“Did you know the happiest [...]]]> I received an e-mail today from Patty Gras at KUHT (Houston PBS). She’s a producer and the host of a “health and lifestyle” show called Living Smart. The show features topics related to health, alternative medicine, diet, self-improvement, and so forth. Here’s what she has to say about an upcoming show:

“Did you know the happiest man on the planet is a Buddhist monk? Scientists checked his brain waves and found him to be the most joyful person on earth, so we decided to talk to another monk, Master Jian Xiao Shih, so he could share some of the secrets to happiness!

“Master Shih of the Chung Tai Zen center of Houston will share the art of happiness this Sunday at 3 p.m.”

Now, let me start off by saying that I like Patty Gras. She’s a talented singer—I used to enjoy going to hear her group Barandúa, which played music in a variety of Latin American folk styles, and I’ve also heard her perform with a group called Quartus and as part of a duo. She seems smart, cool, liberal, and keen on social-justice issues that I care about. But sometimes her show ventures too far into the area that I like to call “woowoo,” and the promo above is a prime example.

Let’s take a look at the claim she makes in this e-mail message. “The happiest man on the planet is a Buddhist monk.” Hm. Right off the bat, my hyperbole detector is registering dangerous readings. The happiest man in the world? By what measure? I want to ask. And then she’s right there with an explanation: “Scientists checked his brain waves and found him to be the most joyful person on earth.”

Wow. There’s a lot of information in that statement. If this is true, it’s big science news that hasn’t made it into any of the science blogs or magazines I’ve been reading. Have scientists really found a way to use brain waves to detect joy? Is happiness an emotion that can be measured by bioelectric activity? I am inclined toward skepticism, but I’m entirely willing to believe that this assertion is based on research about which I’ve never read. (I’ll get to googling at my earliest opportunity.)

But my skepticism rises to an irresistible level when I get to “…and found him to be the most joyful person on earth.” Even if I accept as a given that scientists have found a way to measure happiness, is she asking us to believe that they’ve found a way to measure brain waves remotely for everyone on the planet? I, for one, have not had my happiness brain waves measured yet. At least not that I know of.

Is this merely careless language? Or is it careless thinking? I almost hope it’s just a poor representation of an inexact understanding of some real findings of some real scientific research. But how can an intelligent person put forward an assertion that’s so ridiculous on its face? How much credulity can one successful professional broadcaster possess?

I worry, though, that there’s something worse going on here, which is a disturbing disregard for the very nature of science. Science is about evidence—about observation, experimentation, and the testing of hypotheses. And although I don’t mean to suggest that everyone should be expected to test and verify any claim that’s presented as having a scientific basis, I believe that intelligent people—especially intelligent people who make it their business to communicate with the public about important issues—have an obligation to apply a measure of skepticism to such claims. In other words, if you’re planning to go on television and say, “Scientists have proven this thing I’m telling you about,” then you have a responsibility to find out exactly what the scientists had to say, and then to present it to the public in a way that honestly represents the science involved.

In fact, let’s make it a rule. Why not? We have FCC regulations governing decency and obscenity, why shouldn’t we have one simple rule about scientific truth: If you make a claim on television or the radio and you invoke the name of science, you should be required by law to cite your sources and provide an honest statement of what the research proves.

And if it turns out that there’s no real science behind the claims, then journalists with integrity have a responsibility to present that information, too. Or come clean and say, “I just like the idea that this Buddhist monk is the happiest person on the planet.”

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I found this nugget of wisdom on an unassuming, hand-lettered wooden plaque in the restroom at Antidote Coffee (729 Studewood St, Houston). It’s a refreshing change from the standard-issue health department signs that [...]]]> If I’m going to poke fun at goofy signs, it’s only fair that I applaud the ones I like:

Everyone should wash their hands

Employees must

I found this nugget of wisdom on an unassuming, hand-lettered wooden plaque in the restroom at Antidote Coffee (729 Studewood St, Houston). It’s a refreshing change from the standard-issue health department signs that you see all over the place. I like the reasonable tone, the gentle admonishment that could be spoken by your grandmother, or maybe a patient nursery-school teacher.

“We want you to wash your hands because we care about you,” it seems to say. “Oh, and if you work in the kitchen, we really must insist. Thanks for being so understanding. Have a great day!”

I’d finally gotten around to doing one of the most heinous tasks on the to-do list I call “Noxious But Necessary”: I had written a letter to the Houston Police Department’s red-light camera enforcement unit to explain why I should not be held responsible for running a [...]]]> I had to go to the post office yesterday.

I’d finally gotten around to doing one of the most heinous tasks on the to-do list I call “Noxious But Necessary”: I had written a letter to the Houston Police Department’s red-light camera enforcement unit to explain why I should not be held responsible for running a red light that I didn’t run. I printed and signed the letter, made copies of the letter and original citation, enclosed the exculpatory photos of my actual car with its actual license plate, and packed everything neatly in a 6-1/2 x 9-1/2 envelope. (Everything looks more reasonable, law-abiding, and forthright in a 6-1/2 x 9-1/2 envelope, don’t you agree?)

Unfortunately, my sister, though not usually given to conspiracy theories, had planted a sinister thought in my head. She said, “You should send it certified, because otherwise they’ll claim they never got it.” I had been perfectly ready to trust the post office and the HPD to sort out this minor miscarriage of justice until she said that. Sigh. Now I was going to have to go to the post office. And not just to the harmless outer precincts where my P.O. box is, but to the service counter.

I usually try to cluster together all the different mailing-related tasks that accumulate over a year or two before I schedule a trip to the post office. My roommate had a CD that needed to go to his sister in Michigan, which at least brought me up to two birds to kill with this particular stone, so I sucked it up and headed to the Heights Finance Station post office. I retrieved the contents of my box on the way in to give me something to do in line. Among my bills and junk was a letter addressed to Rotten Mary’s Bikes. (No, Rotten Mary is not one of my pseudonyms.)*

The queue was manageable. It looked like about a 20-minute wait—nothing I couldn’t handle. After I glanced through my bills and junk mail, I amused myself by looking at the festive hairdos of the counter personnel and studying the array of mass-produced and handmade signs scattered around the service counter area. This one, copies of which were taped on four of the five glass display cases on the front of the counter, caught my eye:

               NO CELL
               PHONES
               USED IN
               LOBBY
 

My first thought was, “Hm. Interesting way to word that.” Then, since I had lots of time on my hands, I started contemplating the production values of the sign and the specific language choices that the writer of this sign had made. The sign was laser-printed on 8-1/2 x 11 yellow copier paper in about 120-point Times New Roman. The line breaks, punctuation, and capitalization scheme were as you see above.

I considered other ways to express the sentiment of this sign. Perhaps what the writer meant to say was, “The use of cell phones if prohibited in the lobby.” Unnecessarily stern, I think. Maybe “Cell phones are not to be used in the lobby.” Better, but still irritatingly passive. I would also like to get a sense that the writer has a rationale for this diktat, so perhaps I might have suggested, “As a courtesy to your fellow patrons, please refrain from using cell phones in the lobby.” Would postal employees use the word refrain? Would the average postal patron understand it? How about a plain and simple “Please don’t use your cell phone in the lobby”? Yeah, that might work.

I wondered what the choice of words said about the writer. “No cell phones used in lobby.” Is the writer saying, in essence, “In a perfect world, no cell phones are used in the lobby, and since the Supervisor asked me to make the sign, I will embed my utopian vision of the lobby in this sign”? Is it just me, or is there an Orwellian starkness to this simple statement that smacks a little of “Some animals are more equal than others”?

Maybe I was reading too much into it.

Before I’d had time to finish parsing all the nuances of this alarmingly content-rich edict, I found myself at the front of the line, and my reverie was interrupted by a forty-something African American woman in regulation blue synthetic slacks and a splashy orange-and-gold silk blouse who had appeared in the lobby from out of nowhere.

“What services do you need today?” she asked. It took me a moment to realize she was addressing me.

“I’m sorry?”

“What services do you need?” She pointed toward the wad of envelopes I was clutching.

“Oh, yes—I need to send this one certified, I think.” I shuffled the stack in search of the red-light letter.

“Are all of those going to be certified?”

“No, just this one. This other one is going regular first-class, and this one here was in my box, but it isn’t for me.”

“Isn’t or IS NOT?” she asked.

“It ISN’T for me,” I said by way of clarification. There wasn’t time for it to dawn on me that she had asked me a “no or no” question.

“Isn’t! What kind of English is that? ‘This one was in my box, but it IS NOT for me.’ You shouldn’t say isn’t.”

I imagine that my jaw dropped, but I’m not sure. I was at a loss for words for at least a few seconds.

“Buhhhh…buhhh…. But isn’t is a perfectly acceptable English contraction!” I retorted, with considerably less conviction than I might have liked.

“I’m sure your teacher taught you better than that. What would your teacher say?”

To which teacher was she referring? My early childhood education flashed before my eyes. I searched my memory in vain for a teacher who had had anything useful to say about the word isn’t. I floundered. I blushed. I said, “My teacher isn’t here!” (Where the hell did that come from?)

She was ready with a comeback, “Well, I’M here, and I’m the Supervisor!” It didn’t strike me until much later that she was slinging contractions right and left. I was frozen in my tracks. As she shoved a Certified Mail form into my hand, I stood there thinking, “I’ve just been lectured about my grammar by a civil servant. Good God, how will I ever live it down?” I had a fleeting thought about changing my name and starting life anew. At least I wouldn’t need to forward my mail.

Before I could think of a fresh way to re-enter the breach, she was gone, off to assist—or perhaps verbally abuse—the next patron.

“Next!” hollered a blue-polyester-clad woman with a fabulous coif. I tucked my tail between my legs and headed for the counter. While I was transacting my business, the Supervisor disappeared into the back office. I heard her say, “I’ll see you later” to one of her employees. I opened my mouth, but no words would come out.

*P.S.: I’ve changed my mind about revealing Rotten Mary’s identity.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

Today I had lunch with an old friend—an intelligent woman in her late thirties, the executive director of a thriving arts organization. We met at a vegan [...]]]> How open should an open mind be? What are the limits of tolerance and understanding, and what happens to those limits as our knowledge of the natural world grows?

Today I had lunch with an old friend—an intelligent woman in her late thirties, the executive director of a thriving arts organization. We met at a vegan Indian buffet. Since our last meeting had been at a vegetarian restaurant she’d picked, I asked her a few questions about her vegetarianism. She said she hadn’t eaten any meat or fish for 12 years. I admired her commitment. I told her that although I’m attracted to the environmental, social, and health benefits of vegetarianism, I enjoy eating a moderate amount of meat too much to make the complete change in eating habits.

Later, I asked what I thought was an innocent question: Is there anywhere in Houston where one can learn to practice meditation in an environment free of religious influences? I’ve been interested in exploring meditation for its supposed health benefits—lower blood pressure and stress-related hormones—and in hopes of gaining some relaxation, focus, and clarity of thought. I want to learn a few meditation practices from experts—people who’ve practiced and experimented and studied the methods and techniques they teach. But as an atheist with a scientific/naturalistic approach to knowledge and understanding, I’m not particularly interested in any particular mythology or theology or scriptural tradition in support of meditation.

To my surprise, without even asking me to give any further explanation for my question, my friend went on the attack. She accused me of closing my mind to the possibilities of what the religious meditative traditions have to teach me.

I said, “I don’t want to spend a lot of time studying ancient sacred texts.”

She answered, “How can any time spent learning be wasted time?”

I tried to say something to the effect that there are a million other things to learn that are more interesting to me than the mythologies of gods and goddesses and revered and sainted teachers. She sputtered something about the duality she sensed in me, and some other things I couldn’t quite make sense of.

She went on to suggest that my irreligiosity was the product, somehow, of my Catholic upbringing. She didn’t explain how Catholicism led to my secular humanist worldview, and I didn’t get a chance to ask. I was too busy trying to defend myself against the suggestion that wanting to learn a little something about meditation without having to endure religious teaching or preaching somehow signifies that I’ve closed my mind.

With astonishingly few words, she communicated that I was an unenlightened soul, the product of a twisted religious formation that I’d obvious failed to transcend, some kind of pragmatist asshole who couldn’t think of any learning except in terms of the specific benefit I might gain from it. I didn’t defend myself very effectively. But I think that my friend eventually sensed that she’d hurt my feelings, or insulted my intellect, or trampled on my worldview. (She’d managed to do all three.) As she paid for my lunch—it was her turn—she offered to ask around and see what suggestions she might be able to give me about the meditation question.

I drove home from lunch feeling browbeaten, trivialized, and ashamed of what an incompetent defender of my worldview I am. I tried to think of better ways I might have explained my request.

“Say, for example, we agree that the Roman Catholic Church offers some valid and useful moral teachings. But you’re a non-Catholic. Do you go to Mass every Sunday to try to find the two minutes of valid moral teachings mixed in with 48 minutes of rituals, incantations, readings from ancient scripture, and bake-sale announcements? Or do you find some experts who’ve distilled the best of Catholic moral teaching, and learn from them?”

Maybe she wouldn’t agree on the basic premise of that line of reasoning. Let’s try something else: “Imagine I go to a Zen center where they teach Zen Buddhist meditation. Suppose 50 percent of the lesson is practical instruction in meditation techniques, and 50 percent is teaching about the history of Buddhist spirituality, or the life of the Buddha, or other religious content associated with Zen Buddhism. Is it unreasonable for me not to want to waste half my time learning information that has no relevance to my worldview?”

Is my worldview inherently closed-minded? If I limit myself to knowledge of the world that can be understood and tested and verified by the scientific method, does that make me some kind of bigot?

I got to thinking about a podcast I listened to yesterday. The show was Point of Inquiry, the radio show and podcast of the Center for Inquiry, a secular-humanist think tank. The show explores issues related to pseudoscience, the paranormal, alternative medicine, atheism, secular humanism, nonbelief, and so forth. In this particular show, host D. J. Grothe was interviewing Dr. Joe Nickell, a research fellow of the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry (formerly the Center for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal). I love the committee’s work, which is reported in Skeptical Inquirer magazine. They investigate ghosts, UFO sightings, crop circles, Madonnas sighted in pieces of toast, and all sorts of other extraordinary claims.

Dr. Nickell was talking about his work, and about the notion of skeptical inquiry. He said that the most important thing is to keep an open mind. He said that we must be willing to do the work of skeptical inquiry, to look into the reality of any claim of the paranormal or supernatural, to study it with the tools of science, and to reach conclusions based upon the evidence we find. He criticized those who have already made up their mind: “There’s no such thing as ghosts. There’s no such thing as Bigfoot. There are no alien visitors.” He said that it’s important to test each claim individually.

I felt a [1000 words] little betrayed by his criticism of us unflinchingly skeptical folks. There I stood, accused of close-mindedness by someone whom I’d thought of as a staunch ally in the war against unreason! And then I ruminated on his argument some more, and I thought about what I take for granted. I take for granted that people who are doing work like his—applying science and reason to extraordinary claims—have my interests (and those of humanity as a whole) in mind. I assume—in recognition of his education, his stature in the field of paranormal investigation, the reputation of CSICOP and the Center for Inquiry—that I can trust him to do the investigating for me. My confidence in the scientific method as a way to obtain knowledge and my faith in people who have demonstrated over and over again that they are committed to the scientific worldview make it unnecessary for me to test every claim myself. If Joe Nickell has visited the house and determined that there’s no evidence that it’s haunted, I have “faith” that the house isn’t haunted.

And I can further extrapolate, from the enormous and convincing body of scientific knowledge on the subject, that no other houses are haunted either.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick