Category Archives: A Story

50th Entree: Who is Who

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Welcome back to the Philosophy Bistro!

If my count is correct, this is the 50th of the official Entrées….

Technically, this is the 156th. There were also 32 recipes,Pierce new - Copy
16 very thought-provoking articles by Brando,
12 audio-files (pardon the pun), 5 or 6 by Wode, one by Anno,
8 reruns, and then all the jokes & cartoons……

Thank you, Peirce.
As I was saying, this is the 50th of the official Entrées produced at Robert’s Philosophy Bistro. Before heading into the next 50, I thought I would take some time for basic introductions.

Robert’s Philosophy Bistro is a clean, comfortably lighted place to enjoy fine food, fine drink, good company and good conversation. In addition to our food specials, there are weekly special entrées which are ideas: ideas we hope amuse or prompt your ideas, or which can be taken home, pondered over, adapted and served new–like the weekly recipes. Most of these are philosophical in nature, but our notion of philosophy is rather broad.

Our bistro is mostly imaginary, but is currently located at 241 East Main Street in Johnson City, Tennessee; if you have suggestions for relocating, we are always up for a road-trip. Like most restaurants, it is a non-profit generating community group that would love to actually generate income. If you have any ideas (or any money) feel free to offer suggestions (or donations).

If you cannot afford a donation, please leave a question. I mean that. I try to answer any of the interesting questions I can get, and tend to run low on new ideas from time to time.

If you cannot afford a question, help yourself to one of ours. We have plenty.

Please also let us know who you are by leaving a not in our Guest Book.
Hello Questions

The cast of characters is a fluctuating group of ragamuffins, ne’er-do-wells, pirates and characters, all with colorful personalities and back-stories–the same as most restaurant kitchens. Our food is phenomenal–although we will serve noumenal take-away–and a good deal of the staff is phenomenological.

As of this writing they include the following:

I am your host, Dr Bear.
Nominally, I am in charge, as well as serving as maître d’hôtel, Master of Ceremonies, menu planner, and, of course, referee. By nature I am a gentleman, a philosopher and a raconteur, but occasionally I am also practical. Over the course of the last year, I have discovered I am also a bit of an idealist, and much more optimistic than I anticipated. I may be fictional, but bear a strong resemblance to at least one non-fictional person.

This is not accidental.

gravity 2

 

Dr Bear tends to say things like this:

color why not

The Universe

 

 

Small Arms 005
In case you were wondering: yes, I really am a doctor. Years ago I earned a PhD, and my areas of research were originally German Enlightenment Philosophy and its critics, and then Social Practices & Cross-cultural understanding. May I bring you some more bread?
Wode Toad is the chef.WT-black-white-blue2.jpg
It is also quite possible that he really is in charge. He is as complex, as mysterious, and as dangerous as a Sriracha Haggis. If forced to suffer fools, he will be sure to return the suffering with interest. His cooking is even faster than his wit, which is saying something. He is a classics scholar with a knack for high stakes investments, so he cooks here and advises us on whiskeys.
He serves as the pessimistic, direct, and occasionally nihilistic counter-weight to Dr Bear’s optimism and courtesy.

WT-killng-time

 

He says things like:

WT_hemi

coffeemarriage equality
Wode & Courbet 
Lately, Wode has also disappeared, and I haven’t seen him for a week or so.
Mousy-Icon.jpg
He said something about travelling; he also talked about warmer places.

 

Probably back to Mexico or South Africa, then. If he was going back to Argentina, he would have told Peirce, and, of course, he cannot go back to Eastern Asia, or even Oceana, because of “the incident.”

Brando cautiously optimisticNext is Brando, the sous-chef.
Like Dr Bear, he is an underemployed philosopher and social theorist. He is down to earth but full of whimsy, continental but a Kentucky gentleman, very smart but very kind. The name of the Bistro was his idea. He writes wonderful entrées under his own byline. Although Dr Bear and he try to insert formal philosophy when they can, life seems to intervene.
He seems to be involved in a long-term experiment that consists in raising two lovely young girls, but then again, they might be involved in an experiment that consists in raising him. We hope it is the former, since the chances of the girls turning out OK is substantially more promising.
He is currently on a sabbatical from the Bistro, devoting more time to the girls, and writing a novel.French Food

 

 

Brando says things like:

 

 

 

TheologyC-Rap

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since I am currently two staff members short, the shinobi has stepped up to the plate to fill the gap. I haven’t really seen much of her (Mousy occasionally likes to sneak up on her, offer her pastry & chat with her), but she is fast and hard-working, and she never complains.

Pierce faing rightPeirce is the dishwasher, although he has also had to step up and step into the kitchen. He is a proud citizen of the United Kingdom, being from one of its territories. There are bits of the war with Argentina he would prefer to forget, but he seems happy enough with his work and his library.  He is a voracious and omnivorous reader reading almost everything he can get his hands on, and will write book reviews for us if I can get him to stop reading.
I once ask a friend who is a Café manager if I would get into trouble having a penguin living in my walk-in cooler, but as I was saying it, I realized how ridiculous it sounded, and how illegal our kitchen is anyway.
Peirce says things like:Bookster

bookster geekThe newest member of our staff is our pastry cook and baker, Anno Mouse.
Mousy Full  He goes by Mousy. He is probably the quietest of the Bistro staff, but this doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t have anything to say. Mousy is the introvert at the Wonderland Tea Party that is our kitchen. Mousy is more of a dreamer, and inclined to listen to others when they need to be listened to, and to believe the best of all creatures. He is a hopeless romantic, and cripplingly sentimental. He tends to read fantasy, and is more interested in psychology than in philosophy.

He does have a temper for bullies, and for people who would take away rights, animal or other.Silence

 

Mousy tends to say things like: 

 

 

 

Sarcasm

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alex

 

On occasion, we have a our fantasy IT person Alex drop by, but even in fantasy’s it is hard to schedule somebody to work on your computer.

 

All of us here at the Bistro believe in food and good, wide-ranging conversations, and we hope our readers & guests do to. I would like to say we believe in each other as well, but there is a rumor that at least one of us is fictional.

Of course, there is also a rumor that the bistro itself does not exist.
If it didn’t, would you be here?

Would that make the rest of us dis-fictional?

Drop by again, anytime.

1010signature rules

 

 

.PS:  Visit us on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/PhilosophyBistro, or e-mail us at DrBear@philosophybistro.com. being right

 

….and remember the Dr Bear motto:

 

Good Night, Pete Seeger 1919-2014

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Until I had an infant daughter who didn’t mind it if I sang, I wasn’t aware of just how many folk songs I knew. As I sang them, I became aware of how the songs of Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, and their friends had influenced what I believed and what I valued. Leonard Cohan once talked about how growing up a Marxist made him believe that music would bring the revolution; Pete Seeger believed that his music came from America, grew out of America, and would help show America its best self.
Although I consider Pete’s songs to be some of America’s greatest cultural contributions, he was much more proud of his ability to get people singing, and singing together.
One could have worse legacies.
Pete Seeger PS: My daughter, my parents, & I still sing, Mr. Seeger; anybody can.

 

Alea Iacta Est

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Thanks to Wode Toad for his help with the classical Wode_on_sidewalk_after_closehistory & the Latin. This is one of those times when his work in the classical department at St Andrews comes in handy.

He seems to be restless and pre-occupied, though, of late, and talks of travelling).

In the winter of 49 BC, the Roman General Gaius Julius Caesar had decisions to make. He was camped on the edge of the icy Alps, looking south, across the river.
He had established a strong political base in Rome, then had become governor of the vercingetorix-jules-cesarvarious Roman provinces bordering the tribes in Gaul. The Gauls were the various Celtic Tribes who lived in what is now France, as well as parts of Switzerland and Germany (the Gauls in Galatia–in the Balkans–had been subdued by the Romans earlier). He countered a move by one tribe–the Helvetii–and through a series of quick and effective military maneuvers established control over all of Gaul (Omnia Gallia). The crown of this military campaign was the surrender of the Chieftain Vercingetorix on October 3rd in 51 BC.
Caesar, aware of the importance of media, wrote dispatches back to Rome detailing his campaign and his soldiers’ achievements. The work is in a simple andjules-cesar clear Latin prose, yet reads well–Gaius Julius Caesar is a vivid Storyteller, and his History of the Gallic Wars was popular at the time and made him a popular hero (It is still read; Wode remembers scrumping his uncle’s copy as a tad and following the military campaigns). As an encore, Caesar invaded Britain.
However, back in the senate–the body that ruled the Roman Republic–Caesar’s political power had begun to erode. Although Caesar had power (and troops) on the frontier in Gaul, Rome was controlled by supporters of his main rival–Pompey (Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus).
Julius Caesar was commanded by the Roman Senate to vacate his post and return to Rome.

The rule was that general could only lead troops–or even carry his own weapons–outside of the boundaries of the state of Rome itself, the northern boundary of which was the Rubicon river. To come armed beyond this point was an act of treason against the Republic of Rome, and a capital offense.
However, approaching Rome unarmed and alone left Caesar at the mercy of his accusers.
As the Roman historian Plutarch puts it:
“Caesar vaticanWhen he came to the river Rubicon, which parts Gaul within the Alps from the rest of Italy, his thoughts began to work, now he was just entering upon the danger, and he wavered much in his mind, when he considered the greatness of the enterprise into which he was throwing himself. He checked his course, and ordered a halt, while he revolved with himself, and often changed his opinion one way and the other, without speaking a word. This was when his purposes fluctuated most; presently he also discussed the matter with his friends who were about him, (of which number Asinius Pollio was one,) computing how many calamities his passing that river would bring upon mankind, and what a relation of it would be transmitted to posterity.”

So there he is.
At the edge of a river, just out of the Alps, in the ice of January, he is hesitating. 400 horsemen and 5000 legionnaires are waiting for his choice, all of Rome is waiting for his choice. A life of forced retirement is facing him if he goes on unarmed, and either death and humiliation or survival rises before him if he takes his army across the river.
He waits, wavering, hesitating, shivering, trying to decide.

Suddenly, he makes up his mind.
He stands up.
He looks south, across the river, and says:
“alea iacta est“–“the die is cast.”
He leads his troops across the river, into Rome, and into history.

Decisions are unavoidable.
Usually, the choices are all a mixed bag, but to not make them is the worst of all.
Julius Caesar was victorious, but his victory would lead to his death 2 years later (and the end of the Republic). To decide is to cast the dice irrevocably, to take a step into the icy waters of the Rubicon.
To live heroically is to accept the responsibility, to embrace the possibility of defeat, but to march on.
Life is uncertain

Creativity

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As a child, I lived in a great big gray apartment building.
Ulmenweg 4It wasn’t one of those terribly drab Warsaw-Pact Blocks, or one of the horrifying projects in North America, but it was a 1972 apartment building–16 floors, 6 apartment a floor, and the outside mostly slate concrete and river pebble accents.
Inside, the walls were a chalky white paint with a matte finish.
The floors were mostly industrial gray linoleum tile, except for the parquet floor in the living room and the white tile in the bathroom.

My mother found it oppressive.
The unbroken gray floors and brilliant white walls glared at us all cold and sterile. Die erde dreht sichWall after wall, down the hall, the same chalky white.
My mother complained about it–not a lot, but we were in no doubt how she felt about it.
In the living room and bedrooms, she covered the floors with throw-rugs, and hung pictures and posters, but down the hall, the chalky cold white walls resisted any warm color and stubbornly refused to make the place a home.

With some mothers, there would have just been a lot of complaining; my mother bought 4 cans of paint: brown, green, red, and a little black.
As I watched on in disbelief, she walked up to the front hallway, and painted the brown trunk, green leaves, and red apples of an apple tree–outlining and shading a bit with the black.
I stared.
Mom's Apple TreeShe would have hung hooks in the branches for our coats, but the concrete under the white paint proved too hard to drill.

This whole thing

blew       my        mind.

It had never occurred to me that a grown-up would solve a problem by just going out and doing something crazy like this. Splashing paint on the wall! It amazed me–facing a problem down and responding by drawing a mural!
Kids my age were pretty whiney, and unimaginative, and pretty much accepted the world as it was, but here was an adult, facing something that drove her nuts head on, and attacking it with craziness and creativity.

This sort of thing is actually pretty typical of my mom.
She faces a problem, complains about it a little (sometimes a lot), then she tries to come up with a solution that is creative and constructive. Although she is occasionally let down, my mom believes that most problems can be solved with prayer, kindness, hard work, and creativity.

That may be naïve, but I still find it amazing.
1010signature rules

Exuberance

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Christmas was one of those times it was wonderful to be growing up in Germany.
Everywhere, there was Christmas. I would walk home in the snow, and pausing to look up and see a sky full of stars as the church bells all rang the hour. We would sled down the half mile of the Osterberg. I would walk downtown to the Christmas market at the town square, with all the merchants with brightly colored umbrellas over their stalls and tables, picking my way through the apples and oranges and nuts, through the tables of hand-carved wooden toys, though the beautiful ornaments, and all the while, the air was filled with the smell of gingerbread, and of crepes, but most of all, the smell of candied almonds being made in a big barrel.

One year, our youth sponsors took us on a hike the week before Christmas. It was a long hike, thorough the woods. As the afternoon wore on, it got darker and darker, and we walked closer and closer to each other. We were in a thick pine forest, and beyond our flashlights, there was almost no light—that is why they call it the Black Forest.
It began to snow, coming down quickly in huge white flakes, and coating the ground ahead of us. The line tightened even more, and the littler children walked in the footprints of the larger kids. The snow began coming down even harder, so that one could barely see the dark shadows of the trees before and behind us, and covering our footprints behind us. It was now pitch black, covered over with a flurry cloud of white.

Suddenly, we stumbled into a clearing.

In the middle of the clearing was a pine tree covered from top to bottom with burning candles. The dazzling light turned the dark world we were in into a blinding white sphere. As each heavy snowflake would drift into view, it would suddenly shine. It remains one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and one of the most extravagant. There was also a candle-lit table with hot cocoa and Christmas cookies, and we warmed up and ate and sang songs, all the while staring at the beautiful tree covered with dozens and dozens of burning candles. In the middle of the chaos and darkness of the forest, a wonderful, dazzling bit of light had been planted. It served no purpose, but it defied the cold dreariness of winter, and, by its exuberance, turned it dazzling white.

Courage

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Anybody who knows me knows that I have a tendency to lose things—notes, books, pens, spectacles, kidneys, my left hand, etc. Once I almost lost my brother.

It happened like this:
James & I were out for a long walk in the woods a mile or so from the apartment we lived in. I admit, I was a little unhappy to have my brother tagging along, and was wishing I were with cooler friends, but there it was. We were late getting home (again, anybody who knows me knows that I am almost always late; I have a fairly good sense of time, but choose to ignore it). We were late, and I was worried about getting into trouble, so we took a short-cut.
There was a huge construction site near our house, and by cutting across it (I love a good steeple chase, always have) I felt we could make better time. It was probably to be a new apartment building—20 stories or so, so they had dug a good basement/foundation, and left a pile of dirt. The pile of dirt was about a story and a half tall, and maybe a block wide—in the Midwest, this would qualify as a mountain.  We began to climb,
…and climb,
…and climb.

At the top, there was a huge plateau of dirt, stretching as far as I could see; I couldn’t even see the 16 story building we lived in, just a world of dirt. It had been raining for a few days, so it was muddy, and we sunk in as we walked, but I had the confidence of an 11-year-old who lives life as a disinherited nobleman, so I wasn’t worried.
Maybe a little worried about what my Mom would say, but not terribly worried.

We started across the mud, two small explorers alone in a wasteland.

About half way through, we encountered a big patch of clay, and James began to sink. You sink a little bit in mud, but clay pulls you down like quicksand, and holds you tight.
He sank, and started to yell.
I told him to keep very, very still, otherwise he would sink deeper.
He kept still, but started to cry.
He was chest deep in vicious clay, still sinking, and I had no firm footing to pull him out.
These were some of the most terrifying minutes I have ever spent.

Talking to him, trying to calm him, I worked my way to where he was stuck. He looked at me with his watery pale blue eyes, panicked, but absolutely convinced that I would take care of him. I wish I had been as sure.

I only knew that the thought of losing him was more than I could bear.

Gradually—I am not entirely sure how—I worked him out of that hole he was sinking into. All of him except one shoe, which I couldn’t recover.
We slogged home in silence, and were in big trouble; we were late, we were covered head to toe in mud, and he was missing one shoe.

I have a retarded brother.
I realize that anyone who has a brother has thought that at some time, but my brother has Down Syndrome. It is a genetic disorder—one of those failed meiosis things—meaning he has an extra 21st chromosome. This leads to a variety of developmental delays and physical differences. He can communicate English, German and ASL, and, when he isn’t cranky and mule-headed, has an amazing level of empathy, but he does have cognitive and social limitations. As his younger brother (he loves to remind me he is the older one and the good-looking one; my sister is incredibly smart, that left me as the creative, eccentric one), this was generally difficult.

Let me make perfectly clear that I do not like the word retarded, and I hate hearing it used as a pejorative.

Until I started High School, we had never been in the same school. If any of you remember the High School Cafeteria, you will remember that there are rigid social divisions—who can sit with whom, who the cool or popular kids are, which are the pariahs. You might remember the nerdy or geek tables as being the outcasts—the freaks—but there was always one table that was even lower on the scale: The Special Education Table. In those days, the Special Education kids were kept far way—often in a trailer—but invisible, except in the cafeteria. Each day, I would see him there with his buddies, and each day, I would turn my face, afraid to be shamed by being associated with “them.”

This was terrible.
I was wracked with guilt for weeks.
Each day I resolved I would say Hi, and each day I would chicken out, and them kick myself for my cowardice. “He’s your brother! How can you disown him?!?” However, each time I walked by, I turned away, afraid of what my friends might say. I thought about it constantly,  lay awake at night brooding on it, prayed about it, worked it through, but I felt so awful.

Finally, after a month or so, I worked up the courage, and, as I walked by, in a little timid voice, I said: “Hi, Jimmy.”

He stared at me with those blue eyes.
Terror and shame played across them.
He turned away, and covered his face, hoping his friends hadn’t noticed that this “freshman,” this geeky kid with glasses and braces and a voice that cracked had talked to him.

I laughed.

After that, each day I made it a point to stop, and in as loud a voice as I could to yell: “Hey, Jim-bo!”

That’s what brothers do.

PS: He turns 52 next Saturday. If you want to send him a card, send a message, and I’ll send you his address. He loves to have a fuss made over him (who doesn’t?)

1205signature courage