If I could find a rich widow, I could be a philosopher

Back in school, my favorite class was philosophy. My interest began in high school with Lou Hayner’s introduction to the Greeks — Plato, Socrates, Aristotle — and continued though college with Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.

Philosophy taught me how to think; it opened a previously closed window on the universe, one that allowed me to consider (in the words of Douglas Adams) the great questions of life, the universe and everything. What it did not teach me was how to make a buck.

Philosophy, I learned after dropping about $20,000 in tuition money, is the college major of people who fully expect to a) inherit their daddy’s millions, b) marry a rich widow, or c) live in their mother’s basement glued to a PlayStation for the rest of their lives.

As (bad) luck would have it, my old man managed to spend all his money before he died, there’s a shortage of rich widows in this town and even were my mom still alive, I’d feel guilty moving into her basement.

It’s said that Socrates’ wife took in laundry to support his lazy butt while the great thinker himself spent his afternoons hanging around the Parthenon drinking wine and extolling the merits of appointing a philosopher king to govern the nation. The fact Socrates was the world’s preeminent philosopher at the time may have swayed his thinking somewhat in this regard; we’ll never know for sure.

The point is, Mrs. Socrates is the one who put fish on the table. Even back then, when philosophers were the rock stars of their day, nobody was willing to pay them for their skills. Nobody ever said, “Hey Aristotle! I’ll give you 30 drachma if you can explain the cosmos to me in 200 words or less” or “Here’s a goat, Plato, now tell me why I’m here.”

Sure, the Sophists charged for their lessons, but they were considered by most to be second rate philosophers at best.

This dissing of philosophers — even non-Sophists — has continued through the centuries into modern times. Pick up any newspapers’ help wanted section. Nurses, busboys, truck drivers, website developers and — on rare occasions — even writers; they’re all in demand. But philosophers? Never.

Never once have I seen a classified ad that reads: “Wanted, philosopher. Must be familiar with both Western and Eastern philosophies with a minor in the Germanic thinkers. Duties include determining what is “real” from what only seems real, explaining the nature of the world and humanity’s place in it, and producing Power Point presentations. Knowledge of the infinite universe a plus, unless you are able to prove conclusively that the universe does not really exist, in which case you can take Fridays off. Pay commensurate with experience.”

That’s a job I could handle! Granted, I don’t really remember much about the Germanic “thinkers,” but I’m sure I could bluff my way past that by throwing out a few well-chosen names (see the above referenced Kant, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche). As to the Power Point stuff, I could farm that out to some kid in the Philippines willing to work for two bucks an hour.

Sigh. It would be nice. Granted, I’m not really smart enough to be a full time philosopher, but I do have a genuine talent for slinging the bull. That sometimes confuses folks long enough that they don’t notice I’m spouting nonsense until after I’ve left the room, at which point it’s too late to retort. This skill, I believe, is at least half of what it takes to be a successful philosopher. The other half I could fake, for a price.

A lot of these Reality Check columns have a point, but not this one. Philosophers don’t need points, they don’t sum things up; they just sit around and think.

So next time you see me out on the lake in the middle of a workday, remember: though it may look like I’m fishing, I’m really philosophizing. Hard.

With a beer.

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If only I could get a message to my 18-year-old self

I’m on Facebook a lot these days. Social networking, for better or worse, has become a big part of the newspaper industry, for which I work. 

Most of what’s on Facebook is, for lack of a better word, a word I cannot use in a family newspaper (the last three letters are “r-a-p”).

I’m especially disdainful of “memes” — those pictures of unicorns or foggy meadows over which smarmy slogans have been superimposed, things like, “Repost this if you have a beautiful daughter” or “Share this and God will send money your way!”  I hate ‘em.

There was one such meme waiting for me yesterday when I logged on. But this meme, unlike most, was kind of interesting. It read: “If you could send a message to your younger self, what would it be?” 

Is there anyone who wouldn’t take advantage of an opportunity like this? I’ve made so many wrong turns in my life I wouldn’t even know where to start.

Problem is, my younger self was an idiot. My current self isn’t much better, but when compared to my younger self, I now seem like the Buddha. Getting my younger self to listen to my current self’s warnings would be a challenge akin to erecting the pyramids. 

But assuming I could smack my younger self around enough to make him pay attention (and I’m assuming I could; I’ve got 50 pounds on that skinny, 18-year-old punk) these are the things I would say to him.

• Do not let that redhead at the hotel bar buy you shots! Your girlfriend will not be OK with what happens later and she will eventually leave you for a fat guy from Indiana who services electronic dart machines. Serves you right, moron!

• If you tell a friend you will provide the music for her wedding ceremony, try really hard to NOT miss it. It turns out there are no “do-overs” for this sort of thing.

• On or about your 45th birthday, you will be tempted to demonstrate for your 10-year-old stepson some “cool moves” on his skateboard. Don’t. And for the love of all that’s holy, if you do, at least do it out back where the whole neighborhood won’t witness your epic crash and burn.

• Don’t marry anyone more than 18 years younger than yourself. I don’t care how cute she is! I said don’t do it!

• You’re going to live longer than you think. Floss every day. 

• Surprise, surprise. You won’t be too old to enjoy the party on New Year’s Eve, 1999 after all. Bring your own champagne, though; the stuff they’re serving at that dive bar you’ll be playing could strip the paint off a Buick.

• I do not care what everyone else is doing in 1982; do NOT cut your hair in a mullet! Idiot!

• If you yell at your five-year-old daughter and make her cry because she won’t hold still for a photograph, I swear to God I will come back in time and beat you unconscious. I don’t care how frustrated you are, there are more important things in life than getting a good shot for the family Christmas card.

• Your kids are going to grow up to be smarter than you; better looking, too. You may as well get used to the idea.

• Don’t buy that pet store! You don’t know anything about running a pet store and you’re going to lose your shirt. Also, look out for that gigantic ball python; she bites.

• Don’t worry about money. It matters far less than you think. Sometimes you’ll have some, sometimes you won’t. It will have virtually no impact on how happy you are.

• On the other hand, when a company called “Microsoft” goes public in 1986, buy at least 1,000 shares and become good friends with a guy named Bill Gates. Yeah, he’s a dork, but knowing him will work to your advantage in the long run.

And that’s about it, I guess. If I could get all this information to my younger self, who knows where I’d be in 2014? That’s assuming I could get young, dumb, me to listen to old, dumb me.

More Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

It’s still OK to hate the French

I think we can all agree we hate the French. It’s OK, they hate us, too. Sure, sure, they gave the world Roquefort cheese, expensive perfume, Cezanne, Voltaire and Descartes and the metric system (for which I will never forgive them since it means I always need two sets of wrenches on hand when fixing anything).

They invented French fries and then had the nerve to laugh at Americans when we got fat from eating them.

They also gave us Proust, Dumas and Hugo, which was nice of them, but I think it’s important we keep hating them anyway. 

Why?

Well, they’re rude. They’re like a whole country full of New Yorkers. And unlike us, they don’t confine all their rude jerks to one state. Also, they’re not only rude to Americans, they’re rude to each other. They’re probably even rude to Canadians, and everybody likes Canadians (except for the French Canadians up in Quebec, who are almost as rude as the “real” French).

Have you ever been to France? Me neither, but I’ve seen “National Lampoon’s European Vacation” about seven times, so I’m something of an expert when it comes to understanding world culture.

French people themselves admit they’re rude. They revel in their rudeness. But to their credit, a few of the country’s more enlightened citizens are trying to make some long-overdue changes. Recently, in the city of Nice (which is ironically named, since nobody there is), a coffee house adjusted its pricing to account for customer attitude.

A customer who steps up to the counter and says, “Bonjour, un cafe, s'il vous plait” – French for “Hello, gimme a coffee, please” (or something close to that) – has to fork over only $1.90, about 1.40 in euros. Pretty cheap cuppa joe, by Starbucks standards.

However, if the customer orders the way most French people do, by saying “Un café!” – French for “Gimme coffee” – they get a tab for $9.50, more than three times the price a polite customer has to pay!

I’m assuming if a customer shouts, “Donnez-moi un café en ce moment et le faire rapidement vous fils d'une chèvre de mere!” – French for “Gimme a coffee right now and make it fast you son of a motherless goat!” – the barista comes around the counter and hits him in the head with an espresso machine.

And still! Still! Some French coffee lovers insist on ordering the rude way. Why? Because they’re French and they can’t help it.

Even so, it’s nice to see at least some French folks making those first, tentative steps toward a more polite society. But even if they all do miraculously become polite overnight, it’s still going to be hard to trust them.

Why? (You’re asking “why” a lot today; it’s getting annoying. I’ll tell you anyway.) Because the French language sounds absolutely beautiful. Even asking where the bathroom is in French – Où est la salle de bain? – is pure poetry.

Many, many years ago, for two magnificent weeks, I dated a girl from Lyon, France, who was in the states visiting her aunt. As my very good luck would have it, the aunt was a friend of mine. Her niece, Jenette, was a vision, an exotic dark-haired beauty of the sort that stops all male conversation the moment she enters a room.

She spoke about six words of English. I spoke no French, other than the lyrics from that disco song about the Moulin Rouge and I knew those were dirty. But, in my mind, we conversed fluently in the international language of love. Each French word that passed her flawless, plum-ripe lips sounded consummately romantic.

Though most of what she said I no longer remember, there was one phrase she repeated over and over, even as we parted at the airport on the last day of her visit: “Vous êtes très belle, mais je ne suis tout simplement pas qu'en vous.”

“I love you, too,” I said, and meant it.

Years later, someone invented Google Translate. Turns out her last words to me were, “You’re very nice, but I’m just not that into you.”

There’s a reason I hate the French.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273