that’s what happened.  {Right Todd?}  I’m just throwing out half-baked speculations.  Anyway, I gotta wonder if this is coincidental events discovered after-the-fact brought on by a subconscious desire to preserve continuity, or is something really bizarre going on?  I mean, suppose I hadn’t had those two events happen?  Would I have discovered two other events in my past that were related?  Would I have made a big deal of two things that even now I can’t recall?

It won’t prove anything, but I’m really curious to know if others have had a similar experience culminating in some surprising and freakish event.  Or, have you specifically had similar experiences related to Mr. Irwin’s untimely demise?

Enquiring minds want to know.

I always thought he’d get it from a crocodile.  You probably did too.  Instead, no, an unusual set of circumstances came together to kill him instantly.  It’s sad really.  If he had been killed by a crocodile a large percentage of people would have secretly thought, “Well, he had it coming.”  When a smoker dies of lung cancer, we are less sympathetic than when he skids off the road in a blinding snow storm and crashes into a ravine.  I recall a buddy of mine who got throat cancer and went a year with a strange voice and a scar on his neck.  Never smoked a day in his life.  Doesn’t even drink coffee.  On the other hand, a different friend had been smoking more than one pack a day since he was 16.  (Oh, probably 20 years at the time.) He had no troubles at all.

Life’s not fair.  Neither is death.

Sometimes we use that inequity as an excuse to indulge in vices.  “I gotta die sometime. So I might as well smoke.”  “I’ve heard of people who exercise every day only to get hit by a car and killed at 30.”  Yeah, we’ve all heard and even used excuses like these.  But I wonder, why don’t I use that excuse to do something risky to make our lives better, as Steve Irwin did.  I wonder if he thought, “I gotta die sometime so I might as well have a great time fighting crocs and entertaining the world.”  Of course, if he says that, we label him as having bravado.  If our neighbor eats a dozen donuts a day because he’s gotta die sometime, we just laugh understandingly.

We are pathetic.  Okay, maybe it’s just me.  But somehow, I think it’s not.

Just something to think about I guess.  Perhaps this is my tribute to Steve Irwin.  I didn’t watch his show.  But, I knew of him.  I thought he was stupid.  But, in reflection, I think he was a lot smarter than I am.

Go get ‘em Steve! Crikey!

I will admit to missing the point a few times because I simply do not know the definition of a good 30 or 40 words used in the text. I was occasionally thrown off by his odd turns of phrase and long sentences.  He also has horrible habit of adding annoying alliterations.  It’s very distracting.  That is why I need to make a second pass.

From my earlier post, you will note that Bushido is no more a religion than European Chivalry was.  This idea comes straight from the earlier part of the book.  Towards the end, however, he notes that when religion is defined as morality touched by emotion, Bushido is best suited to fit that definition.  This kind of double-speak really turned me off.  So, is it a religion?  I don’t think he adequately answers the question.

He asserts that Bushido died with Japanese feudalism in 1870.  However, he says it was not democracy that killed it.  Essentially he says it committed seppuku. Like a flower that dies when its season is done, it simply stepped out of the way.  Yet, from the ashes of its death, it will rise again like the Phoenix.  It will take on a new form, but it will still be Bushido.

WTF?

In many ways, the book laments the death of the gentleman.  With this, I agree.  In coming to worship our own rights and our own individuality, we have lost respect for the rights and individuality of others.  Upon meeting a stranger caught in a rain without protection, we think, the idiot forgot his umbrella.   We forget that he is suffering. In the interest of self-expression, we have lost decorum.  In the interest of economy, we have lost elegance.

My understanding is that this code is not everything I thought it was or hoped it would be.  In fact, some parts of it are downright silly.  But, there are parts of it that really strike me as having that kernel of idealism that nags at me.  One of the few quotes that stood out was this:
“If there is anything to do, there is certainly a best way to do it, and best way is both the most economical and the most graceful.”

Having focused on only one half of the equation, we have lost site of the other.  It is in hope of gaining further insight on this other half that I will make a second pass through the book.  This time, I will more dutifully learn the vocabulary of the book and perhaps also its context.

A hallway underground;
Pipes journey together yet
end alone, empty.

The other day I purchased Bushido by Inazo Nitobe (1862-1933).

I bought it out of curiosity.  Like most geeky kids, I was keen on the idea of the Jedi code of living.  Later, when I heard it was strongly based on the code of the samurai, I thought that sounded cool too.  It was only comparatively recently that I discovered that the samurai code can be summed up in Bushido.

My parents reared me as a Christian.  My father was a minister for much of my young life.  My grandfather was a minister the entire time I knew him.  I’ve seen it all from the inside, you might say.  The idea of looking into the tenants of another religion out of curiosity was severely frowned upon.  And, being the loyal and obedient son, I chose not to explore those dark recesses of humanity.

I’ve changed a lot since then.

I still profess Christianity.  Though, if at 17 I saw myself as I am now, I would certainly think otherwise.  At any rate, exploring the precepts of another religion is no longer out of reach.  It’s not so much that I am looking for something else.  It is what I believe to be a more mature understanding of Christianity.  It can withstand scrutiny and questioning.  I can carefully explore my belief structure in relation to others without being cast out of the grace of God.  It can, in fact, strengthen my faith.

One of my underlying principles in life is a form of idealism. It is perhaps an internal flaw. I tend to expect things to be ideal, and am often disappointed because they are not. I like to explain it using the image of The Christmas Puppy.  The beautiful portrait is of a small golden lab peaking his head out of a Christmas stocking.  A little boy hops downstairs and runs to the tree, still in his jammies.  He sees the puppy and in excitement grabs it and holds and hugs it.  They are both ecstatic to have found one another.  It’s a wonderful image.  Unfortunately, the truth is that the puppy would probably start whining and struggling to get out almost as soon as he was put in the sock.  It would likely piss on anything else in the sock and maybe do worse.  By the time the kid comes tumbling down the stairs, the puppy will have worked itself free, broken a leg in the fall to the hearth, but still be limping around chewing packages and shredding paper everywhere.

For this, I’m branded a pessimist.  So be it.

I see the samurai code as a possible way out.  The samurai are presented as a people who live by a strict code of ethics.  They are committed to excellence and discipline.  They lead full lives.  They have it all together.  When I look around at the shoddy workmanship that passes for production quality, I get discouraged.  When I look at the shoddy way I run my life, I get discouraged.  I’m sure a therapist would have a wonderful time telling me how those two are related.  (For example, perhaps if I fix my life, the rest wouldn’t bother me so much.)  So, I bought the book.  I fully expect that my image of the ideal samurai will be totally smashed, and I will find out that the truth is much less utopian.

So, having conquered all these hurdles, having pushed aside my barriers, having bought the book and brought it home, I discovered that Bushido is not a religion at all.  All those years of shunning it—wasted.  According to Nitobe, it is a code very similar to European Chivalry. It draws its source from many roots including Buddhism and Shintoism.  But it is a code of behavior, not a worship of some deity.

Nitobe himself claims to be a Christian.

I’ve read my way into about 18 pages.  I wanted to record my initial thoughts.  The book has three prefaces.  (Turns out it wasn’t four; sorry Todd.)  Of the three, Nitobe’s own was probably the most shocking. In it, he said, “I believe in the religion taught by [Christ] and handed down to us in the New Testament.”  This is not at all what I expected to see. The book was filed at Barnes & Noble in the sports section. It is considered a martial arts book.  I expected to see Buddhist meditations, a love of death, kick-ass discipline, and a strong elevation of the human self.  So far, I’m impressed with the absence of these things.

Technically, the book is a difficult read.  I suspect that my first run-through will be an effort to get the gist of it.  My next pass will be with dictionary in hand.  I’m sure my vocabulary will double after that.  (I used to think I had an expansive vocabulary until I met Todd.  I think even Todd would be humbled by the vocabulary in this book!)  The flow is poetic.  At times that makes it difficult to understand the point of what is written.  But, given that it was published in 1905 and again in 1969, I make allowances.  At some point, I will also need to explore the historical context.  So far he has made reference to two or three incidents of which I have never heard.  Some are Japanese.  Others are European.  So, my historical awareness will be forced to increase as well.

These are my first impressions.  It will be interesting (to me at least) to see how I feel about it when I’ve completed it.

There’s a lot in the article.  But, I keyed in on the part that agrees with Todd’s observation that the likelihood of viral attack is directly proportional to the size of a product’s market share.  Apparently noted security expert Dan Geer agrees with him.  Geer also suggests a solution.

As Geer has pointed out, the greater the market share of a given vendor, the more that vendor’s products attract hackers, and therefore, the more its customers are at risk. With ODF, in contrast, there are already four main product choices, as well as several others available or in process. Unless a hacker could find a vulnerability at the standardized level, which is quite unlikely, the risk would automatically be dramatically reduced for any individual user, even if the total market share of ODF-compliant products were to become the same size as that enjoyed by Microsoft Office today.

Clearly Geer is plugging ODF.  I agree that the software industry should standardize on a single document format.  But, jeez, there are so many.  Honestly, I think it’s a pipe-dream.  But then, if there are several open standards, perhaps that suits the purpose as well.  No single standard has significant market share.  So, will there be a future where you can buy or download any word processor and it saves in any of five or six different formats that aren’t associated with any single vendor?  I doubt it.

Maybe we should go back to using text files.

Following this marathon installation, I had an interesting dream.  Who cares? Well, that’s really a good question.  I guess I do.  So, I’ll spill my guts right here.  The dream seemed to be about pushing my son just a little too hard—a little farther than he is capable of going right now.

It was an overcast day and my son and I were enjoying a nice ride in my pickup.  We came to a wooded state park and drove through the gate.  Trees, limbs, leaves and even broken chunks of concrete littered the roadway.  A storm of some kind had ripped the place apart.  I picked my way through the clutter, straining to see the road in the dimming light.

Eventually, we reached a point where the truck would no longer pass.  My son and I hopped out and navigated the road on foot.  A large toppled tree blocked our way.  It’s huge, flat mass of roots excavated the roadside.  We climbed onto the trunk and weaved through the branches.  I was having difficulty because there was something in my hand.

My son told me that he was afraid.  He didn’t want to go any farther.  I encouraged him to go on ahead; I knew he could do it.  He wasn’t so sure.  But, he trusted my belief in him and climbed on ahead of me.  As I was picking my way through a tough spot, I looked up for just a moment.  I saw him sidling along the edge of the tree, holding some very flimsy branches.  Fear painted his face, and he looked at me at that same instant.  I struggled harder to get myself free of the branches to reach him and lend a hand.  Unfortunately, the twigs he held snapped free of the trunk.  He fell.

In that strange, surreal narration that dreams take, I suddenly realized that we were hundreds of feet in the air.  I watched horrified as my son plummeted screaming into the abyss.  His scream stopped before he hit the ground.  But, he did hit the ground.  My only blood born son was dead.  It was my fault.  There was no escaping the reality of the situation.  I had no options.  I had no road back.  In computer terms, there was no recovery disk.

I turned away from the image of my son lying curled at the bottom of the ravine.  I took one last sip of Starbucks from the cup still clutched in my right hand.  Then I allowed myself to fall from the log as well.  My flight, of course, did not end.  Dreams are polite about things like that.  There was a long slow-motion moment where I watched the cup drift away from me, dribbling its contents in free-fall.  The white-blue sky seemed to calm me.  The irrevocability of the choice brought peace, and I resign myself to my fate while I fell to join my son.