I must protest. Ms. Paglia actually admitted biology was real in Sexual Personae, which got her a whole bunch of enemies.
That said, there is one bit of the equation that is, I think, comprehensible by the layman.
The uncertainty determined by Planck’s constant is based on h-hat, which is… 1.054571817...×10−34 J⋅s. That’s right, you can’t know momentum and position to a product of less than, 1.054571817...×10−34 J⋅s.
Which is roughly .01 but with 33 zeroes in front of the 1.
So yeah, you can know things to a pretty reasonable approximation for any real-world level you would care about.
How technical you want me to get? Include mathematical equations giving proof I can’t conjure up Sydney Sweeney’s boobs on command?
Or a more thoughtful, yet technical elucidation of the quantum mechanical observer effect and how it bears no relation to post-modern thought in the humanities? This could get supremely tedious. Just saying. It’s like paint drying type writing.
I mean the proof for ‘they are wrong’ is simple: use the scientific method in a lab setting and prove or falsfiy their assertions. If neither can be done, it’s a scientific certainty that they made all that shit up.
(I think I want to collect these stories. I get the feeling that enough of us compile our stories, those of us who encountered this bilge in the 90s, and add a scientific spine, maybe we can figure out what the fuck happened.
To be read while listening to the Beastie Boys, Sabotage, at full tilt.
I can tell you precisely what happened.
First po-mo was out of step with the mainstream but like a good pair of torn jeans, in fashionable poor-taste. It had the frisson of transgression.
Soon po-mo’s over-reliance on the ‘observer effect’ eviscerated rigorous analysis and promoted what I call “la pose de Sarte.”
When you can justify anything based on a dubious interpretation of science and the consistent stimulation of quasi-erotic late teenage existential angst students flock to your mediocre lectures and eat up your half-baked but dangerously sexy contrarian theories on race, gender, ass-wiping and reach arounds. Not to mention commentary on the salutary nature of dry balls. Yes, testes. No one except le poseur likes dry balls.
Administrators take note and you get grants. Whoa, this grift is working?
Nicely done, Waldo.
Now you’re rollling. You’re wearing Zegna shoes and hand-woven Irish turtlenecks. Undergrad coeds hop in and out of your bed like Mae West on meth.
Soon you get published in peer reviewed journals by overworked and underpaid peers who just don’t give two fucks because univeristy administrators have proliferated while tenured jobs have declined in nominal and real terms.
Sports soon gobble up what is left of the academic budget. So, universities start hiring half-assed adjunct professors and pay them, what are, in effect, slave wages.
And still, you strike le pose, claiming your bullshit truth is equally as true as 2+2=4, when in actuality your theory is the the square root of wildebeest horns multiplied by baboon asses and divided by the Pyramid of Giza plus the Sphinx, um, I mean the dean’s sphincter, not his anus, the other one, cf. human anatomy.
Making any sense yet?
But not one iota of your nonsense theorizing is scientifically provable or falsifiable. It’s bunkum. Whole clothe nonsense.
But you’ve got tenure so why do you give a fuck?
Meanwhile the kids get stupider and simultaneously more arrogant as they adopt le pose.
I took a second year grad seminar on the history of human sexuality when I was getting my masters. All we did was discuss Foucault, of fucking course, the observer effect on sexual identity—guess what: it’s a social construct. Kill me.
And the professor attacked the biological focus of traditonal theories of sexuality, even the neo-Marxists. The neo-Marxists! The most catholic (not religion, but the term meaning universal, look it up) and open Continental thinkers on sexuality!
Crucify me.
But yeah, I can oblige Ma’am. On this one I can excel. I wrote my research paper on the Greek poet Cavafy and his underage catamite.
Good times.
My conclusions flew in the face of everything he tried to teach us.
But he was ultimately one of those rare instructors who enjoyed being challenged.
Still, the course was a shit show of moral absurdity.
Can do without boob shots gratuitous or otherwise. My reaction to Derida c1970, something about telephone books, was 'rubbish'. Not sure if that's the observer effect or not.
No, that is not the observer effect. That is what Derrida called the rejection of common sense and the futility of objective interpretations (known as ‘Deconstruction’).
I must protest. Ms. Paglia actually admitted biology was real in Sexual Personae, which got her a whole bunch of enemies.
That said, there is one bit of the equation that is, I think, comprehensible by the layman.
The uncertainty determined by Planck’s constant is based on h-hat, which is… 1.054571817...×10−34 J⋅s. That’s right, you can’t know momentum and position to a product of less than, 1.054571817...×10−34 J⋅s.
Which is roughly .01 but with 33 zeroes in front of the 1.
So yeah, you can know things to a pretty reasonable approximation for any real-world level you would care about.
Oh wow! Someone actually DID understand my essay about the English “professor”!
Understand? I ived that shit!
I kind of want a part II with even more of a technical explanation of why they are wrong.
How technical you want me to get? Include mathematical equations giving proof I can’t conjure up Sydney Sweeney’s boobs on command?
Or a more thoughtful, yet technical elucidation of the quantum mechanical observer effect and how it bears no relation to post-modern thought in the humanities? This could get supremely tedious. Just saying. It’s like paint drying type writing.
I mean the proof for ‘they are wrong’ is simple: use the scientific method in a lab setting and prove or falsfiy their assertions. If neither can be done, it’s a scientific certainty that they made all that shit up.
I’ll give it a stab if you so want.
You make the call, Ma’am!
(I think I want to collect these stories. I get the feeling that enough of us compile our stories, those of us who encountered this bilge in the 90s, and add a scientific spine, maybe we can figure out what the fuck happened.
To be read while listening to the Beastie Boys, Sabotage, at full tilt.
I can tell you precisely what happened.
First po-mo was out of step with the mainstream but like a good pair of torn jeans, in fashionable poor-taste. It had the frisson of transgression.
Soon po-mo’s over-reliance on the ‘observer effect’ eviscerated rigorous analysis and promoted what I call “la pose de Sarte.”
When you can justify anything based on a dubious interpretation of science and the consistent stimulation of quasi-erotic late teenage existential angst students flock to your mediocre lectures and eat up your half-baked but dangerously sexy contrarian theories on race, gender, ass-wiping and reach arounds. Not to mention commentary on the salutary nature of dry balls. Yes, testes. No one except le poseur likes dry balls.
Administrators take note and you get grants. Whoa, this grift is working?
Nicely done, Waldo.
Now you’re rollling. You’re wearing Zegna shoes and hand-woven Irish turtlenecks. Undergrad coeds hop in and out of your bed like Mae West on meth.
Soon you get published in peer reviewed journals by overworked and underpaid peers who just don’t give two fucks because univeristy administrators have proliferated while tenured jobs have declined in nominal and real terms.
Sports soon gobble up what is left of the academic budget. So, universities start hiring half-assed adjunct professors and pay them, what are, in effect, slave wages.
And still, you strike le pose, claiming your bullshit truth is equally as true as 2+2=4, when in actuality your theory is the the square root of wildebeest horns multiplied by baboon asses and divided by the Pyramid of Giza plus the Sphinx, um, I mean the dean’s sphincter, not his anus, the other one, cf. human anatomy.
Making any sense yet?
But not one iota of your nonsense theorizing is scientifically provable or falsifiable. It’s bunkum. Whole clothe nonsense.
But you’ve got tenure so why do you give a fuck?
Meanwhile the kids get stupider and simultaneously more arrogant as they adopt le pose.
A vicious cycles ensues and here we are.
Are we clear, my dear?
Sounds like hell in academe
How about you wave it in with a story about a particular professor or other pomp douche? By “technical” I maybe meant gossip, but also technical.
I took a second year grad seminar on the history of human sexuality when I was getting my masters. All we did was discuss Foucault, of fucking course, the observer effect on sexual identity—guess what: it’s a social construct. Kill me.
And the professor attacked the biological focus of traditonal theories of sexuality, even the neo-Marxists. The neo-Marxists! The most catholic (not religion, but the term meaning universal, look it up) and open Continental thinkers on sexuality!
Crucify me.
But yeah, I can oblige Ma’am. On this one I can excel. I wrote my research paper on the Greek poet Cavafy and his underage catamite.
Good times.
My conclusions flew in the face of everything he tried to teach us.
But he was ultimately one of those rare instructors who enjoyed being challenged.
Still, the course was a shit show of moral absurdity.
Nice. I mean, not nice that it happened but it is an excellent example
That’s right, you’re around my age !
Can do without boob shots gratuitous or otherwise. My reaction to Derida c1970, something about telephone books, was 'rubbish'. Not sure if that's the observer effect or not.
No, that is not the observer effect. That is what Derrida called the rejection of common sense and the futility of objective interpretations (known as ‘Deconstruction’).
Sheer balderdash.