Why save the daylight?
October 30, 2001
By Peter Stair
Is it just me, or has everyone else been showing up late for things recently? For example, I went to a review session yesterday — right on time — but there was no one there. I waited for an hour before people started coming!
I went to dinner last night, I even showed up half an hour late, and…nothing. My dorm-mates were still cooking. And then, just this morning, I went to my mid-term. Again! No one, for a whole hour.
I’m baffled. I mean, I set my watch by calling Time on the phone, and she has told me many times before that my watch is correct to the second. It’s highly unlikely that, at the same time, all of my clocks could begin running fast by an hour.
It’s not that I really mind being “ahead of the game.” In fact, after regularly showing up slightly late, it’s been nice to show up enormously early. Having more than enough time to take care of my basics — get a drink of water, mindlessly shuffle papers — and without any people (or girls) to watch (or ogle), I can just sit, often alone in a empty room, waiting.
It’s been meditative. It’s like my early-ness is one big Present. Since I’ve had so much time, waiting for class to start, lounging around until friends arrive, pacing empty meeting rooms and sitting outside until the bagel delivery guy shows up, I’ve been able to indulge my curiosities. Mostly this has involved wondering,”why am I so frickin’ early to everything? “
I’ve had the time to ask the people who show up late what’s going on, but I don’t really trust their responses. They usually tell a strange and similar story, which goes something like, “Once upon a time, we were all farmers, and we liked to add an hour every fall. Today, we still pretend to be farmers, ergo we still add an hour.”
As far as I’m concerned this is a pretty weak rationalization for being late. But it remains the only one. And the crazies who advocate it seem to be becoming more numerous and persistent.
They even try to peer-pressure me into agreeing, using familiar tactics ranging from the Appeal to False Memory (“You loon, don’t remember that we do this every year!”) to the Good Joke Strategy (“You’re a weird guy, Peter.”).
But I resist, because I have some grave questions for them.
(1) First of all, to make everyone change his or her watch at the same time would be a huge and costly endeavor. It obviously would never work.
(2) Second of all, no one can tell me exactly why these ancestral farmers wanted to change the time at all. Do hoes not work unless you add an hour in October? Do the farmers just want an excuse to sleep in one Sunday? Are we supposed to believe they’re trying to squeeze an extra hour’s worth of energy from the Sun? I don’t think so!
Maybe these people would say the farmers were just trying to show nature who’s boss, by forcing “human time” onto “natural time,” and redefining, for example, what comprises “the end of the day?” Posh. That would be irrational.
Further, even if there were a rational explanation for time warping, no one can tell me why we would preserve such a moldy tradition, seeing as how we’re no longer farmers.
(3) Even if there were a rational explanation for regular time warps, how would these time warps occur?
If the Sun actually slows down, is it because the horses of Apollo’s Sun Chariot are on a one-hour vacation? If this is the case, when the sun sets earlier rather than later, is it because Apollo is trying to make up for lost time?
If so, why aren’t we outraged?
If the explanation is deeper than this, and has to do with the Universe, then is it possible for everything (the whole Universe) to cease expanding? If this happens, wouldn’t it stop everything, including us, thereby negating the theory? Also, how would be explain the Universe stopping for an “hour,” a distinctly human unit of measurement based on our heart-rate and the Sumerian affection for the number six?
If it is possible for the Universe to stall, excepting human activity, then why aren’t there scientists figuring out how to harness this capacity? It’s not because there would be no profit in it. When the person who figures out Eternal Youth sells their stock options, they undoubtedly be an infinity-aire like Bill Gates. So maybe the scientists aren’t looking because it is physically impossible to warp time.
(Speaking of which, didn’t Superman do an interesting experiment in this field in the 1970s?)
Clearly, those who advocate “time morphing” have some serious questions to settle before I’ll join them. I’ll believe it when I see it.
(And the only time warp I’ve seen is a negative one, and that was during the midterm I just took, if you know what I mean!)
In the meantime, I’ll continue standing for rationality by showing up on-time to all my engagements.
Peter Stair was a junior majoring in human ecology. He believes that he will still be a junior majoring in human ecology by the time you read this column, though he reminds you that, currently, the Peter of the Past is talking to the You of the present. Peter hopes to continue time traveling into the future, one second at a time, and claims to know the score of any game before it starts. When others say that the only way to be alive today is to be here now, he nods. Please email him at pstair@stanford.edu if you think you understand what he is or has been talking about.
Tuesday, October 30, 2001
Tuesday, October 23, 2001
Living the examined life
Living the examined life
October 23, 2001
By Peter Stair
I had a thought recently that I’ve been distilling for some time: Now that the world is changing faster than ever, it is more useful than ever to embrace flexibility as our worldview. And I’m not sure whether Stanford is encouraging this or holding us back.
Let me explain.
The earth’s population has doubled in the past 50 years. The human economy of goods and services has increased almost seven-fold. And one-fourth of the world’s mammal species have gone extinct.
The pace of change is increasing, especially in America, where we now have fast food, overnight delivery services, multi-tasking, instant coffee and “door close” buttons on the elevator. When our grandparents were our age, TV did not exist, male and female college students were separated by dorm, blacks and whites were separated by colleges, clothes were less colorful and wordy, music did not pervade the air, airplanes did not fill the sky, traffic was not really an issue, computers were abacuses and the Internet was hardly imagined by science fiction writers.
In the face of such change, we are realizing that the adaptive response is not to cling to old ideas. The life experience of old people often seems irrelevant to us, something we emphasis by our worship of youth and storage of elders.
Business leaders, too, are acknowledging the importance of quick adaptation. Goldman Sachs’ new slogan is “Minds Wide Open.” Apple’s is “Think Different.” Bill Gates wrote a book called “Business at the Speed of Thought.” Business magazines now list “intuition” as a key trait of good CEOs, because the marketplace is changing so fast that they must operate “by instinct.” The business mantra is “the only constant is change.”
Is Stanford responding well to the era of “Question Everything?”
We learn how much has changed since the time we were hunters and gatherers. We learn how different human cultures can be. Numerous professors would say that they encourage questioning. And those who study the scientific method understand that enduring uncertainty (open-mindedness) is a key element in the evolution of knowledge.
Willingness to question has long been a trait of successful leaders, because by separating themselves from dogma, they see possibilities. We know this. We are taught this.
We know that Genghis Khan conquered much of the world because he saw new ways of organizing an army and using horses. We know that Copernicus revolutionized our conception of the universe because he was willing to reconsider Ptolemaic dogma. And we know that Henry Ford succeeded brilliantly because he saw the possibility of using an assembly line in his plants. We learn about “thinking outside the box.”
We are even taught that institutions like Stanford have counter-productively resisted change. Universities and churches did not respond well to Darwin’s observations about evolution, to the calls of American abolitionists or to the emergence of chaos theory.
But, still, Stanford is a big and respected institution. And both those adjectives mean: “slow to change.” Almost without doubt, we will learn the ideology of our society here, and we will probably think that much of it is not worth questioning. Almost without doubt, by going to such a conventional university, we will limit our imaginations.
I’ve been surprised to find such a large number of students who are aware of the huge social revolutions of the past and vast differences in cultural ideologies but still confine themselves to fairly mainstream lives.
I’ve been surprised to find, in myself and others, such an unwillingness to question why we’re attending Stanford at all. Will my life be more satisfying if I go here? If so, why aren’t our professors more joyful? Are the billions of people who have no access to a college education condemned to less satisfying lives? If I want to learn engineering, why not just pay a professional engineer for an apprenticeship?
My point isn’t really that we shouldn’t be “mainstream,” or that Stanford is a waste. I just think that those who are serious about questioning everything end up living more successful lives. Psychologists talk about the “self-actualization” that comes from being a self-defined, often non-conventional, person.
And here is my real point: because we are on the verge of a “turning point,” or “tipping point,” or “revolution,” we live in a world of possibilities.
Whether we call it a transition from the Cenozoic to the Technozoic Era, or an Ecological Revolution like the Industrial Revolution, or a shift into the Information Age, we know we’re seeing big changes. And we have the chance to influence the direction of these changes if we are able to visualize new possibilities.
As change becomes more rapid, so should our questioning become deeper.
Peter Stair is a junior majoring in human ecology. Once upon a time, he lived in Alaska and worked for Ralph Nader. By attending Stanford, he thinks he experiences cognitive dissonance. He wants you to e-mail him at pstair@stanford.edu.
October 23, 2001
By Peter Stair
I had a thought recently that I’ve been distilling for some time: Now that the world is changing faster than ever, it is more useful than ever to embrace flexibility as our worldview. And I’m not sure whether Stanford is encouraging this or holding us back.
Let me explain.
The earth’s population has doubled in the past 50 years. The human economy of goods and services has increased almost seven-fold. And one-fourth of the world’s mammal species have gone extinct.
The pace of change is increasing, especially in America, where we now have fast food, overnight delivery services, multi-tasking, instant coffee and “door close” buttons on the elevator. When our grandparents were our age, TV did not exist, male and female college students were separated by dorm, blacks and whites were separated by colleges, clothes were less colorful and wordy, music did not pervade the air, airplanes did not fill the sky, traffic was not really an issue, computers were abacuses and the Internet was hardly imagined by science fiction writers.
In the face of such change, we are realizing that the adaptive response is not to cling to old ideas. The life experience of old people often seems irrelevant to us, something we emphasis by our worship of youth and storage of elders.
Business leaders, too, are acknowledging the importance of quick adaptation. Goldman Sachs’ new slogan is “Minds Wide Open.” Apple’s is “Think Different.” Bill Gates wrote a book called “Business at the Speed of Thought.” Business magazines now list “intuition” as a key trait of good CEOs, because the marketplace is changing so fast that they must operate “by instinct.” The business mantra is “the only constant is change.”
Is Stanford responding well to the era of “Question Everything?”
We learn how much has changed since the time we were hunters and gatherers. We learn how different human cultures can be. Numerous professors would say that they encourage questioning. And those who study the scientific method understand that enduring uncertainty (open-mindedness) is a key element in the evolution of knowledge.
Willingness to question has long been a trait of successful leaders, because by separating themselves from dogma, they see possibilities. We know this. We are taught this.
We know that Genghis Khan conquered much of the world because he saw new ways of organizing an army and using horses. We know that Copernicus revolutionized our conception of the universe because he was willing to reconsider Ptolemaic dogma. And we know that Henry Ford succeeded brilliantly because he saw the possibility of using an assembly line in his plants. We learn about “thinking outside the box.”
We are even taught that institutions like Stanford have counter-productively resisted change. Universities and churches did not respond well to Darwin’s observations about evolution, to the calls of American abolitionists or to the emergence of chaos theory.
But, still, Stanford is a big and respected institution. And both those adjectives mean: “slow to change.” Almost without doubt, we will learn the ideology of our society here, and we will probably think that much of it is not worth questioning. Almost without doubt, by going to such a conventional university, we will limit our imaginations.
I’ve been surprised to find such a large number of students who are aware of the huge social revolutions of the past and vast differences in cultural ideologies but still confine themselves to fairly mainstream lives.
I’ve been surprised to find, in myself and others, such an unwillingness to question why we’re attending Stanford at all. Will my life be more satisfying if I go here? If so, why aren’t our professors more joyful? Are the billions of people who have no access to a college education condemned to less satisfying lives? If I want to learn engineering, why not just pay a professional engineer for an apprenticeship?
My point isn’t really that we shouldn’t be “mainstream,” or that Stanford is a waste. I just think that those who are serious about questioning everything end up living more successful lives. Psychologists talk about the “self-actualization” that comes from being a self-defined, often non-conventional, person.
And here is my real point: because we are on the verge of a “turning point,” or “tipping point,” or “revolution,” we live in a world of possibilities.
Whether we call it a transition from the Cenozoic to the Technozoic Era, or an Ecological Revolution like the Industrial Revolution, or a shift into the Information Age, we know we’re seeing big changes. And we have the chance to influence the direction of these changes if we are able to visualize new possibilities.
As change becomes more rapid, so should our questioning become deeper.
Peter Stair is a junior majoring in human ecology. Once upon a time, he lived in Alaska and worked for Ralph Nader. By attending Stanford, he thinks he experiences cognitive dissonance. He wants you to e-mail him at pstair@stanford.edu.
Tuesday, October 16, 2001
Conversing with an ad
Conversing with an ad
October 16, 2001
By Peter Stair
I was biking to hum bio section yesterday when I passed a billboard carrying a gigantic bullhorn. “Hello Peter,” he said to me.
I skidded to a stop and turned around to face a smiling man wearing a large cardboard poster with a picture of a candy bar on it. There was another poster on his back, and all sorts of logos on his face.
“Did you just say my name?” I asked?
“Yeah, what’s up? You look fit, lean and hungry. Are you interested in buying one of those manly chocolate bars you really like?”
“Um, not really. I mean, maybe. How do you know me?” I said.
“It’s my job. I know a lot about you. I know, for example, that you once tried one of BMG’s buy-one-get-eight free CD deals. Which reminds me: I’ll bet you want to buy the new Radiohead CD for half price. Rolling Stone called it, ‘excellent.’”
He held a copy forward and smiled nicely. The billboards on his back transformed from an image of a candy bar to a picture of the Radiohead album cover.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your friend. I’m here to let you know about all the fun you could be having. I help people find what they want. I also like girls who wear Abercrombie and Fitch.”
He smiled again.
“Sounds like you’re a product pusher.” I said suspiciously.
“I prefer to see myself as a story-teller, like Dickens, or Homer, or even Jesus.” He paused, then told me, “I encourage people to live their dreams, and then I show them how simply they can attain these dreams by going to the store. People like my stories.”
“You’re not like Jesus!” I exclaimed ridiculously. I wondered why I was talking to an advertisement.
“No, you’re right. I’m much more exciting. Unlike Him, I fill otherwise drab public spaces with stimulating pictures and thoughts. I sponsor free giveaways and sporting events. I even provide you with free entertainment on the TV and in the newspaper.”
He was a good salesman.
He continued, “And, after all, isn’t life boring when you’re happy with what you already have?”
I paused and thought about all the ways advertising had improved my life.
“So, do you want this CD?” he prodded. “I have friends who say it changed their lives.”
“Wait,” I said, still thinking about story-telling. “Maybe city bus rides are cheaper because of you, but you also play on our emotions and stir our insecurities to create needs.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Like,” I continued, “You make people work 60 hour weeks at jobs they don’t like just so they can pay for a luxury car.”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if he had heard what I had said before.
“Here’s a better way of looking at it: I help people satisfy needs they previously didn’t even know about.” He enunciated the last few words with confident enthusiasm. “People are living with luxuries they wouldn’t even have dreamed of without me.”
“But do you think we’re all better off once we find these needs?” I asked.
“Isn’t it self-apparent?” he gasped, “Humanity is enjoying its blissful self-actualization! I mean, we’re beyond satisfying merely our basic material needs. Only now have we been able to spend so much time on higher pursuits, like working on computers, or driving cars.” As he spoke, his Nike swoosh mohawk shook enchantingly.
“I thought we were destroying our habitat and making ourselves miserable at the same time.”
“Well, I suggest you reconsider that opinion,” he said brusquely. Then he tried another pitch, “Surely, you’d at least agree that we help each other by buying more things.”
He looked at me dramatically. “Yes, if we weren’t always wanting more things, the economy wouldn’t grow fast enough, and there wouldn’t be enough jobs. Indeed, without ad guys like me, society would fall apart.”
“So you’re just doing your duty as a citizen?” I said, catching on.
“Precisely. And you would be too if you only bought this CD today!”
“No. That can’t be right.” I resisted, “There’s got to be a better way.”
“Not really. Unless you’re willing to talk about some pretty revolutionary things. . .” he tapered off. “So! Do you want this CD or not?”
I checked my pockets, pretended they were empty, and shook my head sadly. “Sorry,” I replied.
“All ri-ight, but don’t blame me when the economy falls apart.”
Bewildered, I finished biking to hum bio section.
Peter Stair is a junior human ecology major. If you dare him, he is willing to be the first person he knows of to write a column without declarative, imperative and exclamatory sentences.
October 16, 2001
By Peter Stair
I was biking to hum bio section yesterday when I passed a billboard carrying a gigantic bullhorn. “Hello Peter,” he said to me.
I skidded to a stop and turned around to face a smiling man wearing a large cardboard poster with a picture of a candy bar on it. There was another poster on his back, and all sorts of logos on his face.
“Did you just say my name?” I asked?
“Yeah, what’s up? You look fit, lean and hungry. Are you interested in buying one of those manly chocolate bars you really like?”
“Um, not really. I mean, maybe. How do you know me?” I said.
“It’s my job. I know a lot about you. I know, for example, that you once tried one of BMG’s buy-one-get-eight free CD deals. Which reminds me: I’ll bet you want to buy the new Radiohead CD for half price. Rolling Stone called it, ‘excellent.’”
He held a copy forward and smiled nicely. The billboards on his back transformed from an image of a candy bar to a picture of the Radiohead album cover.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your friend. I’m here to let you know about all the fun you could be having. I help people find what they want. I also like girls who wear Abercrombie and Fitch.”
He smiled again.
“Sounds like you’re a product pusher.” I said suspiciously.
“I prefer to see myself as a story-teller, like Dickens, or Homer, or even Jesus.” He paused, then told me, “I encourage people to live their dreams, and then I show them how simply they can attain these dreams by going to the store. People like my stories.”
“You’re not like Jesus!” I exclaimed ridiculously. I wondered why I was talking to an advertisement.
“No, you’re right. I’m much more exciting. Unlike Him, I fill otherwise drab public spaces with stimulating pictures and thoughts. I sponsor free giveaways and sporting events. I even provide you with free entertainment on the TV and in the newspaper.”
He was a good salesman.
He continued, “And, after all, isn’t life boring when you’re happy with what you already have?”
I paused and thought about all the ways advertising had improved my life.
“So, do you want this CD?” he prodded. “I have friends who say it changed their lives.”
“Wait,” I said, still thinking about story-telling. “Maybe city bus rides are cheaper because of you, but you also play on our emotions and stir our insecurities to create needs.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Like,” I continued, “You make people work 60 hour weeks at jobs they don’t like just so they can pay for a luxury car.”
He nodded thoughtfully, as if he had heard what I had said before.
“Here’s a better way of looking at it: I help people satisfy needs they previously didn’t even know about.” He enunciated the last few words with confident enthusiasm. “People are living with luxuries they wouldn’t even have dreamed of without me.”
“But do you think we’re all better off once we find these needs?” I asked.
“Isn’t it self-apparent?” he gasped, “Humanity is enjoying its blissful self-actualization! I mean, we’re beyond satisfying merely our basic material needs. Only now have we been able to spend so much time on higher pursuits, like working on computers, or driving cars.” As he spoke, his Nike swoosh mohawk shook enchantingly.
“I thought we were destroying our habitat and making ourselves miserable at the same time.”
“Well, I suggest you reconsider that opinion,” he said brusquely. Then he tried another pitch, “Surely, you’d at least agree that we help each other by buying more things.”
He looked at me dramatically. “Yes, if we weren’t always wanting more things, the economy wouldn’t grow fast enough, and there wouldn’t be enough jobs. Indeed, without ad guys like me, society would fall apart.”
“So you’re just doing your duty as a citizen?” I said, catching on.
“Precisely. And you would be too if you only bought this CD today!”
“No. That can’t be right.” I resisted, “There’s got to be a better way.”
“Not really. Unless you’re willing to talk about some pretty revolutionary things. . .” he tapered off. “So! Do you want this CD or not?”
I checked my pockets, pretended they were empty, and shook my head sadly. “Sorry,” I replied.
“All ri-ight, but don’t blame me when the economy falls apart.”
Bewildered, I finished biking to hum bio section.
Peter Stair is a junior human ecology major. If you dare him, he is willing to be the first person he knows of to write a column without declarative, imperative and exclamatory sentences.
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