Why we are naked apes and other such questions

Yesterday I saw a great documentary called What’s the problem with nudity? in the BBC series 'Horizon'. It dealt with the question why modern man is essentially naked, having lost his fur or coat of hair ages ago - something our primate ancestors had spent millions of years acquiring. Indeed, it’s not only impractical that we humans are naked (we now need clothes for warmth and protection), we even get embarrassed or even ashamed about our nakedness in social contexts. So why, in fact, are we what the famous anthropologist Desmond Morris called The Naked Ape?

I’m not going to tell you the answer (you can watch the documentary here), but as I said, it was a good and enjoyable documentary. Not only because it supplied some interesting answers to the question of human nakedness, but also because it was a good question to begin with. As an academic, I’m very fond of a good question, which I think of as one we would all like the answer to, but which for some reason no one seems to have asked before. Some of them can even be quite funny, like the ones a comedian like Adam Carolla constantly asks, like ‘Why should panda bears - a species we have so few of - be the only species that seems completely uninterested in sex?’ or ‘Why does a toaster have a level that will burn your slice of bread to a char?’.

So in honour of the good question, here’s some that I have asked myself countless times. Maybe one of you will know the answer?

• Why do most people, including myself, take immense pleasure in accurately hitting small balls with awkward equipment in awkward poses? (I’m thinking of golf, snooker, baseball, polo, squash, etc.)
• Why do small children talk in a sing-songy voice? ('Do you want a little biscuit with your tea?' - 'Yeeees, pleaaase...' 'What do we say then?' - 'Thaaaank yoouuuu…')
• Why is the petrol cap on a car sometimes on the left and sometimes on the right? And why is there no arrow in the interior indicating which side of the gas pump you need to go?
• Why can no one come up with a dynamo-driven bicycle light that does not inexplicably stop functioning after a certain period of time? (Or exactly when you meet the cops in the street)
  
• Why does going to work feel even more of a nuisance after going on holiday?
• Why does almost every police force in the world use blue as their colour?
• Why do so many products use animals in their ads and logos? (Tigers, mice, frogs, crocodiles, roosters and many more for cereal, ducks for toilet cleaning, dogs for toilet paper, elephants for paper towels, bulls for beer, bears or monkeys for washing powder, etc.)
• Why is it so difficult to play an instrument but can I instantly whistle whatever song I want?

Why, dammit, why!?

Dictionary for aliens

Toothbrush (-es): an instrument which looks like a head of tightly clustered bristles (mostly synthetic fibers, although animal bristles are sometimes used as well) attached to a handle. Earthlings usually employ this object under the pretext of oral hygiene, but recent studies have confirmed that the act of brushing the teeth is essentially a ritual which may precede any activity that requires them to use both hands. The idea is to moisten the brush, to apply some toothpaste to it and - most importantly - to wedge the brush into the cavity formed by one relaxed cheek and the (gently) clenched teeth at the same side. Once this is done, earthlings can do whatever comes to their mind: sending text messages, putting food into the fridge, writing things down, updating Facebook statuses, going to the toilet, tying shoes, making sandwiches or - although slightly more advanced - answering phone calls.

Theoretical physicists claim that toothbrushes may cause tiny local distortions in the space-time continuum when used properly: local customs on Earth dictate that teeth should be brushed for 3 minutes (an old-fashioned unit of time, roughly equal to the time it takes to boil an egg), but almost all scientists who have actually seen an Earthling brushing his teeth have noticed that it takes less time on the observer's clock. The precise explanation for this phenomenon is not yet fully understood.

How to talk about books you haven’t read

How to talk about books you haven’t read is the somewhat provocative title of an amusing booklet by the French author and professor of literature Pierre Bayard (°1954). It offers certain strategies and behaviours for those wishing to talk about books they haven’t actually read or haven’t read in full - a pose frequently adopted by scholars of literature. In general, many of us who enjoy a good book, have used the names Shakespeare or Tolstoy in a sentence. But who can honestly say they’ve read a complete book by them? Still, Bayard argues, that needn’t be a problem. It’s perfectly alright to talk about books you haven’t read. As long as what you’re saying is interesting…

So let’s put the theory to the test, shall we? For some time now, I have been planning to write something in our section Quotes from the book about Herman Koch’s Het diner, which for over a month figured in the ‘Fred and Fred are currently reading…’-category. Before today, however, I was reluctant to put anything down on the topic, because I hadn’t actually finished the book yet. In fact, I have to confess that I lost interest in it a couple of weeks ago already, but only today did I muster the courage to put it away, unfinished. To me, there is something ambiguous about not finishing a book. In a way, there’s always a feeling of defeat, of having given up, accompanied with a certain amount of shame. You have failed the author; quite possibly because you did not understand what the book was about, or because you are such a brute you couldn’t appreciate the artistry. Besides, there are friends or eminent critics who highly recommended this very book you never could bare for more than a couple of pages. ‘Surely, it’s me, not you’, you think while looking at the cover… On the other hand, not finishing a book rouses a feeling of victory, of courageous decisiveness, not unlike when a politician leaves the room in a heated debate to express utter disagreement. Anyhow, it’s just a funny thing, when you do decide to physically put the book back on the shelf, destined never to be read or to be swished at the earliest convenience. Many books I haven’t finished I remember vividly, many others I have read, I retain no memory of…

However, as I was reminded of Bayard, I lost my apprehensiveness to talk about this particular book I haven’t (really) read. Indeed, why wouldn’t I quote that funny passage about Dutch tourists in France, which reminded me so much of my holiday experiences? Truth be told, although I find Koch’s narrative rhythm too slow and his tableau vivant of the diners too awkward to watch (for the same reason, I never liked Het eiland, for instance), this passage is brilliant, and I would not want to keep it from you:

Ik liet mij blik over het grasveld glijden. Iemand had ondertussen een cd van Edith Piaf opgezet. Babette had voor het feest een wijde, zwartdoorschijnende jurk aangetrokken en nu deed ze een paar onvaste, aangeschoten danspassen op de tonen van ‘Non, je ne regrette rien…’ Wanneer ruiten ingooien en brandstichting niet het gewenste resultaat opleverden, moest je de strijd naar een hoger plan tillen, dacht ik bij mezelf. Je zou zo’n Nederlands watje van huis kunnen weglokken met het voorwendsel dat je ergens een nóg goedkoper wijnboertje wist te zitten, om hem daarna ergens in een maïsveld af te tuigen - geen slap pak rammel, nee, iets stevigers, met honkbalknuppels en dorsvlegels.
Of als je er eentje los zag lopen, in een bocht van de weg, met een boodschappentas vol stokbroden en rode wijn op de terugweg van de supermarché, dan kon je je auto een kleine uitwijkingsmanoeuvre laten maken. Bijna per ongeluk. ‘Hij dook zomaar ineens voor de motorkap op,’ kon je later altijd zeggen - of je zei helemaal niets, je liet de Nederlander als een aangereden haas voor dood in de berm achter en waste bij thuiskomst eventuele sporen van bumper en spatbord. Zolang de boodschap maar overkwam was alles geoorloofd: jullie horen hier niet! Rot op naar je eigen land! Ga in je eigen land maar Frankrijk spelen met stokbrood en kaasjes en rode wijn, maar niet hier, bij ons!

Marvellous, isn’t it? So, to conclude, it seems we can talk about books we haven’t read. Indeed, it’s great fun. After all, I haven’t read Bayard either, but do you really feel tricked by this blog?

Lol.

The (futile) fight against fate

According to an online dictionary, 'fate' can be defined as follows:

Fate: the will or principle or determining cause by which things in general are believed to come to be as they are, or events to happen as they do.

Whether or not you believe in a predetermined future, yours or even in general, we all have our own little encounters with fate - haven't we? And I'm not referring to life-altering situations, I mean these seemingly irrelevant everyday moments which lead you to the inevitable conclusion that fate has at least one feature in common with Laika and Lassie: they're female dogs...

For example, you're at the railway station at 17h15, waiting for a friend whom you were supposed to meet at 17h. You have read 'The Cosmic Encyclopedia III : on general principles not making any sense at all', so you are aware of the fact that your friend will only show up once you turn the corner. Which tricks you into the following course of action: you actually decide to leave the railway station, almost thinking out loud "that's it, he will not be coming today, I am leaving", trying to induce the corollary to the aforementioned general rule. I tried it several times - which does not say anything about my friends, by the way - but it hasn't worked once. Because fate knows what you're up to, and it just doesn't work that way: either your friend shows up once you really decide to leave, or - as happened to me once - your detour is so big that he arrives in the meantime, doesn't find you and decides to leave. In order to avoid the latter situation, buy your friends a copy of the Encyclopedia for their birthday...

"So why didn't you text your friend then?" Like I said, you can't fight fate: the only moments you are aware of the fact that you forgot your phone, are the moments in which you could really use it.

So next day, you call your friend to fix a new date. He's busy at work however, and says he will call you back around 19h. Which is obviously when you usually have your shower. Not that day however, as you decide to wait for the phone and get into the shower afterwards. A similar pointless rule applies here: you can wait as long as you want, smelly and aware of that, your phone will not ring until you're all soaped up. My experience is that the IDF (imminent disaster factor) increases to a fatal level when you also decide to wash your hair, as this is usually when you run out of hot water during the shower.

Now, there was a reason why I started this blogpost like this: it seemed like the perfect introduction to a travel story I wanted to share with you. Unfortunately, I forgot my point. And we all know how it works when you're looking for something, right? I am not going to pretend. Fights with fate are futile...

What can I do?

Unless you’ve been living under a rock the last few weeks or do not own a TV set, you’ve seen it. I allude to that sepia-toned movie clip in which 1212 (official name: Belgisch Consortium voor Noodhulpsituaties) asks the Belgian people for donations to battle the current famine in Somalia and the Horn of Africa. Children with white tubes up their nose, sinewy hands groping for food, shoulder blades protruding from backs like the wings on a drowning butterfly. You’ve seen it.

But have you really seen it? I mean, have you actually watched it from start to finish? I haven’t. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I guess it’s normal. It hurts to watch this kind of thing with honest eyes, and besides, these movie clips are designed to make you tear up and feel guilty. But while their hard colours and that sad piano in the background might be orchestrated by a clever director, the message that goes out from such a movie clip is nothing if not real. In fact, its moral appeal can be quite a shock. Here you are in your couch, perhaps enjoying a glass of wine or even a snack, and suddenly you realise that the lives of 12 million people are threatened by drought. That should keep you from complaining about the Belgian summer for a while…

Now this moral appeal has always fascinated me. I consider it one of the most beautiful (tragic, but beautiful) human emotions. Seeing the face of the other and understanding its appeal as something that transcends us, sharply defines our own existence. The words are not mine, but are the metaphors used by Emmanuel Levinas (1906-1995), whose whole philosophy consists of an ethics of the other. But besides fascinating, the feeling of a moral appeal is at the same time extremely bothersome. If you really attend to it, it bugs you, it gnaws at you, and it questions your actions. And almost inevitably the crushing weight of responsibility you feel, will prompt the age-old question: “What can I do?”. And indeed, I don’t mean to be cynical, but ask yourself honestly: What can I do about the 2011 famine in the East of Africa?

I’ll tell you what I did. I donated 100 Euros to 1212.

But I didn’t feel better for it. Not in the least. Even now when I type it, it seems so easy and so little. One hundred Euros, what difference does that make? Another cynical question.

So I started honestly thinking the matter over. Seriously, what can I do?

• Could I perhaps give more? Two hundred Euros? Five hundred? A thousand? Would I really miss that money? But money cannot be a miracle cure, can it?
• Should I try to do something more substantial? Like supporting Oxfam or Doctors Without Borders every month? But I already do, and surely I need to do something more than the usual this time…
  
• Should I try to raise awareness? Like writing letters to the European Union or blogging about the problem? But I’m doing just that, and I can’t say I feel tons better now. Besides, what an armchair-solution to famine is that?

The more I think of it, the guiltier I feel. Only actually packing my stuff and going to Somalia to help could probably make me feel truly helpful. (And even then, how much good could a professional Latinist do in a refugee camp?) Otherwise, I doubt if I will ever be able to look at those images of starving people and feel I am doing enough…

And then it hit me. What’s the real problem here? The famine in Somalia? Or the fact that I will always feel frustrated, no matter what I do, that injustice and poverty still exist?

That’s right…

So, what can we do? That’s for everyone to decide for himself/herself. But whatever we do, we shouldn’t expect to feel any better about human misery because of what we do to fight it. In fact, I’m glad it never gets any better to watch those images of dying children. So, please do what you can for Africa and 1212. (The press recently pointed out that Belgium is preposterously behind other countries in this matter.) And if you want a clean conscience: do not give because you need to. Give because someone else needs it. Badly.

(Donations for the Horn of Africa can be made through BE 19 0000 0000 1212. Click here for more information.)

Listophobia

My biology teacher at secondary school had the following quote at the start of one of the chapters in his course notes: "Man is a classifying animal." I do agree with these words, which is probably the reason why I still remember them, although I would have put it slightly different: "Man is an animal, albeit a classifying one."

One of the things I miss when traveling is reading newspapers. Not that these are hard to find once you cross the border, nor are (wifi) internet connections allowing you to scroll through the latest updates, but I tend to be preoccupied with discovering real places and stories when I am abroad. Also, apart from fueling up with coffee, visiting news websites is basically the first thing I do when I enter my office on any given working day. Which means that, strangely enough, this has become a metaphor for work. So when I came back from my satisfying trip this summer, I had enough news to go through. It probably took me 3 headliners (Norway shooter traumatizes nation - Tottenham in flames as riot follows protest - Somalian hunger crisis leaves Belgians unaffected) to confirm the first part of the quote: man is an animal.

Albeit a classifying one.

I realized this, once again, when I was flying back to Brussels: on the last page of my travel notebook, the official end credits started to materialize. The entries of my things-to-do list. I promptly decided to start another list:

You had a perfect summer holiday when...

• the straps of your flip-flops are tanned into your feet
• you disembark from the airplane, and the first thought that comes to your mind is: "Hello rainy weather, long time no see!"
• you open your inbox, containing 763 unread messages, and you just shrug your shoulders and decide to do something useful - like washing your hair
• you wake up after a jet-lagged afternoon nap, and it literally takes you more than a minute before you realize you are actually at home, in your very own couch, and not in some fully-booked backpacker's where the compassionate owner suggested you to surf the couch for a night
• you come to the realization that you still know how to spell it, as W-O-R-K, but you forgot how to do it
• you start marking the days between now and the next trip
• you want to buy a train ticket in Brussels, and you address people in English instead of Dutch
• you are unpacking, and you suddenly realize you didn't use your raincoat
• you have more than 10 new facebook contacts, from various parts of the world
• you look at your travel pictures, and your thought after the first picture is "that seems ages ago"
• you did at least one thing you never did before.

Back to the first list now. Bugger.

Swishing!

We all have too much stuff. If you’ve ever moved house, you know what I mean. Once a year we all should go through the experiment of putting all our stuff in cardboard boxes and carry it down and up a few flights of stairs. I doubt we would keep half of what we do now!

Some of this stuff is completely useless (e.g., since 2009 I have had a Hello Kitty bubble blowing pipe in one of my drawers and cannot for the life of me say why I keep it), but other stuff you have paid good money for and are reluctant to throw away. You look at that ill-fitting sweater and think: ‘There’s nothing wrong with this sweater. I bet many people would be glad to have it. Just not me…’

Maybe this is how the concept of ‘swishing’ came about, which Wikipedia describes as follows:

• Swishing refers to swapping an item or items of clothing or shoes or an accessory with friends or acquaintances. Parties must willingly give an item to participate in the transaction, once they have given an item they are free to choose something of interest from what others have offered. Value does not come into the equation, swappers do not necessarily get an item of equal value and are free to choose anything that the other person if offering (without having to pay).

I got to know about the phenomenon from a funny description of an evening of swishing organised by my friends E. and B., who told the tale of the occasion in one of their blog posts on Schoenen en andere kwesties. ‘Fifteen women, as many bottles of sparkling wine, and a huge pile of clothes’, to quote the post… Oh how I would have loved to be a fly on that wall! The adrenaline! The excitement! The ecstasy! Indeed, I must confess that I feel in fact a bit jealous of this women-only, but obviously thrilling entertainment…

Yet, I think you won’t quarrel when I say that neither I nor the other Fred are very much inclined to spend the evening trying on someone else’s shoes or jeans. We need something else, something slightly more ‘Fred-ish’, so to speak. That is: a bit nerdy, but with a twist. So we came up with this.

We are proud to announce the FRED AND FRED’S BOOK SWISHING!

For sure, it needn’t be clothes or shoes, books will do just fine for swishing. So here’s the concept. On Friday 19 August Fred and Fred will host a very swishy party, where our readers are invited to come along with their swishable books. Please keep in mind, though, that no one will likely be interested in outdated yellow pages, in books that have been partly eaten by your dog, or in your school copy of the Children’s Bible. To stay in religious context: ‘Do not swish unto another what you would not have him swish unto you!’. What I am thinking of is that novel you excitedly bought in a cute bookshop, only to discover a forgotten copy of it on your top shelf. Or that historical novel your aunt bought you for Christmas, while you absolutely detest that genre. Or that book you have started reading five times, but somehow never managed to finish.

You get the idea…

The exact rules of the swishing and the exact proceeding of the evening will be decided on at a later point in time. Perhaps you could entertain us with some stories about the acquiring of certain books (How did you get that copy of “Dagboek van een herdershond”?). Or perhaps we could read a passage from the swishees (How about a small extract on doing the Heimlich Maneuver on yourself from “The SAS Survival Handbook”?). But rest assured, we won’t let the evening turn stuffy or aloof. There will be plenty of booze (incidentally one of the Freds celebrates a birthday sometime in August) and if it all ends in a drunken second-hand book market, that’s just fine with us!

So please reply through the comment box or at fredcumfred@gmail.com, if you’re interested and we’ll get back to you personally with the details of the event!

PS: In case you didn’t notice, Fred and Fred are back from their summer break! So keep your eyes and browsers peeled for new posts which will be appearing regularly on weekdays!