Consciousness, Pericles, and a new Philosophical Theorem

Consciousness is a strange thing. It is our greatest attribute and the one most taken for granted. We live everyday with perhaps the most inscrutable facet of ourselves, the one thing that makes everything else possible. Some of us use it to push the boundary of what we know and understand about the universe. Some create amazing works of art that teach us about ourselves. Some of us look inward, and examine the depths of that consciousness. And some of us watch Jerry Springer and then catch an early showing of Son of the Mask. It took thousands of years of human history before Rene Descartes boiled philosophy and consciousness down to its simplist form in 1637: "I think therefore I am." It doesn't get more basic than that.

That, of course, is all well and good. But as important as thinking and being is, it does confine you to a rather lonely existence. Which is why Descartes immediately followed his first statement with his second: "I get mail, therefore I am." This worked well until the 1990s and the advent of the internet, when it had to be amended to "I get email, therefore I am." I certainly remember checking both my email inbox and Carleton mailbox at every possible opportunity, to see if some new proof of my existence and importance had arrived. But, my friends, I have recently discovered a new form of existential verification that Descartes neglected, possibly because he lived in seclusion in Holland for 20 years. I do not doubt that this form of verification has been discovered and know before this point, but, as I am gloriously unfamiliar with philosophic writings, I will describe to you how I came upon my therom: "I get recognized in bars, therefore I am."

But first, I will give a brief account of the Guthrie Lab's presentation of Pericles. I wrote my review of the text of the play earlier, and I must say the adaptation on the stage took me a little by surprize. The set was excellent. Versital, interesting, familiar and exotic as the scene required. The costumes were also excellent, and here we come to the first, and most notable, aspect of the production. Pericles, through a series of travels, comes to several (I think a total of six) different countries, and the production showed the change in scenery by radically different costumes (which were fantastic) and accents. The accents and mannerisms took a while to get used to, since that didn't really occur to me while I was reading the play. But I realized that it was the best way to show the differing cultures the play was set in, and I admired the international feel that it gave the performance. The dramatis persona was pared down to a meager 17 characters, which was handled by a total of eight actors, who did an excellent job of jumping back and forth. All the characters are played a little over the top, which can often end in disaster. But the director clearly knew what he was doing, and brought the actors right up to the point where their performance gave the play just the hint of the ridiculousness that it needed. It's a long way down for an overacted play: Joel Sass (the director) takes Pericles up to that cliff, takes a long look down, but ultimately decides not to jump. The play succeeds in being colorful and silly without losing its dignity. Of all the characters, I was most surprised how much I was impressed with Gower, an English poet who was a contemporary of Chaucer that Shakespeare resurrects to play the Chorus. The performance (by an actor who I first saw at the Lab in an excellent turn as Othello) was lively, and Sass weaves Gower into the fabric of the action, as opposed to leaving him out in the cold to stand on his own. But what perhaps impressed me most were his actual lines. You would think that I would have gotten that out of the text, but clearly these lines (like so many of Shakespeare) were meant to be read aloud. Gower's rhymes frame the action with a lightheartnedness that belies the seriousness of some of the sequences on stage, and give you the idea that everything is going to end up okay.

But now I come to the meat of this particular post. As some of you know, perhaps my favorite bar in Minneapolis is the Monte Carlo, discovered before the aforementioned Othello performance at the Lab, when we had an hour to kill and wanted something to drink. I have now been there several times, and have kept the tradition of going either before or after Lab performances. It's a fantastic, old school bar and restaraunt. Atmosphere to the rafters but an easy and welcoming style. About half or 2/3 of the public space is given over to dining room seating, but the heart of the Monte Carlo is the bar. About 20 feet long with a copper top, the bar occupies the front of the restaurant and is pretty much all you see looking in from the front window. Running the length of the bar is a mirrored wall that is covered with four long glass shelves, stocked with a plethora of liquor that would be more than sufficient to drop any elephant that had the mischance to wander in and order a drink. I'm always dazzeled by the array of vodkas, gins, tequilas and other hard liquors (including at least three brands of the Scandinavian Akvavit), but when you put me in a bar that makes me feel like I should be wearing a pin stripe suit, a fedora and smoking an extremely expensive cigar, there's only one thing I'll really want to drink. I may start off with a martini, I may order something else, but what I really want is a shot at the largest collection of single malt scotch I've seen in a bar outside of Scotland. And it is therefore fitting that scotch is the reason I can tell you this story.

The last time I had been to the Monte Carlo was about 3-4 weeks ago. Java and I were celebrating the clearing of a number of boxes and packaging materials from his company's downtown offices, and in appreciation they expensed our little dinner. Freed from financial constraints, I ordered a cucumber-infused Hendrik's Gin martini, and then two glasses of scotch. It was the scotch (first a Highland Park and then Oban) that caught the server's attention, and he spent a few moments chatting with me about scotch. Nothing major, just a few remarks that showed he knew what he was talking about.

So. Java and I enter the Monte Carlo after the play, ready to enjoy not only their fine selection of alcohol but also their fantastic teryaki green beans. We sit down on the end of the bar, facing in toward the restuarant. One of the two waiters behind the bar comes up and asks us what we would like. Java orders a vodka tonic. I reply that I want a glass of scotch, but I don't know what kind yet. The waiter gets Java's vodka tonic, sets it down in front of him, turns to me and says: "You were liking the Highlands and the Islays the last time." Being the master of observation, I quickly realize that it is the same waiter we had several weeks ago, and that, against all probability and odds, he has remembered me. "Yes," I replied. "Have you ever tried Lagavulin?" (Pronounced lagga-voolin, and yes, I had to look this up.) "No," I answered, still stunned that this guy (who couldn't possibly have been more than a year or two older than us, if that) remembered me and what I drank a month ago. "Let me get you a glass of that..." And so began my life after being recognized in a bar. And not just any bar, but one of the best I've ever been in. Like finding email in your inbox or a laminated card letting you know you have a package waiting for you, it's one of those experiences in life that makes you feel important. I stumbled into it totally by accident, by virtue of endearing myself to the waiter by ordering from his area of expertise. It's all well and good to go along thinking and being, but every once in awhile it's nice to get some outside confirmation.