Happpy New Year! Apps are in! Resolution: write more posts.

Token Hypochondria

There is a theory made popular in Philosophy of Mind, defended by Donald Davidson and Jaegwon Kim, often used to explain questions of consciousness called the “Token Identity Theory.” According to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, the Theory:

“maintains that every token mental event is some token physical event or other, but it denies that a type match-up must be expected. So for example, even if pain in humans turns out to be c-fiber stimulation, there may be other life forms that lack c-fibers but have pains too. And even if consciousness in humans turns out to be a brain waves that occur 40 times per second, perhaps androids have consciousness even if they lack such brain waves.”

Thanks Stanford! Anyway, the idea is that mental events like pain or joy or a thought, can be explained completely in two independent ways. When a rock falls on my toe, I can say “Ouch! I feel pain” but I could also say “Ouch, my c-fibers were just stimulated.” The former is a mental description about my mental state and my feelings, but the later is a physical description (please ignore the Ouch part) about the physical fibers in my brain. What’s interesting here though is that both descriptions pick out the same event with the same efficiency, even though they are completely different.

So, I’m walking down the street the other day worried about impending lack of healthcare and my right eye is twitching, I feel like I have a hernia, and my heart is all jumping with arrhythmia. I know that this is all some psychosomatic neurotic illusion; I mean it is mostly a mental event. But, when I complain about my twitching eye I pick out the mental event in physical language. And then I realized that I can say “my eye is twitching” but I could also say “I’m stressed, and my unconscious mind is freaking out,” yet both of these would be describing the exact same event, and with the same correctness.

And here is the point. To all my illness concerned friends. We are not crazy. We are not just complaining about some imagined illness. No, we are just being technical and choosing to describe a mental event in physical terms. So…kvetch on!

Red Hot Law Suit

So, I'm on a trial period for the Limewire blog, and they couldn't run my first post as law suits hit too close to home, but here it is.


Finally, a past its prime rock group files a law suit that isn’t about its music being stolen. Today the Red Hot Chilli Peppers brought suit against Showtime Networks over illegally sharing the title of their album “Californiacation.”
The 1999 grammy nominated comeback is considered by band frontman, Anthony Keides, to be "the signature CD, video and song of the band's career." Personally, when I think of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers I think of tube socks over genitals and the rap rock of “Give it Away Now,” but either Keides’ memory doesn’t reach so far back or perhaps it’s that David Duchovney wouldn’t want to be billboarded next to the words “Blood Sugar Sex Magik.”
The Los Angeles Supreme Court will have to decide whether the Chilli Peppers will receive a deposit to their retirement funds of all profits made from the show so far and if Showtime will have to change the name. At least they’re not suing college students.

GRE's! Applications! no time now. I promise much more to come soon.

Darling Darjeeling

Wes Anderson strikes again. The hearts of adolescents, twenty something’s, and angst ridden aesthetes beware. Darjeeling Limited has come to deliver all the surrealist colors, sparse quirky dialogue and oddball characters that we somehow must love.
Extrapolating on the trend, I first expected that the fifth or sixth(if you include Hotel Chevalier and please do) installment of Anderson’s opus would be even more outrageous and stylized than the previous, Life Aquatic. But this film is almost toned down, and the scenery and people of India are allowed to shine fully without the distractions of clay-mation critters or a dreamy techno-color universe.
Adrien Brody’s presence is more appreciated for his spindly yet beautiful body than his lackluster acting, which makes me wonder where the leading man of 2002’s well played flop, Dummy was. Nevertheless, combined with the now suave genius of Jason Schwartzman and that blond Wilson charm the trio is so likable that I just want to enjoy a bottle of opiates and a cigarette with them by the campfire.
Overall this film will most likely be forgotten. It is smaller than Anderson’s other work, and I don’t think it can stand to those massive casts and lengthy plots. Yet what does stand out is the mastery of craft. Every shot, every prop, every line is chosen with such perfect taste that I’m sure the one hour and a half can rival any four year cinematic education. Take a date.

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