The Brothers Black

Manny K. Black and his brother and litter mate Max.  Their names honor two philosophers, one great, the other merely distinguished.

I transferred this one via Copy Image as opposed to Copy Image Address. Now if I am not mistaken, this one should ‘stick,’ i.e., remain on this WordPress site even if Ice Drive goes down or they throw me off.

The techno-details are interesting, but I’d really rather just write, write, and write some more.

Saturday Night at the Oldies: Cats

Loving Spoonful, Nashville Cats, 1966. They's playin' since they's babies.

Harry Chapin, Cat's in the Cradle. For you fathers out there. Bond with your son when he's five. Wait till he's 50 and he won't give you the time of day.

Harry Chapin was a major talent who died young.  Here is his great Taxi. We Boomers are damned lucky to have the greatest popular music soundtrack of any American generation. 

What Happened to Harry Chapin?

Tokens, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, 1961 

Bent Fabric, Alley Cat, 1962. Bent fabric can be said to have a kink  in it. Therefore,

Kinks, Phenomenal Cat

Norma Tanega, Walkin' My Cat Named 'Dog.' The queen of the one-hit wonders?

Mongo Santamaria, El Pussycat. If you remember this one, I'll buy you a pussyhat and a watermelon. While we have Mongo Santamaria cued up, here is his rather better-known Watermelon Man.

To be precise, it is not his  inasmuch as it was written by Herbie Hancock.

More cat songs next week.

Hurricane CATegories

Friday the 13th Cat Blogging!

In the foothills of the Superstition Mountains! Friday cat blogging is an ancient and  venerable tradition in the blogosphere. We pioneers of the 'sphere aim to keep it going. To hell with all you change-for-the-sake-of change 'progressives.'

I Ain't Superstitious, leastways no more than Howlin' Wolf, but two twin black tuxedo cats just crossed my path.  All dressed up with nowhere to go.  Nine lives and dressed to the nines. 

Stevie Ray Vaughan, Superstition.  Guitar solo starts at 3:03. 

And of course you've heard the story about Niels Bohr and the horseshoe over the door:

A friend was visiting in the home of Nobel Prize winner Niels Bohr, the famous atomic scientist.

As they were talking, the friend kept glancing at a horseshoe hanging over the door. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he demanded:

“Niels, it can’t possibly be that you, a brilliant scientist, believe that foolish horseshoe superstition! ? !”

“Of course not,” replied the scientist. “But I understand it’s lucky whether you believe in it or not.”

Cat in tie

Rise and Shine

I quit the bed of sloth at two this morning.  I slept in a bit. But I understand that not everyone prefers the monkish life. Kant arose at five. It's now 5:30 or so. Rise and shine with Manny!  Or at least with Boston.  If this '70s tune doesn't get you bangin' on all eight, you need a brain re-wire. 

And if this first post of the day is not yet meaty enough for you, there's more:

"The bed is a nest for a whole flock of illnesses." (Immanuel Kant, The Conflict of the Faculties, tr. Gregor, p. 183)

I read Kant and about Kant at an impressionable age, and it really is a pleasure plowing through his texts again as I have been doing recently. I suspect my early rising goes back to my having read, at age 20, that Kant was wont to retire at 10 pm and arise at 5 am.

Soon enough, however, I was out-Kanting Kant with a 4 am arisal from the nocturnal nest. And when I moved out here to the Zone, 4 became 2:30. (A Zone Man must make an early start especially on outdoor activities in the summer before Old Sol gets too uppity.)

2:30 became 2:00, the time the Trappist monks of Tom Merton's day got up. I don't know whether the Trappist regimen is as rigorous today as it was in the '40s and '50s, and I'm not sure I want to know given the ubiquity of decadence these days. But then 2:00 became 1:30 which is now my preferred time of arisal.  

I don't use an alarm clock. I have an alarm cat. Max, a husky tuxie, jumps over me as he did this morning, more for his benefit than for mine: he wants his treats.  He used to jump on my chest, but I cured him of that with a slap or two.

Cat and Man

From the journal of a cat man.

The cat is happy to reside within his limits: he does not aspire. He is incapable of hubris. There are no feline tragedies. A cat can be miserable, and so can a man, but only a man can be wretched. A man is an animal, but an abyss separates him from the other animals. It is this abyssal difference between man and animal, a difference appreciated from Genesis to Heidegger, that justifies the distinction between animalic misery, which man shares with animals, and spiritual wretchedness, which he does not.

Fear and anxiety

A cat can experience fear (Furcht), but he cannot experience anxiety (Angst). I borrow Heidegger's terms for a distinction already to be found in Kierkegaard. The cat, however, experiences fear and does not merely exhibit fear-behavior: an animal is not a machine. Philosophical behaviorism is as false of  the cat as of the man. A cat can feel and show fear and other emotions just as a man can. 'Just as a man can' does not mean to the same degree or in the same way as a man can; it means that both man and cat feel and show fear and other emotions. Both suffer and enjoy mental states. Cartesius take note.

But a man can fake emotion-exhibiting behavior without feeling the corresponding emotions. This is beyond the cat.  He cannot dissemble, not because he is sincere, but because he is beneath dissemblance and sincerity.

Respect

A cat can neither feel nor show respect. A man can feel respect, show respect, but also dissimulate by faking respect. Do I respect my cats? If respect is of persons, then I respect them at best analogously: cats are not persons. Some of us have and express self-respect; no cat does either. Since a cat cannot respect himself, he cannot disrespect himself. Respect is connected with standards and norms and ideals that a man feels himself to be under and beholden to. 

Ideals and time

Having no ideals, the cat does not face the problem of false ideals. This is because he does not strive or aspire. His life is not a project in pursuit of Jungian individuation or any other form of self-integration. He remains within his natural limits in the moment. He cannot feel anxiety in the face of death, for he has no future. But he also has no past. He abides in the abode of the Now. He cannot, however, experience this Now as a nunc stans, the standing Now of eternity. For he is time-bound to the core. A man, as a spiritual being, is not time-bound to the core: he is not spiritually bound to any particular time, and he is not spiritually bound to time in general. Man is a pan-optic, syn-optic spirit, capable of surveying the entire ontological 'scene' including himself and everything  else. He is "a spectator of all time and existence." (Plato)

But he is at the same 'time' — speaking analogically — embedded in the biotic. For he too is an animal.  He is a spiritual animal. No cat is a spiritual animal. And so no cat shares the human predicament. Life for a man is a predicament, not a mere condition.  'Predicament' suggests a state that is unsatisfactory, problematic, transitional: not a status finalis, but a status viatoris. 'Predicament' suggests a condition from which we need to be released or saved if we are to become what we most truly are. Man is homo viator, on the way, spiritually speaking. A cat may be on the prowl, but no cat is on the way. No cat is  in statu viae. A pilgrimage is a physical analog of a man's being metaphysically on the way. But no cat makes a pilgrimage. For what could be his Mecca, his Jerusalem, his Santiago de Compostela? Buddy the cat may be on the road, but he is not on the way.

Buddy the cat on the road

I said that the cat abides in the abode of the Now, but not the standing Now, but the moving Now. That is not to say that he experiences the nunc movens, the moving Now: if he did he would feel regret for the past and both hope and fear for the future. Have you ever met a regretful cat, or a hopeful one?

Self-degradation

Unlike a man, a cat cannot degrade himself. This is because he is an animal merely, unlike a man who is a strange hybrid of animal and spirit. Belonging to both orders, a man is neither an animal merely nor a spirit merely.

And so he is a riddle to himself. The human condition is a predicament; the animalic condition is not. A man asks: What am I? and Who am I? These are two different questions that no cat poses.

Rights

Do cats and other non-human animals have rights? Here is a quick little argument contra. Rights and duties are correlative: whatever has rights has duties. No cat has duties; ergo, no cat has rights. But if so, then no cat has a right to life or a right not to be harmed which would induce in us the obligation not to harm him. Does it follow therefrom that it is morally permissible to torture a cat? Kant faces the difficulty. Jonathan Birch:

Kant himself grapples with this problem in the Metaphysics of Morals (Kant 1797/2017) although he does not, I think, appreciate its gravity. He offers a partial solution: we may not owe obligations to animals, but we can have obligations in regard to animals that we owe to ourselves. The idea is that, in torturing animals, killing them inhumanely, hunting them for sport or treating them without gratitude, one acts without due respect for one’s own humanity. Why? Because mistreating animals dulls one’s “shared feeling of their suffering and so weakens and gradually uproots a natural predisposition that is very serviceable to morality in one’s relations with other human beings” (Kant 1797/2017, 6:433).

Kant’s position is not simply that in mistreating animals I make myself more likely to wrong other people. It is rather that, in mistreating animals, I violate a duty I owe to myself by weakening my disposition for “shared feeling”, or empathy. From the formula of humanity (discussed in more detail in the next section), I have a duty to cultivate morally good dispositions, and I violate this duty if I erode dispositions that are “serviceable to morality”. This has come to be known as the “indirect duty” view.

More on this later, perhaps. I will  give Schopenhauer the last word:

Schopenkatze

To which I add: A man who is gratuitously cruel to men is not a man at all but a demon. Homo homini lupus does not capture the depravity to which humans can sink. Man is not a wolf to man, but a demon to man.

It is perfectly stupid to refer to a human savage, such as a Hamas terrorist, as an animal. Again, no  animal has the power of self-degradation: that is a spiritual power.

Halloween: 15th Typepad Anniversary

The Typepad incarnation of MavPhil is now 15 years old. It has racked up 6,637,776 page views, which averages out to 1211 page views per day.  It boasts 11,838  posts and 14,342  comments. And this despite shadow banning.

I thank you for your patronage. Double your money back if not completely satisfied.

"If you like to think, you'll like my blog; if you don't like to think, you need my blog."

I Ain't Superstitious, leastways no more than Howlin' Wolf, but two twin black tuxedo cats just crossed my path.  All dressed up with nowhere to go.  Nine lives and dressed to the nines.  Stevie Ray Vaughan, Superstition.  Guitar solo starts at 3:03.  And of course you've heard the story about Niels Bohr and the horseshoe over the door:

A friend was visiting in the home of Nobel Prize winner Niels Bohr, the famous atom scientist.

As they were talking, the friend kept glancing at a horseshoe hanging over the door. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he demanded:

“Niels, it can’t possibly be that you, a brilliant scientist, believe that foolish horseshoe superstition! ? !”

“Of course not,” replied the scientist. “But I understand it’s lucky whether you believe in it or not.”

Purr-honian Cat:

Pyrrhonian cat

Cat Blogging Lives! Tuxies at the Door

The tuxedo cat is the most 'iconic' of cats; so it is  only fitting that Max Black and his brother Manny K. Black should guard the entrance to the inner sanctum.

Felix was a tuxie as was Sylvester. And who can forget Socks the presidential pussy when the Clintons occupied the White House? 

Like all cats the tuxie has nine lives; what distinguishes him is that he is always dressed to the nines. All dressed up with nowhere to go.

Tuxies at the door

Cat Blogging!

I haven't done any cat blogging in a righteous spell. Call me a slacker. Friday is the official cat blogging day here at MavPhil and elsewhere in the blogosphere, but this Friday is Good Friday. Cat man Dave Bagwill sends this:

Schroedinger's feline

 

They Have No Views

My cats eat, sleep, play, and sleep some more. They have no views. But the value of being adoxastos is lost on them.  I do not envy them.  I am glad that I am a man. Man alone among the animals is more than an animal.  Man's distinction consists both in his having views and in his ability to examine them like Socrates, to suspend them like the Pyrrhonian skeptic and to transcend them like the mystic. 

Man is also distinguished by his wretchedness. No mere animal, strictly speaking, is wretched.  Animal suffering never gets the length of wretchedness. Man is wretched because he is great. Therein lies the Pascalian paradox of the human predicament.

Saturday Night at the Oldies: Cats

Before we get on to tonight's feature presentation, a little tribute to John McCain. Here he is in Bomb Iran. But the old neocon needs a history lesson. The Regents did it first, in 1961, before the Beach Boys covered it in '65. The Regents in their dotage, live. "I tried Peggy Sue, but I knew she wouldn't do."

……………………….

Loving Spoonful, Nashville Cats, 1966. They's playin' since they's babies.

Harry Chapin, Cat's in the Cradle. For you fathers out there. Bond with your son when he's five. Wait till he's 50 and he won't give you the time of day. Harry Chapin was a major talent who died young.  Here is his great Taxi. We Boomers are damned lucky to have the greatest popular music soundtrack.

What Happened to Harry Chapin?

Tokens, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, 1961 

Bent Fabric, Alley Cat, 1962. Bent fabric can be said to have a kink  in it. Therefore,

Kinks, Phenomenal Cat

Tom Jones, What's New Pussycat? 1965. 

Norma Tanega, Walkin' My Cat Named 'Dog.' The queen of the one-hit wonders?

Mongo Santamaria, El Pussycat. If you remember this one, I'll buy you a pussyhat and a watermelon. While we have Mongo Santamaria cued up, here is his rather better-known Watermelon Man, muchachos.

Buck Owens, Tiger by the tail. This one goes out to Kathy P.

Stray Cats, Stray Cat Strut

Sue Thompson, Paper Tiger, 1965. This one's for Barack "Red Line" Obama.

Elton John, Honky Cat, 1972

Robert Petway, Catfish Blues, 1941.  An influential song in the history of the blues.  

Rooftop Singers, Tom Cat.  From those far-off and fabulous hootenanny days. 

UPDATE (9/16). 

Mendocino Joe wisely recommends Ring-Tail Tom.

UPDATE (9/17),

Monterey Tom, displaying good taste, as usual, reminds me of Laura Nyro's Tom Cat Goodbye.

Friday Cat Blogging Three Days Late: A Puzzling Image

When I travelled in China, I saw not one pussy cat. But I had a Chinese student at CWRU who said that the Chinese eat anything with four legs except the kitchen table. And now I recall eating something in Wuhan that tasted like chicken but a tad gamier. Now North Korea is not China. But I understand there's a lot of hungry people in the Land of Little Rocket Man. That suggests that the following image is fake:

NoKo Kitty