TERROR FART SHUTS SEVENTH AVENUE : PANIC IN NEW YORK

NEWS FLASH

Reason, Commerce, Justice and Free Beer has just learned that authorities in New York shut down a major city thoroughfare after a Muslim allegedly farted.

Details remain sketchy. It is not known who farted, nor whether the fart constituted "use of weapons of mass destruction" under applicable federal anti-terror laws. It is not even known whether the fart caused any appreciable damage to the surrounding area.

Nonetheless, officials are not taking any chances. Deputy NYPD Police Commissioner B. Leonard Pfurzfinder called the alleged terror fart a "serious attempt" to sow chaos in New York. He warned the public to "keep your eyes and noses open for flatulating Muslims."

Mr. Pfurzfinder gave a press conference shortly after the incident: "I wish to confirm that the Police Department--in cooperation with State and federal law enforcement--have closed Seventh Avenue following the reported emission of terrorist intestinal gas near 35th Street. At approximately 7:45 AM today, a woman named Cathleen Summers passed a man with a long black beard wearing a skull cap and a long white gown. According to Ms. Summers, 'he looked like Osama bin Laden.' As she passed the man at the intersection of Seventh Avenue and 35th Street, Ms. Summers heard a very loud noise. 'It was definitely a fart,' she said. Within a moment following the noise, Ms. Summers also smelled a rancid odor in her vicinity. 'It must have come from the fart,' she told responding officers. She also mentioned that pedestrians gasped in horror when they smelled the fart; they fled in all directions. Pandemonium ensued. One man collapsed from inhaling the fumes. Another man said the 'sound of the fart' broke his iPad® digital reading device. Ms. Summers also reported that the bearded man did not panic after the fart; he surreptitiously moved away down 35th Street."

Mr. Pfurzfinder continued: "We are fortunate that no fatalities resulted from the fart. But we cannot let our guard down. Considering the evidence before us, we must conclude that this fart constitutes a serious terrorist attack on American soil. True, the fart did not cause much damage. But it shows that there are men who look like Osama bin Laden in the United States who can emit toxic odors. Worse, it shows that men with beards and white gowns can infiltrate major American cities, eat gas-producing foods and subject everyday Americans to deadly flatulence. We can be glad that no Americans died in this brazen gas assault on New York City. But we must painfully acknowledge that the War on Terror--especially gaseous fart terror--is far from over."

Mr. Pfurzfinder stressed that Americans must do their part to battle terrorism in all its forms: "We salute Ms. Summers for immediately calling authorities after she heard and smelled the enemy fart. And we also salute Ms. Summers for recognizing that suspicious activity is not always visible. In fact, terrorism does not just affect the eyes; it affects all the senses. Since 2001, the NYPD has admonished New Yorkers to report suspicious activity with the slogan: 'See something; say something.' But that admonishment does not encompass all possible terrorist threats. Terror does not limit itself to visible phenomena. As this case shows, terror can be heard and smelled, too. In that light, we hereby modify our slogan to include all the senses: 'See something, hear something, smell something, taste something or feel something--say something.' Although we recognize that some New Yorkers may report things that do not turn out to be terror threats, we believe that the extra caution is worth it. An old woman, for instance, may feel a spider crawling on her neck while she sleeps. She may believe she is under tactile terrorist attack. She might even call police, wailing: "I felt something, so I'm saying something." Yet fielding a few misguided 911 calls is a small price to pay to avoid another 9/11."

Concerning the general terrorist threat level, Mr. Pfuzfinder elaborated: "We are on edge. Within the last two weeks, Muslim agents have tried to blow up Times Square. In the ensuing days, authorities closed down Times Square several times after citizens reported 'suspicious packages' on various street corners. Those packages turned out to contain ham sandwiches, bottled water and cheap novels; but the threat remains. It remains true that Muslims want to kill us. Today's fart incident represents yet another attempt to target America this month. We are in the crosshairs. The Muslims not only want to destroy significant targets in spectacular attacks; they also want to wreak panic by dispersing toxic farts among everyday people who just want to get to work in the morning. That is truly terrifying--and we are working to stop it."

Mr. Pfurzfinder did not specify how the NYPD plans to address farting Muslims in the future. Still, Republican lawmakers in Washington, D.C. quickly jumped on the news.

"Today's incident in New York just goes to show that President Obama is not doing enough to stop terror," declared Senator John Cornyn (R-TX). "This is the price we pay for the President's misguided decision to 'understand' Muslims. We cannot afford to understand these people. They want choke us on the nastiest farts you can possibly imagine. We cannot have a 'dialogue' with people who are out to drown us in farts. Put simply, we need to stop talking and start attacking Pakistan, which is where this fart guy is probably from. If we don't, the next fart is going to really hurt somebody."

Senator Lindsey Graham (R-SC) echoed Mr. Cornyn's call for increased action against Pakistan. "I have it from reliable sources that al-Qaeda is training operatives to produce massive amounts of flatulence in their own bodies. They call it 'the natural approach.' CIA infiltrators have shown me shocking pictures of masked men sitting in desert training camps eating goat cheese, falafel, kebab and raw onions in terrifying amounts. We are blind to the truth if we assume that this New York fart suspect did not receive al-Qaeda digestive terror training in Pakistan. That is why we must attack Pakistan now. I refuse to see a single American killed by a fart we could have prevented."

In a statement on the issue, Texas Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison (R-TX) shied away from foreign policy assertions. "No matter what we do abroad, I say we need better domestic legislation to punish Muslims who fart. I have already drawn up a draft bill that expands the definition of 'weapons of mass destruction' to include 'the intentional, reckless, negligent or inadvertent expulsion of intestinal gas by a person who is a Muslim, however slight or inaudible.' Ignorance is no defense. I define 'Muslim' as 'any person not a Christian' or 'any person with a suspicious looking beard, unless he is from Texas; but such exception does not apply to African-Americans with beards, or any female, regardless of State residence or race.' If we enforce this law, we will bring digestive terrorists to justice and protect Americans."

President Obama's Attorney General--Eric H. Holder, Jr.--urged a more circumspect approach to the Muslim fart menace. "Our investigation into this matter has just begun. We still need to determine whether the man who farted did so with terroristic intent. This is a legal inquiry: Only farts expelled with a specific intent to terrorize are currently forbidden under existing law. This administration is committed to law. We refuse to indulge speculation. We also refuse to yield to public hysteria surrounding the incident. Until we have reliable evidence, we cannot commit to prosecuting this suspect as a terrorist. For the moment, he is simply a 'person of interest' who farted on Seventh Avenue on May 17, 2010. We understand that our approach may disappoint those who assume all Muslim farts to be terror farts. But respect for the rule of law--and for basic fairness in the administration of justice--dictates that we assemble all the facts before we conclude that digestive terror occurred in New York today."

Rush Limbaugh denounced Holder's statement as "rubbish:" "When a Muslim farts, it's terror. I don't give a shit what the law says."

New York's Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg emphasized that Muslim farting is not good for the city economy. "The thing that upsets me most is that this fart closed down Seventh Avenue. There are a lot of really big stores and businesses on Seventh Avenue, including Ernst & Young and roughly 75 Starbucks Coffee houses. This fart caused people to miss work and lose out on pay. It also caused people to refrain from shopping and going to Starbucks. That is not good for New York. So whether or not we conclude that this Muslim emitted a terror fart, he has already terrorized New York's economy. And I don't like it when corporations can't do business."

At present, investigators are searching high and low for the man who allegedly farted near Ms. Summers this morning. Officials expect to reopen Seventh Avenue sometime this afternoon, depending on the FBI's determination that residual Muslim fart fumes have sufficiently dissipated to permit vehicular and pedestrian traffic.

President Obama issued the following statement after receiving word about the incident: "Our hearts go out to the families and to those affected. We will not tolerate digestive terror and we will not shirk our responsibilities. We are a resilient people. No matter how thick the fart cloud that hangs over us, we will persevere."

SEEING, HEARING AND REMEMBERING : PATHWAYS TO UNDERSTANDING

AN ESSAY

In ancient China, Confucius allegedly said: "Tell me and I will forget; show me and I may remember; involve me and I will understand." I had never heard this proverb before. It captivated me because it encapsulates many of my views about sense, speech, memory, experience and empathy. All these things relate to each other. And they all aim for one thing: Understanding.

What does it take to understand another person? Is it enough to hear a person describe problems with words? How about observing something firsthand? What is the most effective way to find understanding and empathy?

I have often written that we humans are subjective creatures. We know only what we sense. Unfortunately, we must also depend on language because our senses have a limited range. After all, we only feel certain about something when we perceive it directly. We would prefer to see something with our own eyes rather than hear about it in words from someone who saw it. We want to understand our surroundings and the people in our lives. And the only pathway to understanding is sense.

But it is a troubled pathway. For what can we really know, let alone understand? Knowledge is not the same as understanding. Knowledge is more banal than understanding. Knowledge means that we merely manifest a subjective belief that something is true because we perceived it. Yet understanding is more subtle. Understanding means that we not only know things, but we intuitively arrange our knowledge to tell a larger story. Knowledge is about details. Understanding is about narrative. Knowledge is just an actor. Understanding is the whole play. And we don't feel truly fulfilled until we really understand something: What good are isolated facts unless they tell us something more significant?

Confucius recognized that human sense opens the door to both knowledge and understanding. Yet he also recognized that there is a hierarchy in human sense. He says: "Tell me and I will forget," implying that hearing is a weak sense. How right he is. How often do we hear language and immediately forget what we just heard? It is difficult to glean knowledge from language, let alone understanding. It is incredibly easy to forget words. After all, words are a poor substitute for actual perception. But in many cases they are all we have to reconstruct our perceptions.

Sight is better than hearing. Confucius confirms this when he says: "Show me and I may remember." Here, he does not say he "will forget." If he perceives something visually, he says he "may remember" it. Again, Confucius is right. Sight links intimately to memory. Our eyes leave "visual impressions" on our minds long after images leave our present view. When we reminisce, we engage our "mind's eye." We attempt to re-see images that have long since disappeared from sight. We may not precisely remember what we see; indeed, with time, memory weakens. So in that way, Confucius correctly points out that we only "may" remember something after we see it.

And we see all the time. It is simply impossible to recall every single thing we visually perceive every day. Our memory works best only after we see something worth remembering, namely, something exciting, unusual, captivating or appealing. To a large extent, our own subjective desires color what we remember. If we are infatuated with someone, we remember how they look with great detail. We hang on their words and even remember what they say. Yet those subjective desires obscure other details. We don't remember many things we see because we are distracted with our love interest. We are not paying attention; our emotions cloud our perceptions. Thus, while sight may be a better way to acquire knowledge than hearing, we will never remember everything we see. There is just too much going on. We cannot know everything because our senses are imperfect.

But Confucius does not end his proverb with knowledge. He goes beyond. He ends with "understanding:" "Involve me and I will understand." Understanding is the ultimate goal; the proverb builds up to it. He does not equivocate here, either. He says: "I will understand."

What is going on here? And why is understanding better than knowledge?

Anyone can know facts. You must merely have functioning sensory organs to know whether something is hot, cold, smelly, coarse, green or blue. Some facts require complex sensory deductions and inferences, but deductions and inferences are just mechanical mental conclusions. Anyone with rudimentary reasoning power can infer one fact from another.

But understanding is more transcendent than that. Understanding combines knowledge with experience and intuition. It is one thing to know whether another person is sick, obligated, depressed or happy. It is quite another to understand a person who experiences those circumstances. Understanding requires a person not only to listen, observe and infer facts about another. It also requires him to put that knowledge in the light of his own experience and honestly try to feel what the other person feels. That is no easy endeavor. It takes time to assemble experience. That is why we tell young people: "When you're older, you'll understand." After all, how can you understand a complicated emotional problem if you've never experienced the emotions that make it a problem in the first place? If you do not have experience, you cannot truly understand. You can know, but you cannot understand.

Confucius was right to extol understanding as the "higher result" of knowledge. Why do we learn? Simple: So that we can understand. And why do we want to understand? Because understanding enlightens us. It makes the world more comprehensible. Understanding equips us to help others. Understanding counteracts prejudice and shortsightedness. Violence springs from misunderstanding and ignorance. It is hard to go to war with someone if you actually understand them.

Yet the fact that human beings constantly make war on each other bespeaks a sad truth: Understanding is not common. It is hard enough to acquire reliable knowledge through hearing and sight, let alone to understand larger implications about life. Most people never even acquire the knowledge they need to understand others. Understanding is impossible without knowledge. And only a patient person takes the time to obtain the knowledge needed to find understanding.

Who has time for that in our society? Who has time to listen? And most importantly, who has time to get involved with others in order to understand them? Confucius' proverb said that involvement results in understanding. That means living with others and experiencing their lives first hand. That means living with their problems, too. Involvement is not just a pervasive sensory journey; it also is an emotional one. When you involve yourself in another person's life, you eat, drink, sleep and breathe their problems. You sense what they sense. You obtain knowledge at an astronomical rate. And because you combine your experience with theirs, you necessarily will understand them. Once you understand them, you can empathize and comfort. Or you can turn away. In either event, you are enlightened. You are no longer ignorant.

But that takes a very long time. It takes a lot of energy. To achieve understanding, then, a person must not only have experience and knowledge. He must also be patient enough to involve himself in others' lives in a compassionate way.

Sadly, neither patience nor understanding are highly prized virtues in modern American society. Yet people yearn to be understood. In most cases, they must pay others to understand them. After all, time is money in the United States. No one has time to sit down and listen to another person's deepest thoughts, let alone get involved in their lives in a meaningful way. This is one reason why people are desperately unhappy in this country. They want to be understood, but no one has the time, patience or intellectual capacity to "learn" their woes. This leaves many people feeling isolated and forgotten. Even married couples never take the time to really understand each other.

I venture that understanding offers its own rewards. It is satisfying to understand others and to understand yourself. True, it takes time, learning and effort. But it feels so good to know another person understands you. By the same token, it feels good to give back by understanding others. It is an enlightened and compassionate way to live. Despite all the impulsions to the contrary, sometimes it is good to be patient in our society.

MY TEETH ARE DOOMED

AN ESSAY

I am getting older. Every day, time leaves new marks on my body. When the light shines a certain way, I notice time's inscriptions. Lines emanate away from my eyes, especially when I smile. I have more wrinkles on my forehead. My hands are starting to look cracked, crooked and worn. Hair is sprouting up in places I'd rather not discuss. And my teeth aren't so pearly white anymore; in fact, I can feel them getting weaker by the week.

Our bodies doomed to decay. That's the problem with bodies. Beauty and youth please us. But we understand how fleeting they are. We understand that time is never on our side. When we see a beautiful person, we know they won't be so forever. It's all just a matter of time before remorseless months and years erode even the supplest beauties.

Aging is a natural process. But that doesn't make it any more appealing to us. Death is a natural process too; and very few people like death, either. Still, natural processes can be both scary and reassuring. They are scary because no one wants to get old and die. On the other hand, they are reassuring because everyone reliably knows they will happen. Just as everyone knows a flower will wilt and turn brown, so too does everyone know that we all will die one day. That is just what happens in nature. You can see it. And you can apply it to your own life. It is rhythmic. You can count on it.

But let's get back to the scary part. While nature might provide us analogies to understand what will happen to us in the end, it is no less unpleasant to consider. We are, after all, rather vain creatures. We do not like the idea that our youth and appeal may one day fade. We do not like the idea that our beauty will wilt like the flowers in the garden. We experience so many pleasures in youth. And God forbid that time will steal them from us. It is not a pleasant thought.

Still, we must confront it. I confront it a little bit every day when I notice the new little injuries time has left upon me. In a strange way, it makes me reflective. When I notice something going wrong with my body, it makes me remember how long I've been here. It makes me remember how much I've seen and experienced. I go back through the years and I remember the times when my body did not ache the way it does now. I remember when there was no hair in the places it grows now. Our bodies are like fossils; and our memory confirms to us how long we have been here. Although I do not like the idea that I am decaying, I can at least take some pride in the idea that I have made it this far.

Having said all this, my teeth are doomed. I think they are even more doomed than the rest of my body. My constant coffee abuse, advancing age, lack of insurance and insufficient funds portend a dental disaster of unspeakable magnitude. Last year, I managed to scrape up enough money to get an examination, along with a cleaning and whitening (I am still paying interest on the visits). The dentist scraped unbelievable amounts of plaque from places in my mouth I barely knew existed. Then she flossed mysterious cracks in those unknown regions. She drew blood almost every time she hit the gum.

Toward the end, she said: "It's been a while since your last visit, hasn't it?" Then she offered me some Tylenol.

My poor, doomed teeth. It does not help that I have English ancestry. Genetically, the English have bad teeth. My own circumstances make my naturally bad genetic situation even worse. Every day, I notice my gums getting whiter. There are stains between a couple teeth that were not there before. And I can feel my teeth moving in my gumline in a way I have never felt before. Plus, they tell me I have impacted molars that must be removed before they burrow into my nerves. Put simply, I am in dire dental trouble.

But this is what happens when you get older. Time brutally flogs our bodies. There is little we can do about it. It just happens. Sure, we can live as healthy as we possibly can. We can eat right, exercise and even think positively about the future. But these are mere salves: Nothing can stop time's slow, steady, corrosive assault on our flesh.

It would be nice to escape our bodies for a while. While our bodies might offer numerous ways to experience the world's pleasures, they are also enormously restrictive. They can produce as much pain as pleasure. Time's corrosion is just another terror our bodies must confront. Still, it is so easy to put trust in our bodies. It is banal in the truest sense. We know our bodies better than anything else in our lives. We are stuck with them. We see them every day. We monitor them and scrutinize them. We must endure their chemical tempests and painful discomforts. They matter to us because they place insistent demands on us: Feed me; relieve me; give me rest; make me comfortable; make me feel pleasure. If we ignore them, we suffer pain for it. And we learn from earliest memory that pain is not good. So we slavishly pander to our bodies.

It is no accident that the law targets the body. Almost everyone cares about his own body. If there is something no man wants to experience, it is bodily discomfort. So the law threatens to inflict bodily discomfort on anyone who transgresses its commands. While some exceptional people hold their bodies in contempt, they are too rare to make a difference. The law concerns itself with efficacy: It knows that almost everyone fears bodily punishment, so that is what it threatens to maintain order.

So we spend our lives worrying about our bodies until time slowly eradicates them. It is quite a pathetic lot if you think about it. Still, it is completely natural. As living organisms, we want to stay alive. To stay alive, we must preserve our bodies. We fear death largely because it means we can no longer enjoy what life has to offer our bodies. We know that we will die in time because we see what time does to others' bodies. So we fear aging, because we know what it leads to.

But what about life beyond the body? Is it possible to achieve some mental satisfaction without worrying about the body's inevitable decay? Throughout history, we find examples of men who did not put all their faith in bodily comfort. There have been men who lived for something beyond placating their bodies and avoiding death. In fact, we tend to revere men who lived beyond their bodies because they are so rare. It is no accident that Jesus Christ is the central hero in Western Civilization: He gave up his body so that others could enjoy theirs. There is a nobility in life beyond the body because so few people can effectively ignore their bodies. Most people fear aging and death. Most people simply live to experience the pleasures the body can give. Love it or hate it, that is just how we are.

I am no martyr. I am just as worried about my body as the next man. But I fear pain more than I fear death. I wish I could hold my body in contempt. Yet the body is rapaciously insistent; it is difficult to ignore its demands for long. No matter how strongly I believe in abstract principles and ideas, I cannot say whether I could maintain my commitment to them in the face of torture, hunger or agony. I am worried about my hair and my teeth, for goodness' sake; imagine how I would feel if confronted with genuine bodily scourges?

But death is different than pain. Pain is about the body and its limitations. Death is about existence and non-existence. Death rules out the body altogether. In that light, it is easier to romanticize non-existence than pain. In fact, non-existence lends itself much more to abstract principles than mere contempt for the body. Death frees us from concern about the body. Death liberates us from the body's incessant demands and penalties. True, death might cut short our ability to experience the body's joys. But it also forecloses the body's ability to torment us any longer. There is some objective, rational appeal to that possibility. If bodily life--on the whole-- appears to offer more pain than pleasure, why go on living at all? It is better to cease to exist in order to avoid pain than to exist for nothing more than pain.

Yet this broaches another conundrum: What if death does not end our pain? After all, no one has ever reported to us what death is like. No one has come back from that "undiscover'd country from whose bourn/ No traveler returns." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i, lines 80-81. We have all seen aging and pain because living people experience aging and pain. We see what happens to them. They can tell us how bad they feel.

But no one has experienced death and lived to tell about it. Who knows what awaits us there. That is what makes people fear death: Unknowability. Maybe something dreadful happens once we die. No one knows. No one can know. No one can sense anything once they die, let alone communicate what they sense. And that is why death continues to terrify us. So as bad as bodily life may be, we choose to "bear what ills we have,/ [rather] Than fly to others that we know not of." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i, lines 82-83.

I have argued before that it is unreasonable to fear death because death cuts short our bodily ability to sense anything. http://reasoncommercejustice.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-we-fear-death.html. But once again, we see that humans are not invariably reasonable. They fear death even though death eliminates their sensory capacities--including the capacity to experience pain--because they fear the unknown. That fear is not reasonable because reason is based in human sense. Death obliterates sense, so it is not reasonable to fear it.

It is actually more reasonable to fear aging than death. We can sense our bodies aging. We can feel our bodies weakening. We know that aging will bring us more pain and less bodily satisfaction. We can sense all these things. Our reason has something to grasp in that situation.

I reasonably worry about my teeth. I have every reason to believe they are doomed. And I know it's going to hurt.

But with death: Who knows what I'll feel? That is strangely reassuring.

MOMENTS I'M NOT PROUD OF

A REFLECTION

We remember moments in life. It is hard to remember particular days, or even particular eras in our lives. But certain moments inscribe themselves in us with uncanny detail. I think that's interesting, because moments are much shorter than days or eras.

On the other hand, it makes sense that we remember moments because they are sensory. Memory is little more than "stored sense" that fades over time. In a particular moment, we see, hear, feel or taste particular things. Sometimes our senses leave an impression. Most times, they do not. After all, we need to sense to survive; we can't possibly remember every little thing we sense. No, we only remember moments that are, well, worth remembering.

I have a lot of really good memories. My good memories generally fall into two categories: Moments when I felt inwardly good about a situation without external recognition; and moments when I overcame some external obstacle or achieved some popular reward.

I can give examples. First, I remember a night in November 1994 when my best friend and I frolicked shirtless through a school field in rural Connecticut. No one was there but us. The moon was shining. We laughed and screamed all night. We fell in the grass and just looked up at the stars. I talked about whatever came in my head and everything I said just seemed to be right. It was unusually warm for that time of year. Then we got into my car and just went home.

That was a "good memory" that did not involve any external recognition. I remember the things I saw, heard and felt. No one else witnessed what my friend and I did that night; yet it remains a cherished memory. I did not win any accolades for it. I just remember feeling so, so good. And I can relate that feeling to the things I saw, heard and felt that night in 1994.

Second, I remember several days in January 2004, during my first year in law school. I had just taken my first law exams and I was extremely nervous. I felt as if my entire future depended on how I did on those tests. For the previous four months, I had worked harder than at any other time in my life to that point.

New York Law School published exam results through a computer system. Every day, I nervously logged in to my account to see whether they had posted my results. I had to type in an ID code to access my information. There was always a brief delay between the time I entered my code and the time the webpage came up. I always held my breath during that moment. I remember that my heart even raced. I remember that I perspired a lot then, too. I remember feeling droplets of sweat fall from the top of my armpit onto my side.

After about a week of nervous checking, I finally saw results. I had gotten mostly A's on my exams and wound up with a Grade Point Average of 3.79, which placed me in the Top 10 of my class of 400. I felt a bizarre mix of relief, exultation and new confidence. Professors and friends congratulated me after the yearly rankings went public. I relished my success. It felt really good. I had overcome a huge barrier and received external praise for it.

Unlike the nocturnal moment in the field with my boyhood friend, this was a "good memory" that depended exclusively on official judgments. It was still "good," but for entirely different reasons. And I remember it differently, too.

But I am not ashamed to admit that I remember bad experiences as much as I remember good ones. In fact, I think I have learned more about myself by reliving my less-than-heroic moments and understanding why they were so bad. Our failures defines us as much--if not more--than our successes. After all, just as we can succeed in many ways, so too can we fail in many ways. We can fail externally, as through school grades or critical condemnation for "poor work." Others can tell us we have failed to reach an "acceptable" standard, and that feels bad. Or we can fail internally, as when we lose our composure or sacrifice our beliefs. We don't need other people to tell us we've failed when we fail internally.

I have suffered both kinds of failure. But I find external failure much easier to bear than internal failure. After all, you can always blame your judge or your critic if you fail externally. Maybe they just didn't like you. Maybe the test was unfair. It's easier to justify external failure.

But you can't run from yourself: When you fail internally, you've failed to meet your own standards. And you can't point your finger at some test-grader or theater critic for that.

I'm far, far, far from perfect. I have failed so much in life. In most cases, I can move beyond my failures. But I never forget them. I try to learn from them. Still, they sting me when I recall them, especially when I failed myself.

Here's a moment I'm not proud of. Last October, my partner, Steve, went to the hospital after suffering an acute manic episode. For several weeks before that, his condition had steadily worsened. He did not sleep for 60 hours straight at one point. He constantly busied himself with "tasks;" he woke me from bed every 15 minutes every night to help him re-clean the apartment or find some random webpage. He drew up long, detailed lists every day and tried to accomplish every little thing on the list, like buying a gurtel at some far-away store he found on the internet. He became angry when he did not complete everything on the list each day. Then he became hostile and profligate. He picked fights with random people on the street. He spent thousands on useless things, like Christmas ornaments and big rolls of fancy platinum ribbons for Thank You cards.

By the time Steve went to the hospital, I was ready to strangle him. Yet this was the man I had loved for ten years. I could not believe I was feeling the way I was. But I was so exhausted and so emotionally battered that I just wanted relief; and it seemed the only way to find relief was to cast him off. I felt better when I recognized that he had a serious disease. I tried not to take his abuse personally. The words still hurt, though. I was happy that he got the medical attention he needed. I was even happier to get a three-week break alone to rebuild my mental constitution.

I remember feeling somewhat disappointed when the doctor called to tell me that Steve was ready to come home. I felt a swirling mix of fear, resentment, childish selfishness and fatigue. I did not want to endure the same problems that arose when Steve fell ill. I didn't want to be woken up again every 15 minutes. Plus, I felt as if I had just caught my breath after a grueling bout, and now I would have to grit my teeth and start fighting all over again. Still, I tried to put on my most positive face when I went to pick Steve up at the hospital. I could not deny that I still loved him. I thought: "Maybe he'll be better now." I allowed myself to hope, even though my overall mood was dark and frustrated.

Steve was in surprisingly good shape when I brought him home. His doctors had found the medication he needed to achieve emotional stability, and he was on the path to a "new normalcy." I was glad to see that. We even went out to lunch late that afternoon. Steve moved very slowly. His eyes looked exhausted and glazed over. He was heavily medicated. One medication made him drool and he had to wear a bib. I had to help him walk from place to place. He used a cane because he was unsteady on his feet. Naturally, all these things aroused my pity. Steve cut a pathetic picture now. It hurt me deeply.

And I still felt past resentments. My temper was short. I was in no mood for any additional challenges. But sure enough, while we walked home from the restaurant, a challenge arose. As we crossed 4th Avenue at 12th Street, we tried to hail a cab. When the cabbie saw Steve's cane, he made a dismissive gesture and said: "No, no, no," then drove off. That made me angry. It also cost us time; the light was about to change. Steve was too slow to make it across 4th Avenue before the oncoming traffic got a green signal. It was around 5 o'clock. As we passed in front of a guy on a motorcycle, the horns started blowing. The guy on the motorcycle rolled his eyes at me and Steve as if to say: "Get going, will you?"

It touched a nerve. I completely lost my temper. I stopped right in the middle of the street and said: "What the fuck are you looking at? Can't you see I'm trying to help this man?" In the meantime, Steve made his way to the other side of the street. But I stayed. My voice rose and my heart pounded hard. I continued yelling. I remember saying: "So you think you're special because you're wearing that fucking hat, huh?" As I stood there cursing, the traffic started moving at full speed all around me. I was so enraged that I did not even recognize how much danger I faced. The guy on the motorcycle didn't say a word. He just smiled at me and shook his head as if to say: "What a fucking nut." He drove right past me. Another guy in a car almost rolled over my right foot. I remember feeling the tire graze the front of my sneaker. I was too livid to comprehend what was going on.

Ultimately we got a cab and headed home. Steve told me that my voice changed and that my eyes had bulged while I was out yelling in the street. After a few minutes, the adrenaline passed from my body and I started to feel extremely bad about what had just happened. I felt that I had made a fool of myself. Steve just shook his head. I tried to explain that I lost my temper because I was upset that people were so insensitive about his condition. That was partially true; I was also just really angry about having him back in the house again. Thankfully, the subsequent weeks proved that anger moot; Steve never went manic again.

I recount that story because it's a moment I'm not proud of. I take pride in my reason. I like to feel that I can coolly handle any situation with dignity. But on that day in October 2009, I completely abandoned my reason and fell headlong into dangerous emotion. Make no mistake: I do not flee from emotion; in most situations, I even relish it. But extreme emotion is dangerous. It undermines everything. I felt uncontrollable rage that day. It was as if I stepped from my own skin and became a wild beast. In addition, I reproached myself for the petty selfishness I felt that whole day. I knew that selfishness fanned my underlying anger, and that anger exploded into fury. That was out of character for me. I failed myself.

Still, I learned a lot from that moment. I learned that human reason hangs by a thread. Despite all our claims to rational intelligence and equanimity, pressures can drive the human mind straight back to animal depths in an instant. It is just a question of circumstance, mood and stimulus. After all, we are but sensory creatures. Sense might lead to science and discovery. But it can also lead to wrath and destruction.

Having said all this, I can still find some justification for my outburst. I truly feel anger toward people who are callous about Steve. I won't deny that. I love Steve. He is handicapped; it is obvious. When people look at him funny or rush him on the street, it really bothers me. For the most part, he stays indoors now because he knows that he can't handle the barbarians outside.

Most people just don't understand. I can't expect them to, either. But that doesn't stop me from feeling anger about it. I wish I didn't. I'm not proud of it. Yet I can learn a lot about others--and myself--when I reflect on it.

NEIGHBORS ARE RARELY GOOD, AND EVEN MORE RARELY THERE WHEN YOU NEED THEM

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

I reserve especially harsh criticism for insurance companies. In the past, I have mocked them in satires and rebuked them in essays. I know what insurance companies are all about: Demand money from you, then stubbornly refuse to pay when disaster strikes. Neither cockney-speaking GEICO® geckos nor ditzy discount-dishing Progressive® saleswomen nor confident black men telling me "Allstate's® stand" will ever persuade me that insurance companies are anything other than what I already know: Insatiable, vicious, unsympathetic private profit machines that capitalize on human qualms about the future.

Insurance companies advertise all the time. I use insurance advertising as a thematic backdrop for my criticism. I analyze insurance advertising to show inconsistencies between messages and practices. For example, I have analyzed GEICO®'s vacuous advertising several times to show that commercial actors rarely provide the most essential information to consumers, like information about prices, risks and even services. Rather, they merely create "visual candy" that forges a mental link between the product and the company. This implants a sensory impression in the viewer, which then yields an increased likelihood that he will remember the image when it comes time to buy insurance. This has nothing to do with educating the consumer about advantages and disadvantages between competing products. It is merely a cynical ploy to trigger a mental reflex to buy something in particular circumstances.

But this is what advertising is all about. It is not about education or even information. It is about sensory perception. For commercial actors, the end is always profit. To make a profit in the free market, you need customers. To get customers, you need to convince people to part with their money. To make customers part with their money, you need to make sure they know you have something they need or want. Advertising does that: It merely advises potential customers that a company has something they need or want. It shows it to them in a memorable way. It plays to their senses. Once it makes an impression, it increases the chance that they will spend their money in the right place. And that fulfills the profit goal.

Still, my purpose today is not to analyze sensory mechanics in American advertising. Rather, I am writing today to take a hard look at a particular advertising message on its own terms. In the end, I will reveal its absurdity.

Insurance companies use slogans to reinforce their visual advertising. In addition to leaving a visual impression with consumers, they also leave an audible one. For example, GEICO® not only hammers a visual connection between geckos and car insurance. It also pairs the image with the ever-repeated phrase: "Fifteen minutes could save you fifteen percent or more on car insurance." Allstate® uses the phrase: "You're in good hands." And State Farm® matches its imagery with: "Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there." Sometimes State Farm even sings the slogan to make sure you remember it. Hey, they need to make sure you reflexively think State Farm® when you need some insurance. And people remember tunes a lot better than just spoken words.

"Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there." What a curious slogan. It reflects an incredibly naïve view of human nature. And that's ironic, because State Farm obviously does not hold that view. I know for a fact it doesn't. I have litigated cases involving State Farm, and I can tell you firsthand that they do not treat claimants--or their opponents--as "good neighbors." In fact, they treat them as mortal enemies whom they would rather see die than pay a red cent.

What is a "good neighbor," anyway? Do people really like their neighbors? Do neighbors actively help each other in this society? It sure doesn't seem so to me. In that light, I find it bizarre that State Farm adopted a slogan that equates its insurance service with the service you can expect from a "good neighbor." In my experience, I have generally found that my neighbors could not give a damn about whether I lived, died or prospered. Some have said hello. Some have not. Actually, most did not. Most just went to work, came home, locked their doors, attended to their own shit and went to bed without even looking at me in the hallway.

In fact, most of my relationships with neighbors over the years have been negative. If they knock on my door, it's usually to complain about something I'm doing. They never stop over to check on me or to ask how my life is going. They never volunteer to help me with anything. To the contrary, they just grumble about me and spread gossip if they suspect me doing something "inappropriate."

And they certainly don't make house calls if I'm suffering a crisis. If I have a problem, they'll never know about it. Even if they did, I seriously doubt they would rush in to help me.

And why should they? American law says that we are not our brothers' keepers. If you pass a person dying on the street, you have absolutely no legal obligation to render assistance, even if you're a doctor. That reflects our society's views about "neighbors" much more than any corny State Farm slogan. That is why I find it flat-out laughable for State Farm to equate its insurance service with the "help" you can expect from a "neighbor" in the United States. You might as well say that you won't provide any help at all, because that's how much help you'll receive from your neighbor. In truth, your neighbor is much more likely to complain about you or even report you to the authorities than help you in a pinch.

This is the world we inhabit.

If this is the level of support we can expect from neighbors, what can we expect from State Farm? State Farm says that it will be "there" for you "like a good neighbor." Well, no neighbor has never been "there" to help me with anything, let alone a "good" one. By that standard, I guess that means that State Farm will leave you hanging just the way your neighbors do.

But State Farm has a greater legal obligation to help than some undifferentiated neighbor. After all, if you pay money for a State Farm insurance policy, you enter into a contractual relationship. Contracts mean that two people promise to do things for each other on pain of legal penalty. Contracts create legal duties to act or refrain from acting. Neighbors have no such duties. In that sense, if you buy insurance from State Farm, you are buying something more than a neighbor's obligation. You are enlisting services for a fee. You are engaging in commerce. You are creating a legal relationship. If State Farm acts like a "neighbor" after you hire it as a "servant," it would violate its legal duties to you. Hey, you signed a contract so that State Farm would give you more than a neighbor would give. But that's still not that much, because neighbors have no obligation to give you anything at all.

Of course, State Farm does not want you to think this way. It wants you to think that neighbors help each other when they are in need. In fact, it wants you to accept the fantasy that your neighbors will actually sacrifice themselves to help you for no reward. That is an extremely Christian delusion; and State Farm fully exploits it. After all, Christian doctrine advises us to "love our neighbor as ourselves" and to help those in need without expectation of reward. State Farm taps into that notion to cast itself as a "magnanimous patron," not a profit-hungry private corporation. And State Farm knows that many consumers equate the term "neighbor" with selfless Christianity.

This is cynical exploitation at its worst. While Christ might have helped his undifferentiated neighbor without hope of reward, most neighbors are not Christ-like. In fact, experience tells us the opposite.

State Farm is no exception. During Hurricane Katrina, State Farm acted exactly like the neighbors I know: It refused to help out at all when people really needed help. State Farm wiggled out from paying "hurricane damages" because it said its policies did not cover flooding. In my own experience practicing law, I recall a case in which State Farm refused to pay its own customer's $60,000 medical bill because it disputed the doctor's belief that the injury was "permanent." So it left its "neighbor" holding the bag with a $60,000 bill and a deformed arm--even though the "neighbor" dutifully paid his premium every month. How's that for service?

But that's how neighbors treat each other. So I guess State Farm was just doing as it advertised: It was just acting like a neighbor.

I find it utterly shameless for State Farm to exploit Christian overtones in the word "neighbor" to lull customers into thinking it actually cares about their welfare. No private corporation cares about anything beyond its quarterly profits. That is the law. Corporations owe no duties to anyone except their own shareholders; and shareholders could care less about magnanimity toward non-shareholders. They want money; and they don't really care if they're "nice" about getting it.

Commerce and Christianity just don't mix. State Farm knows that. It simply proceeds on the assumption that consumers are too stupid to understand the same thing.

Then again, most advertising functions on that premise. If people were too smart, it would really hurt business.

CHRISTMAS BREAK

I debated whether to pursue my usual writing routine this week. Ultimately, I decided to take a year-end break. I'm going to be on the road for the next few days anyway, so it makes sense for me to pause. Looking back, I've written about 300 posts in 2009 totaling 800 pages. Even a 17th Century Protestant banker would give himself a break after so much toil.

It has been quite a year for me. Yes, I've written a mountain. But more importantly I am finding myself. Every time I put my thoughts into writing, I add a piece to my personal testament. I started this blog to illuminate my philosophy on the world and its vexing ironies. I have learned a lot about myself simply by committing my views to paper. It is strangely satisfying to see what I think about so many issues. Unlike thought, writing is visible. Twenty years from now, I will be able to return to these pages to see what I thought in 2009. That is exciting.

If you need a Reason, Commerce or Justice fix before New Year's, feel free to raid my archives. Until 2010, I will rest my mind, read and reflect. I will check in every morning to answer comments, but I think I will hold off on posting. Of course, I reserve the right to post if something truly extraordinary occurs to me. And that happens without notice.

Thank you so much to all my readers. You keep me going. As long as you're here, I'll be here, too. Knowing that people read my blog has been my Christmas present this year.

Here's my best--and completely non-satirical--wishes for a peaceful and relaxing Holiday.

Oesterhoudt

CAR INSURANCE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN LIFE

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

No, I'm not kidding. This is no satire. If there is any correlation between broadcast airtime and importance in life, then car insurance must be the most important thing in life.

Watch network television for an hour. I guarantee that you will see at least four commercials for car insurance. During the same hour, you might only see one or two advertisements for erectile dysfunction or prostate pills. There might be an appeal to send money to children in Africa, or the odd statement from a tax accountant or a lawyer--who usually wants you to join a class-action lawsuit involving prescription medication or car insurance fraud. Mixed messages?

But I digress. Let's get back to the real question: What's so important about car insurance? Why are companies spending so much money--and wasting so much of my time--simply to say that they are selling indemnity contracts for my car? I don't even have a car; why the hell would I want car insurance? They talk about low prices (Allstate), discounts (Progressive) and savings (GEICO). Some take a "trust me" approach (Allstate); others try to throw in humor (GEICO and Progressive). Some provide more specific information, like the fact that they also sell boating insurance, garage insurance, homeowner's insurance, life insurance, renter's insurance and lawn insurance. Other provide no information at all, just a slogan and a phone number.

Animated geckos with cockney accents do not provide commercially relevant information necessary to make a reasonable free market decision, no matter what GEICO's Board says. On the other hand, advertisers don't care about providing information relevant to a reasonable free market decision. They just want you to remember them and buy. It doesn't matter if it's the "most reasonable choice" you've ever made. Advertisers target the visual sense: "See this? Now buy this." That's how it works.

This simple strategy explains why car insurance commercials dominate the airwaves. If a company has enough money to advertise, it will advertise as much as it can. After all, an idiot is more likely to remember something he sees ten times in two hours than something he saw only once during the same two hours. Advertisers like GEICO, Allstate and Progressive know that, so they deluge viewers' senses over and over again. Even if people don't think about car insurance every single day in their lives, advertisers make sure that when they finally do think about car insurance, they also think of their company. By bombarding the senses, advertisers create a mental connection. When the mind strays onto the topic "car insurance," it triggers the connection: "Must buy GEICO." When that happens, advertising has done its work. Advertisers don't want reflection. They want reflex.

Broadcast airtime is a precious commodity. It is very expensive. It can reach millions of people in an instant. It has the potential to spread knowledge, understanding and enrichment. If something appears in a broadcast medium, it carries weight: Someone had to pay a huge sum to air it. To convey a message in such a costly medium, the message must be "important." In that light, does it not reveal something about our society that commercials are the only messages that regularly appear in this medium? The broadcast medium could be used to enrich the population with meaningful messages. But in the end, it merely barrages them with animated geckos, cavemen, obnoxious women chirping about discounts and various entreaties to buy boating insurance. After all, car insurance is important: It's on TV all the time.

Some will inevitably say that commercial messages are the only way that networks can finance their non-commercial messages. But most non-commercial material on most television channels is utterly unenlightening. In many cases, it even bows to commercial pressures. Networks will not broadcast material that alienates their commercial sponsors. In a strange way, then, commercial messages dictate which non-commercial messages ultimately appear on television. Advertisers will not advertise on programs that do not draw people likely to buy their products. This limits the kinds of messages that people hear on television because everything comes back to commerce: The programmer must placate the advertiser first. Only then can he exercise some expressive freedom. Without the advertiser, he can broadcast nothing. Who's more important then: The car insurance company or the viewer who wants to see a show about medieval England?

In my view, this is all very pathetic. In the end, car insurance gets more play than momentous world issues in the United States. It may seem absurd to suggest that car insurance is the most important thing in life. Yet I promise you that you will see more GEICO commercials on television than programs about Darfur, the health care bill or the War in Iraq. Those things may be more "objectively" important, but they do not pay the network's expenses. Insurance companies do. So we hear their messages more than any other messages.

That's why it's perhaps not so absurd to say that car insurance is the most important thing in life. Our country dedicates more airtime to it than virtually any other single subject. If airtime is as precious as we hear, doesn't that mean that car insurance is important? It's getting all the airtime, so it must be important. Very important, even.

INVESTIGATING PEOPLE IS AN UGLY BUSINESS, EVEN IF IT IS WELL-INTENTIONED

AN ESSAY

Yesterday I saw the movie Doubt. In it, Meryl Streep plays a cantankerous Catholic schoolmaster who is determined to unseat the new parish priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman) because she thinks he is abusing a troubled student. She has no direct evidence for her crusade. She has seen him hug the student in the hallway. But everyone else says there is nothing inappropriate about the relationship. The priest says that love is essential to the Christian spirit; he said he hugged the boy because he was enduring ridicule from classmates. In the end, the schoolmaster confronts the priest by claiming that she "spoke to his former parish" about his "history." This leads the priest to leave his post.

Ironically, the schoolmaster later admits to a friend that she never called the priest's former employer. The friend is horrified that her austere confidante would ever lie, even when pursuing a just end. She responds: "In the pursuit of wrongdoing, one naturally steps away from God."

What an incredible line. It made me think about proof and truth, as well as investigations into others' personal history. It also made me think about prosecutors. After all, prosecutions involve the "quest for truth" while "pursuing wrongdoing" through "investigation." Yet that quest--despite its good intentions--often leads prosecutors into serious ethical quandaries, just as it did to the schoolmaster in Doubt. And beyond ethics, investigating people for supposed "wrongs" often brings out the worst in everyone involved.

We all have histories. When someone wants to dig into them, he will always uncover something unpraiseworthy, embarrassing, scandalous or simply ugly.

Meryl Streep's character in Doubt represented a familiar "type:" The self-righteous investigator who wants to find evil in a person's past. Such types do not just appear in Catholic schools or District Attorneys' offices. Rather, they appear everywhere in our society. Whenever a person assumes a morally superior position above another and launches an "investigation" into that person for some "official" purpose, he or she effectively becomes the schoolmaster in Doubt. I have encountered them in private employment, in law practice, in academics and in State licensure boards. There is an inherent condescension in their work: They hold the power; they assemble the knowledge; and they pronounce a judgment on another person's history. All the while, they never acknowledge that they, too, may have "skeletons in the closet."

It is uncomfortable to undergo investigation. When I applied for admission to practice law in Illinois, I had to submit to a grueling "Character and Fitness" inquiry. For months, an entire committee combed through my past. They made me fill out an exhaustive "personal history" questionnaire in which I had to disclose all my addresses over the past ten years, as well as confess any disciplinary infractions, criminal convictions, criminal charges, debts and basically anything else "bad" I had done in my life up to that point. They also deeply wanted to know whether I had ever lied under oath or otherwise been "dishonest" when "investigated in an official capacity." Every question seemed to lay a trap: Should you answer fully? Should you answer everything? Should you try to get away with an omission? It was as if the committee wanted you to think they knew everything, but perhaps might overlook something. Every question radiated mistrust, as if inviting you to risk a lie. The whole process seemed designed to make you feel inferior and minuscule. It left you feeling like a specimen under a microscope. And it was your "character" on the block: You either had to confess or they would find out the "truth" by some other means.

Private employers do similar things when "vetting" potential employees. They want references. They want work history. They run credit checks and peruse public records. They compare your resume to other sources to see if you're lying. They even call former employers to get "outside impressions" about the "kind of person you are." Just as the Bar Committee ruthlessly investigates applicants, so too do private employers subject hopeful workers to a suspicion-laden process in an effort to "certify" them. They get to judge personal histories; it is a one-way street. They might be total scoundrels themselves, but they're not the ones applying.

But sometimes we need investigations, don't we? After all, we want to find out bad things about people so we can punish them, or at least prevent them from working, right? Of course we do. Still, that does not mean that investigations are noble. In fact, as the schoolmaster said in Doubt, the "pursuit of wrongdoing" moves us "away from God." In other words, it is somehow undignified to grub in the ground for bad facts about people. It leads to uncomfortable inconsistencies, awkward explanations and outright embarrassment. And taken to the extreme, it leads the investigator to employ dishonest means to accomplish his "honest" ends. Put simply, the quest to affix "truth" to an individual can quickly degenerate into an obsessive witch hunt. When that happens, we should wonder whether the value of "truth" about people is worth the ethical leaps we perpetrate to find it.

I mention all this because truth interests me. We cannot talk about investigation without talking about truth, because investigation aims to produce "truth." Yet it makes no sense to talk about truth without analyzing the concept. After all, truth is about human knowledge. Human knowledge, in turn, stems from human sense. There are comparatively few things in this world that an individual can sense, and those are the only things that he can really "know as true." We know the sky is blue because we see it; we know we are angry because we feel anger in our stomachs. But how do we know about others' pasts? We are limited to our own senses for knowledge and truth. If we do not see a person act "badly," what proves to us that they are truly "bad?"

Investigators set about assembling all the circumstantial facts that produce the impression that a person is "bad" or has "done wrong," even if we personally know nothing about it. That takes real effort--and it takes a lot of scavenging. That "scavenging" takes us "away from God." Scavenging is dirty; that's what pigs and vultures do. Yet this is also what investigators do, even when they have the best intentions.

Theologians say that only God knows the "truth" about other people. In that light, any human attempt to find it seems a hopelessly imperfect enterprise.

Leaving God to one side, modern-day investigations merely reflect power. The investigator sits back, asks questions, assembles facts and makes a judgment about a person based on his "past." The investigator has a past, too. But he need not answer for it. He's the one doing the investigating. He has his own truth; he keeps it comfortably concealed in his memory. But he gets to affix truth to someone else.

It is, after all, an immense power to declare the truth about others.

DOMINIC CARTER, EVIDENCE LAW, HEARSAY AND TRUTH : IT IS NEVER EASY TO SAY WHAT "ACTUALLY HAPPENED"

AN ESSAY

Earlier this week, I read about Dominic Carter, a disgraced New York TV anchorman. Last year, authorities charged Mr. Carter with domestic abuse after his wife complained that her husband tried to strangle her during a fight. She later recanted her story, claiming that a mysterious "day laborer" was the assailant, not her husband. That did not faze the prosecutor. He proceeded with the case against Mr. Carter.

Mr. Carter appeared in Queens County court to answer the charges last week. In addition to flatly denying that he "had done anything wrong," he begged the judge to dismiss the case because he was "too important" and had "many friends in New York State government." He dropped several names, including Judith Kaye, the Chief Judge of New York's highest court. The judge was flabbergasted, admonishing Mr. Carter: "Don't drop names in here! You know better than that!" She did not dismiss the case. Mr. Carter's employer publicly condemned his conduct and appeared ready to fire him.

Mr. Carter decided to fly to Kansas City after his hard week back home. While waiting to take off, he stood up and made his way toward the restroom. Although no one exactly knows what happened next, a flight attendant screamed: "I want this man off the plane. He tried to assault me." Mr. Carter vigorously denied the accusation, explaining that he "must have bumped into her" while "bending over to tie his shoes." In any event, the flight attendant won the debate and Mr. Carter was ejected from the plane.

Police arrived to investigate the complaint. They determined that the flight attendant caused the altercation. They did not file charges. Mr. Carter took the next flight without incident.

I recount this story because it made me think about proving things. Evidence law represents our legal system's attempt to inscribe past events with "truth." I have written many times that it is impossible to know "the truth" about anything without being personally present to perceive it with our own senses. Yet we must rely on reports to formulate our beliefs about almost every event in our lives. We cannot sense everything that happens on earth. So we must put our trust in stories. Evidence law tries to assign credibility to stories. It also tries to screen out information likely to confuse the truth rather than find it.

Consider Mr. Carter's relatively banal story. The question is "what happened on the plane as he walked down the aisle?" Did he "deliberately assault" the flight attendant? Or did he really bend over to tie his shoes? Was it an accident? How do we know? We certainly weren't there. I read about the conflicting stories in the newspaper. How, then, can we satisfy ourselves about "what actually happened?"

Let's suppose the authorities decided to put Mr. Carter on trial for assault. To prove assault, the State would have to show that Mr. Carter intended to touch the flight attendant in a harmful or offensive way, and that he did touch her in such a way. From a philosophical standpoint, it is extremely difficult to prove intent, because intent exists solely in another person's mind. When threatened with punishment, a person rarely confesses to what he "actually intended to do," so evidence law requires us to look to external factors to "infer" intent. In other words, we must look to observable facts (ie, behavior, words) to conclude an unobservable fact (the actor's intent).

Mr. Carter's defense would depend upon his ability to show he did not "mean" to offensively touch the flight attendant. That is an intent defense. But to prove his intent, he would have to point to external factors. The best way to do that would be to call witnesses who directly perceived the event, preferably from a close distance. They could say what they saw: Did he slap the woman? Did he raise his arms in a threatening way? Did he "look angry?" Did it "look like he meant to hit her?" These are visual perceptions, and they carry the most weight when attempting to convince a listener to adopt "the truth" about a particular event.

But what about words? We can correctly infer a person's intent based upon his verbal conduct. What people say (and how they say it) can lead us to guess what they feel, intend and think. Still, whenever words enter an evidence question, the analysis becomes much more complicated. Everyone knows the word "hearsay," but fewer know the legal definition. In popular understanding, "hearsay" simply means "reported speech from someone else." In evidence law, however, it has a much more technical meaning. It means any "out-of-court statement offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted." See Federal Rule of Evidence 801(c). "Statements," in turn, mean "oral or written assertions or nonverbal conduct of a person, if intended by the person as an assertion." See Fed. R. Evid. 801(a). Applying these definitions, we see that even the defendant's own words can be hearsay if he repeats them in court. In short, hearsay does not have to come from "someone else," nor does it even have to be verbal.

This introduces a serious problem in criminal cases in which the defendant tries to explain what he intended to do. At the same time, the prosecution has an advantage over the defendant because another evidence rule permits a "party-opponent" to introduce an "opposing party's statement" against him. See. Fed. R. Evid. 801(d)(1)(A). This means that the opposing party here (namely, the prosecutor) could use Mr. Carter's statements against him, but Mr. Carter could not use his own statements to defend himself. For example, if Mr. Carter wanted to prove that he said "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, he could not testify that he said it because it is "hearsay." But if the prosecutor brought in a witness who said Mr. Carter exclaimed: "Get outta my way, biatch" on his way down the aisle, it would be fully admissible against Mr. Carter as a "statement by a party-opponent."

This is a bizarre result. It almost seems unfair. After all, shouldn't people get to say what they said on earlier occasions in order to explain themselves? When the question involves individual intent, the individual is really the only one who can confirm or deny it. Yet evidence law turns away from this "best source" because it presumes that accused individuals will not tell the truth.

Thankfully, evidence law offers another way for Mr. Carter to get his statements before the jury. Although he could not testify that he said: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, a different witness could. Federal Rule of Evidence 803(3) provides an exception to the hearsay rule for statements relating to the "declarant's then-existing state of mind," including their "intent." In this case, if a nearby passenger heard Mr. Carter say: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" immediately after the flight attendant screamed at him, it could be admitted to show that Mr. Carter did not intend to harmfully touch the flight attendant. It would not be hearsay because the defense does not offer it to prove the "truth" that Mr. Carter actually tied his shoes. Rather, it would offer the statement to prove the declarant's (ie, Mr. Carter's) then-existing mental state: Namely, that he did not intend to offensively touch anyone.

I mention all this to show how difficult it is to prove things. It is even more difficult to prove them according to technical evidence rules that prohibit people from explaining what they actually said, yet permit others to use their words against them.

Do all these rules bring us any closer to the "truth?" I don't think so. In the end, ascribing truth to a story depends as much on available evidence as it does to pure intuition. In my view, lawyers make a colossal philosophical blunder when they think they have a greater claim to "uncovering truth" because they apply technical evidence rules. No man-made rule can change the fact that human beings have limited senses. When it comes to believing something that allegedly happened outside those senses, one man's guess is virtually as good as the next man's.

BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT : WHY IS IT SO HARD TO GRASP?

AN ESSAY

Legal doctrine abounds with verbal formulae. In law school, students memorize these shibboleths. They are the “magic spells” that allow them to “correctly” analyze any fact pattern. They rarely get a chance to reflect on what these “spells” mean from a grammatical perspective, or even whether they are prudent. Rather, law school students act under immense time pressure; they can do little but learn the formula and move on the next one. I doubt that many lawyers ever really ponder famous “legal formulae,” either. But since leaving the profession, I think about them all the time. And I see that there is nothing intrinsically prudent or sacred about them. They are merely administrative tools intended to bring illusory order to the nebulous disorder of human experience.

Everyone knows the phrase “beyond a reasonable doubt.” It appears all the time in movies, plays and even rap songs. Jay-Z named his debut album Reasonable Doubt. It has a mythical ring to it; it sounds appealing, even majestic. But does anyone really understand it? What is it? People assume that lawyers and judges understand it. They even think that it leads to the truth. Yet this is error. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” is an invention. It is a good invention because it seeks to protect individual liberty from wrongful criminal conviction. But it remains invention. It does not magically entitle judges and lawyers to find the truth.

“Beyond a reasonable doubt” is a “standard of proof” that governs criminal trials in the United States. In 1970, the Supreme Court famously held that the Constitution’s Due Process Clause requires every State government to apply the standard in every criminal trial. In re Winship, 397 U.S. 358 (1970). Unless the State proves “every fact necessary to constitute the crime charged beyond a reasonable doubt,” said the Court, it denies the defendant Due Process. Id. at 364 (emphasis added). This is hopeful language. After all, “beyond a reasonable doubt” means that a jury must indulge virtually every inconsistency in the evidence in the defendant’s favor. If there is a “tie,” it goes to the defendant—and individual liberty. It forces the government to put all “reasonable doubt” to rest about the defendant’s guilt before it can take away his liberty—or life.

But today I am not writing about constitutional law. I wrote about the law on this subject as a law student. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” interests me now because it impinges upon much larger concerns, like reason, truth, evidence and belief. Unlike many other legal doctrines, this one deals with facts: What do we believe about someone? What “actually happened?” More importantly, how “certain” must we be before we condemn someone to prison or death? And because “beyond a reasonable doubt” is a “verbal formula,” it has grammatical weaknesses. Lawyers do not think about these things. They just look to see what courts said about past cases.

What is the real issue, then? The real issue is evidence at trial. The State seeks either to imprison someone or execute him. It charges him with a crime, a written definition encompassing certain “bad behavior.” To convict him, it must put forward evidence proving that his conduct falls within the written definition. The prosecutor, jury and judge were not there to see this alleged “bad behavior.” There might be rumors about it. Perhaps there are witnesses; perhaps not. For better or worse, those called upon to decide a defendant’s fate must evaluate evidence to formulate the “truth” about “what actually happened.” No juror actually sensed or perceived the alleged event. They must engage in second-hand observation and decide whether something happened. Evidence gives them sensory fodder with which to judge “the truth.” They might hear a witness’ account or see a video recording. They might hear about footprints, or bloody gloves or even confessions. Yet they might also hear that witnesses have an interest in condemning the defendant, or that they have poor eyesight, or that they were distracted, or that the police coerced a confession. All these things constrain their Herculean task: To decide “the truth,” even if they were not there to perceive it.

Yet juries cannot simply speculate on the evidence. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” is an attempt to prevent juries from simply “imagining” things about the defendant. Rather, it forces them to look solely at the evidence. Remarkably, many courts over the centuries have not understood this, let alone the “everyday folk” who comprise juries. As recently as 1994, the Supreme Court dedicated an entire opinion struggling to explain what “reasonable doubt” actually means. Victor v. Nebraska; Sandoval v. California, 511 U.S. 1 (1994). There, the Court said that “reasonable doubt” does not mean “merely possible doubt,” but rather doubt that, “after consideration of all the evidence, leaves the jury with an abiding conviction, to a moral certainty, that the charge against the defendant is not true.” Id. at 8 (quoting Commonwealth v. Webster, 59 Mass. 295, 320 (1850)). It also said that “reasonable doubt:” “[W]ould cause a reasonable person, in one of the graver and more important transactions in life, to hesitate before accepting certain facts as true…it is doubt that, after full and fair consideration of the evidence, leaves you with and abiding conviction, to a moral certainty, that the accused committed the crime charged…you may be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt yet be fully aware that possibly you may be mistaken…you may find a defendant guilty upon the strong probabilities of the case, provided they are strong enough to exclude any doubt of his guilt that is reasonable…it is an actual and substantial doubt.” Victor v. Nebraska, 511 U.S. at 18.

Did the Court really need to spend so much time on the question? After all, it would have been easier to simply look at the phrase from a grammatical perspective. “Beyond” is a preposition that implies “movement past” a particular point. It implies linear motion: One moves along a path; one reaches a point on the path; one moves beyond the point. Anything before that point is not “beyond” the point. A jury can only convict a defendant if it decides that the evidence moves beyond “reasonable doubt” about his guilt. That is the magical point on the path. The evidence must move “past reasonable doubt” in order for the State to condemn the accused.

This is the point at which the Supreme Court should have considered “reasonable doubt.” The word “reasonable” appears everywhere in the law. Unfortunately, very few courts apply a consistent definition. In many cases, judges simply use the word to impose their own standards on certain behavior, namely, standards demanding steady living, hard work and “contribution to society with regard to the property rights of others.” Yet this “normalizing” definition really misses the point. After all, “reasonable” derives from “reason,” specifically, the human capacity to find truth through the senses. A person is “reasonable” if he believes only what his eyes, ears, nose and skin nerves tell him. It is “reasonable” to believe that snow fell last night if one awakes to see the ground covered in snow. It is verifiable. It is possible to infer the fact that snow fell while you slept from the fact that you see snow on the ground now. It is based on perceptible evidence. But it is not “reasonable” to believe that God exists, because no one sees God. Well, some people say they do, but do “reasonable people” believe them? No, they don’t. “Reasonable people” believe in their senses. They are empirical. They doubt anything that their senses do not perceive. For a person who trusts reason, “truth” is a matter of perception. If the person is not there to perceive an event, he listens to what others say about it, looks at physical residue concerning the event, then decides what “reasonably happened” based on things that can be perceived. This is “reasonable thinking.”

Reasonable doubt, then, is any doubt warranted by perceptible evidence. It rules out all speculation. It is purely evidence-based. The Supreme Court did not need to introduce extraneous concepts like “hesitancy” and “important life decisions” in order to explain “reasonable doubt.” It should merely have said that “reasonable doubt” refers solely to sensory evidence. It is doubt that arises from things we perceive. As long as the evidence permits us to doubt something, we have “reasonable doubt.” Doubt is not “reasonable” if we simply “imagine” it. And if we have “reasonable doubt” in any way, we have not moved “past” or “beyond” reasonable doubt. This is the grammatical way to understand the formula “beyond a reasonable doubt:” If we have it, we are not beyond it. We must acquit the defendant. But if we don’t have it and merely imagine it, we are beyond it. That means we must convict him.

I write all this because I think many lawyers and judges merely learn verbal formulae without seriously considering what the words mean. It is one thing to mouth phrases in order to score points on a test. It is quite another to genuinely ponder what those phrases mean in both grammatical and philosophical terms.

“Beyond a reasonable doubt” is a compelling phrase for several reasons. For one, it reinforces the law’s commitment to “reason” above all else. There is no faith in the law. Spirit is irrelevant. There is only body, property, the senses and “tangible things.” Reason can govern these things; yet it is banal. After all, there is nothing remarkable or spiritually uplifting about arguing over who saw what and who owes whom what dollar amount. These are the concerns of both reason and the law.

Second, “beyond a reasonable doubt” represents the law’s attempt to sort out facts. Courts have an immensely hard time doing this because facts are elusive. No matter what courts say, facts are never determinate. Facts merely represent belief based on second-hand evidence. When courts compose long “fact sections” in their opinions, they do not recount “exactly what happened.” They are merely reciting what the court below them “believed” after applying an arbitrary standard. Put simply, courts do not like talking about facts. Facts are messy. And in the end, they are arbitrary. Once one court believes a fact, it is almost impossible to alter that fact on appeal. This has nothing to do with “truth.” It has everything to do with “administrative convenience” and “interpretation.” Judges don’t reopen factual disputes because they inevitably degenerate into “he said she said” wars long after the event. Judges get to say: “OK, this is what happened,” even if their version is not really true. Interpretation is power: The power to announce the truth, even if untrue.

Reason can help us answer many questions about our existence. I trust it in all situations in which it is valid. I think it is valid in criminal law, because criminal law addresses matters to which reason applies: External behavior that can be “directly perceived” or “inferred.” It does not involve faith or belief; at least, in should not. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” is a good standard in criminal trials because it forces juries to apply only their reason, not their passions or their prejudices. Sensory evidence produces belief or doubt in the mind. When it produces doubt in a criminal case, the defendant must go free. In this sense, the standard favors liberty. As long as jurors understand what the words “reason” and “beyond” mean, they should never have a problem understanding the “beyond a reasonable doubt” standard.

But perhaps this is exactly the problem. After all, jurors—like all human beings—do not always use their reason at times when they should. Perhaps it is too much to expect that people will always be reasonable.

WAR, DEATH AND TRUTH : PUBLISHING CASUALTY PHOTOGRAPHS

AN ESSAY

Associated Press photographer Julie Jacobson recently published a “disturbing image” in the New York Times. See http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/04/behind-13/. Specifically, she dared to snap a picture of a U.S. Marine moments after he suffered a mortal injury in Afghanistan. The image shows two comrades struggling to stabilize him. His lips are weakly parted; he stares at the ground as if in shock. His bloody leg (or stump) is clearly visible. His rifle lies powerless at his side. According to the article that accompanies the picture, the Marine died several days later. His father learned that Ms. Jacobson had the picture and asked her not to publish it. He did not want the picture to “sully the memory of his son.”

Ms. Jacobson published the picture anyway. Defense Secretary Robert Gates angrily denounced her decision. Although he acknowledged she had a “legal and constitutional right” to publish it, he claimed that “common decency” and “taste” should have stayed her hand. In response, Ms. Jacobson pointed out that she complied with the Defense Department rule for publishing “U.S. casualty photographs,” namely, only after the Department confirmed the casualty and notified the soldier’s family. This satisfied her sole legal obligation. From a strictly legal perspective, the fact that the Marine’s family objected to publication made no difference; Ms. Jacobson followed the only rule that constrained her.

Not surprisingly, Ms. Jacobson’s decision sparked a heated debate on the New York Times’ website. The debate broke into two camps: (1) Those who believe that the press must always respect a family’s wishes and (2) those who demand to see the “truth of war” uncensored and uncut. One angry commenter even went so far as to say that “acts like this” (ie, photographers defying military families’ wishes) were reason to “revoke the First Amendment.” But another applauded Ms. Jacobson for delivering a “dose of truth” about a war that seems all-too distant and “sanitized” in American eyes.

This is not a new debate. Americans have always been queasy about seeing pictures of their own men dead (or dying) on the battlefield. We have been in many wars since the advent of photography. Matthew Brady was the first man to photograph dead soldiers after the Battle of Antietam during the Civil War. His work sparked outrage and disgust. He said he was merely trying to show “what really happens in war” beyond all the glorious rhetoric and saber-rattling. Despite his commitment to “telling the truth” about war, the U.S. military took steps to curtail such publications. These efforts culminated in complicated rules about publishing “U.S. casualty images.” These are the rules that Ms. Jacobson’s image now calls into debate.

Interestingly, the military’s rules about publishing “U.S. casualty images” only apply to U.S. service personnel. If a civilian is killed, there is no rule prohibiting a journalist from immediately publishing the image. Similarly, if a soldier from the enemy army dies, a journalist does not have to wait until his family is notified. And naturally the journalist need not heed the foreign soldier’s family’s objections to publication (if they even know their son has died fighting the Americans). The U.S. military defends its rule because it wants to “uphold the dignity and memory of troops who give their lives for their country.” Yet that concern does not apply to any other human being who dies as our troops fulfill their mission. At the same time, the rule leads to a skewed impression: Americans only get to see dead enemy troops and civilians, but never dead Americans. In the end, this blinds the American public to the brutal reality of war. After all, American troops die in Iraq and Afghanistan every day. We know this from the “official casualty rolls.” Yet those rolls do not begin to tell the same story as pictures showing soldiers dying.

If America wants to wage war, it should know the costs. War is not about animated maps and strategic objectives narrated on the FOX News Channel. Nor is it even about geopolitical balancing or justice. Rather, for the men who fight war, it is about fear, carnage, brutality and death. For the men who fight war, it is an agonizing sensory experience. The sights, sounds and sensations of war irreversibly alter those who experience them. (See, e.g., All Quiet on the Western Front). Yet these sensory impressions rarely make their way back home for everyone else to see. War veterans cannot even start to “explain” what it is like to be in combat and to see young men suddenly die. Yet photographs can at least partially convey the sensory impressions that language can never capture. In so doing, they tell an essential story that would otherwise be forever lost. Put simply, when the government censors images capturing the visual, visceral, unforgiving “essence of war,” it deludes the public. If the public really wants to know the sacrifices men make on the battlefield, it should know about the uncensored brutality they see every day.

Yet many strongly disagree with this assertion. They say that the public’s “right to know” about war’s brutality must yield to the individual soldier’s family’s interest in freedom from the emotional turmoil that flows from seeing their dying son paraded in newspapers. They say that military families have a right to “cherish certain memories” about sons who die in combat, even if those memories are inaccurate or false. While it is true that military families will suffer immense pain upon seeing such images, their pain must be compared with the broader public interest in knowing the true cost of war. I venture that it is better for the public to know how bloody and senseless war is than to fall into ignorant delusion about its human price. The only way to truly inform the public about war’s price is to inflict additional emotional pain on the families of the individual soldiers whose dying bodies we see captured on film.

This sounds harsh. Yet this is the only way to drive home the cost of war. Nothing else even remotely tells the story.

My heart goes out to the father who lost his son in Afghanistan. I am truly sorry that he must bear the additional burden of seeing his son’s final moments in a photograph. I am also sorry that the public, too, can now see that image. But I venture that this image does far more than inflict individual emotional pain on those who knew the soldier who died. It does not disparage his memory, nor does it dilute his sacrifice. Rather, it honestly shows what he endured. It shows what war does to men. It reveals that there is nothing glorious or heroic about war. In so doing, it educates the public. When the public knows what war really costs—in visual, visceral, human terms—we can only hope that they will be less eager to start them in the future.

America needs to understand that wars have costs. Yet rules such as the military’s ban on “casualty photographs” blind us to those costs. They also deceive the public into believing that “we do the killing, but not the dying.” Ms. Jacobson’s photograph unsettles these assumptions, and rightly so. It illustrates that war is not fun for anyone, American or not. It is important for Americans to know that before launching another military excursion somewhere in the world.

Europeans learned the cost of war between 1914 and 1945. That is why they criticize us so much for our willingness to start new ones.

ADVERTISING & INFORMATION : SIMPLE WORKS

AN ESSAY

I noticed something new about advertising as I rode the New York subway this morning. I thought I had written all I could about advertising, but just when I thought I had said enough, a new idea spawned in my head. After all, advertisers stop at nothing to kindle our commercial urges. As such, they resort to any tactic to get our attention and make us want to spend money. The Supreme Court actually grants advertisers full freedom to say whatever they want, provided they are not “deceptive, false or misleading.” Yet that is a meaningless exception, because it is very easy to provide misleading information without “actually lying.” And it is easy to lie simply by keeping quiet about bad stuff.

But today I do not write to analyze advertising theory or constitutional standards. Rather, I write to make a simple point, namely, that all advertisements do the same thing: They selectively provide an “informational tidbit,” which in turn makes a suggestion to the listener. The suggestion is always the same: “Now come give me your money.” Advertisers provide information—perhaps largely true, perhaps half-true, perhaps not true at all—for a purpose: To entice you to give them money. Advertisers do not aim to educate. They do not want you to “know more” or develop into a more “enriched person” with the information they provide. No, they want to “inform you” only to the extent necessary that you feel compelled to spend your money on them. It is strictly instrumental.

Consider these examples. As I sat on the train today, I looked up and saw three distinct commercial messages. The first was an admonishment from Duane Reade, a drugstore. Its message: “There are a bazillion germs on the pole you’re holding.” Broadly speaking, this is information. Maybe some people don’t realize that contagions congregate in crowded public spaces like the subway. Yet Duane Reade doesn’t care whether they’ve just educated you. They don’t care whether you’ve just become a more well-informed person because you heard their message about germs. No, they want you to take the information and translate it into commercial activity. Namely, they want you to say: “Omigod! There are germs all over the place, so I should go to the Duane Reade and start buying things!” Duane Reade is not trying to inspire the world’s next great microbiologist with this information. It is trying to lure an average schmuck into the store to buy cough drops.

In the next message, a local college advertised: “95% of people without college degrees never obtain jobs with salaries over $40,000 a year.” This is information, too. It might be accurate; maybe it isn’t. Still, it sounds relatively accurate (it has a percentage in it…wow), and in advertising, appearances are just as important as—if not more important than— “truth.” No one on the subway is going to check facts anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. Yet the local college does not provide this information to alert its listeners to demographic trends or educational crises in the United States. It wants to spark a desire in its listeners to start spending some money on tuition. After all, according to this information, if you don’t have a college degree, you stand a 95% chance never to make over $40,000 a year. You want to make more than $40,000 a year, so you’d better get a college degree with us. Again, the advertiser here provides information for an instrumental purpose: “People without college degrees don’t make much money. We can give you a college degree. Now give us your money.” Simple.

Finally, an Upper East Side “enrichment group” called the “Center for Practical Philosophy” blared this message: “No other ad on the subway will make you as happy as this one.” The center revealed that it offered classes to teach “working students” about “reason, beauty and justice” (no commerce or free beer; note that), and that its classes would lead to “happiness” by “harnessing the power of attention.” This was not typical advertising fare (ie, it wasn’t hawking trinkets or dental services), but it followed the same formula as any other. Specifically, it provided information about “classes” and those classes can make you “happier than other ads on the subway.” People want to be happy. Again, the message provides information in order to make the ultimate suggestion: “Now give me your money.” You want to be happy, don’t you? Well, here’s some information about happiness classes. Now you know where to spend your money if you want to learn how to be happy.

“Practical philosophy.” That made me laugh. In my experience, the two concepts mutually exclude each other. You’re either philosophical or practical, but not both. If you’re practical, you don’t like “philosophical bullshit” because it “doesn’t get things done.” If you’re philosophical, you don’t like “everyday, boring, banal practical shit” because it’s not “deep” or “sophisticated.” You can’t have it both ways. Yet this advertisement dared to cross the line. It made philosophy—which is generally antithetical to commerce—a commodity to be bought. On the other hand, this is New York. Everything is for sale here, even things that traditionally can’t be bought, sold or “commercialized.” We have more banks than guys named Bob in this town. In that light, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that philosophy is for sale, too.

But enough about philosophy. The point is that advertising is insidious because it channels information for a limited purpose, namely, to enrich the speaker. Human beings cannot know everything. They have short-range senses; they can only learn so much by direct perception. Everything else requires reliance on second-hand reports and “information sources” like advertising. In many ways, we are all hopelessly dependent on external information sources. Those who possess more information hold more power. That is the nature of things. Advertisers do not want us to “learn about the world” or even expand our consciousness with the information they selectively dispense. They want us merely to learn a few suggestive “facts” then fork over some money.

Ironically, it doesn’t matter whether advertisers provide “accurate” or “true” information to their listeners. Truth is largely irrelevant in commerce; it only matters when a commercial actor must be truthful to avoid a loss. Advertisers, too, provide accurate information if the law threatens punishment or if they want to outdo a competitor. But truth is never the ultimate aim behind advertising. Rather, the only goal is to incite an urge to buy in the listener. Selectively providing “facts” can create that urge. Whether the facts are “true” does not affect whether they will spark a “commercial urge.” In many ways, then, advertising targets human emotion more than reason. Advertisers want to incite a reaction, a need, a desire, an itch to buy. These are not entirely reasonable responses to information. To the contrary, they are childish, even animal responses: Show a dog a bone and the dog will want it; show an average American an all-NFL cable package and he will want it, too. In fact, if consumers had access to all information, they probably would have reason to avoid virtually every seller in the market. In short, advertising would not work if people were too well-informed. And it certainly would not work if people used their reason all the time.

I write all this because advertising literally surrounds us. Commercial speakers speak more than any others. They buy airtime. Their billboards leer over us. Their television messages interrupt us every five minutes. Their radio broadcasts barge in on our music. In short, they own our senses, besieging our eyes and ears with generally unreliable information calculated to arouse our commercial urges. No matter the medium, they all function in the same way: They selectively provide information for an instrumental purpose, then suggest “Now come give us your money.” Some advertisers spark more commercial urges in more people than others. They are called “effective advertisers.” But whether effective or not, they are all doing the same thing. And I venture that there is nothing noble or sophisticated about it.

After all, what do I care whether a private company succeeds in luring more people to spend their money? Who cares? Will anyone even remember? This is the never-ending “commerce dance.” Advertising provides an endless beat for the dance. It just keeps droning on day after day, generation after generation, following the same old formula: Provide information… suggest “Come on down and spend your money…”

In sum, there is nothing to it. It is all the same.