Some more Class Writings

Wrote this paper for my Metaphysics class. Got an A on it and feel like it's accessible enough that other people may want to see me totally own an uppity philosopher. Warning: this way madness lies.

Dire Ambiguities in Rea's “In Defense of Mereological Universalism”

Many arguments have been made promoting the idea that the ontology of the universe is much smaller than we might be practically inclined to assume. Whether it is Peter Unger arguing for Mereological Nihilism or Peter van Inwagen making the case that organisms are the only composite entities, these brilliant men have encouraged us to remove every day items such as tables, televisions, and tricycles from our ontology. Few of these arguments have been convincing to me, so it was with interest that I approached Professor Michael Rea's article “In Defense of Mereological Universalism”. Rea takes a vastly different approach, arguing that the number of things that exists in the world is much greater than our instincts would have us believe. Specifically, Rea argues for Mereological Universalism, which, by his definition, is the notion that, “for any set S of disjoint objects, there is an object that the members of S compose” (p. 348). In short, not only does Rea support the existence of tables, televisions, and tricycles, he believes that, if you were to pick one of each at random from all of the tables, television, and tricycles that exist, they would also composite their own distinct object. More generally, Rea is saying that any collection of distinct objects will form another object. As much as this proposition is counterintuitive, I feel that Rea makes a reasonable case for it. Unfortunately, I also feel that Rea's arguments, at least in this article, suffer from a certain vagueness that could easily lead to severe inconsistencies and make it difficult to endorse outright. I will examine some of these problems and suggest alternative approaches that I feel strengthen Rea's argument.

The first problem that I encountered when dealing with this article has nothing to do with the specific arguments that Rea uses so much as the definition of Mereological Universalism as he provides. The fundamental question that I can't help asking is, “How many objects is Rea claiming exist?” My first instinct was that the answer was, “infinitely many.” This would be an absurdity, as there is a mere finite amount of matter in existence. Examination proves this to be a false instinct, though. It is important to note that the objects in S are disjoint – that is, if we were to break them down into their own components, there will be no smaller object that belongs to more than one of the objects in S. Thus, there is no object that is composed of both my body and my kidney, as all of the components of my kidney are also components of my body. This reduces the necessity of the question, but it doesn't eliminate it, and understanding the ways in which the objects in S combine helps us to recognize that certain other complaints are invalid.

Assume, for a moment, that the universe contains only four non-composite objects: a, b, c, and d. Clearly, under Mereological Universalism, the universe also contains the composite objects {a, b}, {c,d}, and {a, b, c, d} among others. Now, what I want to know is this: does the universe also contain the object {{a, b}, {c, d}}, or is that object identical to {a, b, c, d}? That is, are objects distinguished by their most basic components, or by their most complex ones? It is not remotely clear from the definition of Mereological Universalism as Rea states it; but brief examination will show that endorsing the latter is simply absurd. Consider, momentarily, the following ASCII stick figure:

\O/
 |
/ \

For simplicity's sake, let's call him Adam. We can see that Adam is composed of a head (h), left arm, (al), right arm (ar), torso (t), left leg (ll), and right leg (lr). Let us assume that in the ASCII art universe, the lines which compose these parts are, themselves, simple. It seems obvious that Adam is composed of {h, al, ar, t, ll, lr}. If we use the first interpretation of our definition of Mereological Universalism, the one that declares that composite objects are defined by their most basic components, then this is the only way in which we can identify Adam. If we take into account the second possible understanding, though, we can also pull out a distinct object composed of {h, {al, ar, t, ll, lr}}. The object {h, {al, ar}, t, {ll, lr}} exists under this interpretation, as well. It strikes me, however, that both of these supposedly distinct objects are exactly Adam, just as the first object we identified was. Truly, there are easily a dozen different ways in which we can pick out an object sharing Adam's composition if we allow ourselves to pick out composites of composite parts; and we would be identifying each of these as a fundamentally unique object in our ontology. This is clearly absurd. So, as a charity, we must assume that Rea, despite a glaring lack of clarity, intends for us to interpret his definition in the first way. As such, we must remember that all objects are composed only of simples and recognize that any talk from here out about an object being a composite of composites is merely an effort to simplify discussion.

With that digression out of the way, we can begin examining Rea's actual arguments for Mereological Universalism. First of all, we need to recognize that the strongest reason for rejecting Mereological Universalism is unsound. van Inwagen and others would have us believe that, if Mereological Universalism is true, for a set of objects to compose something larger, all that is necessary is their existence, and that the particular object that they comprise depends only on the objects comprising it. Rea takes a slightly different view, suggesting that what is most important isn't the specific objects in question, but the way in which these simple objects are arranged (p. 349). This makes sense when we remember that all objects are composed only of simples, which come in only the smallest handful of varieties. If the nature of an object were determined only by the elements composing it, our world would be much less diverse and fascinating than it is. It also makes sense to take arrangement into account when we consider our reasoning for wanting to accept the existence of composite objects.

Effectively, there must be something unique about composites above and beyond the things that compose them. It is this uniqueness by which we identify and count them. Consider a table and a bookcase made out of the same type and quantity of wood. It is the particular arrangement of the wood that causes us to count one as a table and the other as a bookcase. In general, we say that objects whose parts are arranged in such away that they perform a certain function belong to a certain functional kind; and it is by membership in these functional kinds that we identify composites and include them in our ontology. However, these functional kinds cannot be limited to only those arrangements whose functions we have identified and found use for. If we were to limit kinds in this way, then the existence of composite objects would be entirely dependent on the existence of sapient individuals capable of discerning or assigning such functions. That is to say, under such a limitation, existence would be an almost wholly relative matter, which is no small consequence. How, then, are we to determine what arrangements are kind constituting? In not so few words, Rea suggests that all arrangements could hold some function that we have yet to discern, and therefore that all arrangements ought to be held as kind constituting (p. 354).

This is another statement that suffers from a crippling ambiguity. There are two distinct ways in which the phrase “Every way of arranging objects is kind constituting” (p. 353) can be read.

1. Every way of arranging objects constitutes some kind or another.


2. Every way of arranging objects constitutes some unique kind.

Rea does not, within the body of “In Defense of Mereological Universalism” clarify which of these phrasings he meant; but if correspondences we were read in class are to be believed, Rea endorses the second reading. This seems, to me, to be ridiculous for two reasons, one practical and one, again, mathematical.

Let's look at the practical objection first. It seems to me that we would like to say that the keyboard on which I am typing this and the functionally and aesthetically identical keyboard sitting at the computer next to me embody the same kind. Even if that keyboard may have developed stiffer springs than this on or if mine has a slightly displaced light for its Num Lock indicator. If every arrangement of matter uniquely constitutes its own kind, though, these to keyboards are not the same kind by Rea's definition. In fact, due to the simple motion of particles if nothing else, it would strike me that even if these keyboards did not have these minor, but apparent dissimilarities, the probability of them (or any other two seemingly identical objects) ever having the exact same arrangement of parts at a given time is effectively zero. How, then, can we say that things as obviously dissimilar in arrangement but identical in function as my roommates' cars embody the same kind? In the same correspondence in which Rea put forth his endorsement of the second reading, he seemingly argued, that the arrangements he is talking about are not simply physical arrangements; he is talking about functional arrangements. As surely as there's more than one way to skin a cat, there are multiple ways of arranging things spatially that can bring about the same function. I doubt anybody would disagree with this. But changing the use of the word “arrangement” in this way is counterintuitive and wholly unnecessary; as the second statement, under functional arrangements, is identical to the first statement under spatial arrangements. So, Rea needs to either clarify from the beginning that the arrangements he is talking about are non-spatial or he needs to clarify that any arrangement of objects is kind constituting for some kind K. As the argument stands, it is runs dangerously near absurdity once more.

I say this because, under the natural assumption of spatial arrangements, we once again encounter problems of cardinality if we espouse the second reading of what it means for an all arrangements to be kind-constituting. The problem here is that space cannot be divided up into discrete, infinitesimal points. Space is, by its nature, continuous. As such, even if the universe is finite in volume, there exist an (uncountably) infinite number of places at which an object can be. This being the case, even a universe containing only 2 ontologically simple objects would require us to define an infinite number of kinds under the assumption that arrangements are spatial. I see no reason why we should accept this in a universe with a multitude of objects much less a universe with only 2. Certainly, the number of possible functional arrangements far outweighs the number of objects, but the infinite number mandated by Rea's assertion and a spatial understanding of arrangements seems wholly unnecessary.

With this clarification taken care of, I have few remaining qualms with Rea's argument for Mereological Universalism. Chiefly, I wonder how non-physical objects work into his ontology – things like numbers and music. While we do discuss composite numbers in mathematics, they are not composite in the way used here; and I while I am willing to hesitantly accept that the toes on my left foot jointly compose an object along with Big Ben, I remain unconvinced that they can do so with a diminished G7 chord. These are things that many philosophers studying ontology have insisted do exist. Numbers, particularly, are often held to exist essentially. What does Rea do with them? Does he deny their existence? Is there some tacit substance dualism going on here, wherein the material and immaterial can only composite larger objects with like members? Where Rea to expound on this topic, we would certainly all benefit, but any further conjecture would be useless without further input from Rea.

Ultimately, my concerns about the immaterial are not grave enough for me to discount Rea over them. Truly, I believe that the rest of Rea's argument works rather beautifully. His introduction of dominant kinds serves well enough to remove the problem of co-location, and with the two severe ambiguities I mentioned cleaned up, I can find little to debate in his deductive argument for Mereological Universalism. I would like to believe that the argument that all arrangements can be kind constituting is something of a slippery slope, but I can see no other way to avoid an entirely anthropocentric understanding or listing of kinds, so I will accept it. As such, while I am not likely to champion Mereological Universalism over conventional wisdom to my friends or family; I will admit that Rea has convinced me that it is a more viable choice than the incredibly limited universes generated by Unger's or van Inwagen's arguments.

Immersion and Prediction in Videogames

Picked up Assassin's Creed 2 last week. Since Amazon has it for $30, I talked a roommate's brother into selling it for $25. Good deal for both of us, I'd say. In any case, I've been enjoying the game quite a bit, but felt the need to talk briefly about something that I've noticed a lot in current gen games that seems especially prevalent in this one.

With graphics technology and processing power ever-growing, games are becoming more immersive experiences. Whereas, in days of old, limitations on what you could do or where you could go or even just the way things looked created an obvious layer between you and your avatar, games are slowly breaking that barrier down and providing experiences that are less wish-fulfillment and more like, to borrow a phrase from former SCE honcho Kaz Hirai, lucid dreams. And just like when something happens to suddenly break you out of a dream, moments that restore that barrier between the player and the game are disconcerting. In AC2, this happens most often while free running:

One moment, you're running across the rooftops of Renaissance Florence, smoothly moving from perch to perch, feeling like the ultimate bad-ass. The next, you're flailing around in midair and slamming into the side of a building instead of running across the wire bridging the street that you were obviously aiming for. Considering that this isn't a platform game and all of the jumping is handled for you, the only player error here comes from having the angle a degree or so off -- which can simply be the result of trying to wrangle the camera back into alignment.

The frustration of the break in immersion is compounded by frequently having to deal with in-game consequences for a failure that was hardly yours, whether it's losing a target or attracting the attention of guards. Suddenly, you find yourself doing something a game designer should never want the player doing: getting irritated with the game itself. Not the difficulty of the scenario or a twist in plot, but the fundamental design of the game. Once the player starts thinking about the game as a game, something of the magic disappears, and it's hard to win back -- at least in genres like this. In strategy games or JRPGs or other styles of game where the player sits above the action, the issue isn't nearly so severe.

The best way to fix this situation seems like it would be the implementation of some sort of predictive measure, trying to determine what the player most likely intends to accomplish. Would a master assassin casually throw himself off of the steeple he'd been climbing for no good reason? No? Then that's probably not what I want to do, either. So, if I'm climbing a high building and still holding the A button because I expect it to speed up my movement the way it does everywhere else in the game, for the love of god, don't register the release of that button as a command to leap to my doom. Just recognize a simple press and release in that situation! If the player is running across a rooftop towards a gap across which is another rooftop, and there is some piece of geometry intended to serve as a bridge over that gap, gently nudge him or her towards it (and break off the assistance if they make a move away from it). Maybe even simplify the design a little bit if the over-abundance of strange angles and elevation changes makes it hard to efficiently navigate.

Assassin's Creed isn't alone in this problem. I ran into it from time to time with Mass Effect 2's cover system, where any time I tried to aim anywhere but directly over the object I was crouched behind, I would stand up and expose myself needlessly. I died or nearly died on a number of occasions because of this, and it doesn't make much sense for it to happen. It's really about the only complaint I can leverage against the game (besides, perhaps, the mildly ridiculous final battle).

As it stands, I'm enjoying AC2 quite a lot. But that doesn't change the fact that when I first started learning the ropes of free running, I felt liberated and amazed with the fluidity with which I could traverse the amazing city-scape before me; while now, if an actual mission, rather than my own whims, has me racing around, that sense of freedom is overwhelmed by anxiety, as I worry about when I'm going to just barely misdirect a leap my character should make and spend valuable game time rescaling walls and adjusting my route. It's an unnecessary, moment destroying frustration, and I hope Ubisoft can fix it come the third outing.

Representations of Violence in Kick-Ass

The movie Kick-Ass, based on the comic series by Mark Millar, came out yesterday. Went to see it tonight with some friends. People familiar with Millar's work will probably know immediately if this is a move for them or not. If that name means nothing to you, well, the name of the movie is probably a pretty good indicator. For my part, I was plenty entertained, but be warned, it is very violent and profane and obscene at times, too. Lots of critics have talked about the amount of violence in Kick-Ass, particularly whether or not it's reasonable to have so much of it being perpetrated by a character who is supposedly 11-years-old. For my part, I was just fascinated by the completely different approach the movie took with filming violence depending on the character perpetrating it. Spoilers ahead, obviously.

Let's start with the title character. Kick-Ass doesn't actually engage in a whole lot of violent activity; and when he does, it takes one of two distinct forms. At the start, when Kick-Ass first goes out and starts picking fights with criminals, the action is chaotic and uncoordinated. This is obviously fitting. Kick-Ass isn't really a fighter. He has no training and is in completely over his head; and he gets his ass kicked as a result. At the end, when Kick-Ass is actually living up to his name, it is in the most ridiculous, nerd, wish fulfillment ways imaginable. In those twin moments, Kick-Ass is living his dream.

Hit Girl, on the other hand, gets several impressive action sequences in which she brutalizes her enemies mercilessly. The over-the-top, hyper-stylized approach taken here is also fitting. Hit Girl, being a child raised to think that this is normal (and, as her father says, to look at it sort of as a game), likely has no real concept of what she's doing. She's acting on instinct, doing as she's been taught. Not thinking so much as responding. There are two exceptions to this rule: The scene in the lobby of D'Amico's building, and the showdown with D'Amico himself. The first scene comes just after Hit Girl is overcoming the death of her father. Suddenly aware of the stakes of this game, she talks her way into the building and does what she needs to do efficiently and coldly. Notably, she isn't wearing the Hit Girl costume in this scene. Once it's back on, the theatricality and sense of distance return. The fight with D'Amico is different because it's the only time she ever seems to be in real danger, and she responds to it. There's a sort of panic hindering her, and some of the chaos (and lack of coordination) of the Kick-Ass fights enter the picture.

The one time we see Big Daddy taking out multiple opponents is strikingly similar to Hit Girl's sequence in the lobby. The scene is visceral and clean. If there is chaos, it is only on the part of the thugs as they try to figure out what is happening to them. Unlike his daughter, Big Daddy knows exactly what he's doing and why he's doing it, and, as a result, he moves with purpose and efficiency. It's stark in its contrast from most of the rest of the film.

Not much else to say on the matter. I just thought this was interesting and figured I'd put it here instead of bugging people over and over with it. Like I said, I enjoyed the movie, and I'm particularly glad that, even in what was entirely meant as a popcorn movie, Matthew Vaughn took the time to add touches like this.

On iPads

I posted earlier today why I dislike the iPad indirectly, as Apple's latest, greatest foot-soldier in the ideological war about what mobile computing specifically and the Internet in general should be. I have plenty of reasons for disliking it as a device as well: namely that just a few short months ago, I was incredibly excited for what it might turn out to be and honestly thought it might be the first Apple product I'd ever own. Here is what I dislike about the iPad from a tech/spec perspective. None of them are anything you haven't heard before, but they're all worth consideration.

Aspect Ratio: This may seem incredibly finicky, but this is actually my biggest complaint. Apple is trying to advertise this as a device that will revolutionize the way we consume media; and then they gave us a format that's only fit for a single type of media: eBooks. 4x3 does not work for video anymore. Everything is produced in either 16x9 or 16x10 these days, and I want to watch it in those formats without letter-boxing on my portable media device. I prefer 16x10 for normal use, too. It lets me have multiple pages/applications open simultaneously. Oh, wait, that's another inexplicable failure on the device. We'll get to that later.

If you do want to use the device as an eReader, maybe 16x10 isn't quite as natural, but it allows for longer pages and you'll get used to it. Moreover, with all of the talk of eBooks evolving beyond plain text, of providing their own multimedia experience (an idea that I'm leaning towards disliking, even if only for the sake of codgerliness), you would think that people would be pushing eBooks into the landscape layout and using the additional horizontal real estate to provide a dedicated place for these supplemental materials or for improved navigation options.

Really, the only reason I see for the 4x3 aspect ratio is the ease of providing digital versions of magazines/comics. If the screen is the same layout as the original publication, there's no need to reformat for the new device. If reading Time or Spiderman (probably for no cheaper than you could get physical copies) is really what you want an iPad for, though...well, you're not exactly a person with reasoning with.

Multitasking: This isn't a major complaint, but I hinted at it earlier, so I may as well cover it now. On a device this large, I want to be able to have multiple applications running simultaneously. I want to be able to take quick notes on the page I'm reading or have a chat window open alongside my browser. That doesn't seem like it's asking a lot. The only good reason to disallow multitasking is to improve battery life; but that doesn't seem like a good enough reason for me. If I need to conserve the battery, I'll be careful about what I'm doing. God.

Flash: So long as I'm discussing things that are relatively minor complaints, lack of Flash is just stupid. Any talk of Flash killing the battery life has been stuffed by the existence of hardware accelerated Flash, and with the state of the web being what it is, not having Flash is crippling. Also, if I ever actually hear somebody claim that the iPad's lack of Flash support is causing people to abandon it, I will strangle them. Not to death, but certainly to discomfort. The iPad user base will never be more than a minute fraction of the Internet using population. HTML 5 is changing the Internet. It has been and will continue to do so regardless of what formats the iPad supports. It has been months since YouTube required Flash in either Chrome or Safari, and as more browsers adopt HTML5 standards, more people will switch away from Flash.

Expansion: Really? No USB or SD support? How on earth am I supposed to move media between my home computer and my iPad? I need to sync it with your proprietary software (and probably use your proprietary media formats)? Ummm...no thanks. I've already got several SD cards and USB drives littered with music and video that I use with my existing devices and that I'd much prefer to continue using; and I see no good reason why I shouldn't be able to (other than the fact that whatever file system running on the device likely isn't capable of it).

Camera: Again, no good reason to not have a camera built into the bezel. One of the major selling points of the device is that it's everything you use the Internet for without the hassle of a whole computer; but video chat is a major app of interest these days, and a tablet like this is a perfect vehicle for it. If this thing could use Skype, I would buy one for my mother so she would finally leave me alone about getting it set up on her (ancient) XP machine. The only reason I can see for not supporting it is because people would find ways to use it over the 3G connection, which would piss off AT&T. Is this a good enough reason? Not even kind of.

Profit Margins: Nobody makes $250/device on bleeding edge technology, or at least they shouldn't. Sony is still barely turning a profit on each PS3 sold. The fact that Apple is making that much per device at a minimum is proof of just how much better the iPad could be at the same price point. What's most frustrating, to me at least, is that the 3G option costs an additional $130 (plus a separate data plan) when, by industry estimates, it only adds $30 to the production cost. I'd be willing to pay a premium of $50 for 3G on this sort of device, but $130 is just ridiculous.


So, there you have it. Even if I weren't supremely pissed off by Apple's business practices and ideology, I would never buy this device in its current iteration. Instead, I'm looking forward to Tegra powered devices, particularly the Adam, which seems like everything I hoped the iPad would be back before its official announcement. We'll see where tablet devices head in the future, but if Apple succeeds without improving the functionality of the iPad, I will be seriously disappointed in humanity.

On Apple

There's plenty to say on this topic, but I'm going to keep it brief.

Long story short, I will always, always prefer open standards and community driven moderation of quality over proprietary mediums who have their content governed by a single entity. However, a commentator on NPR this morning drew up an apt analogy that makes me understand, to an extent, why some people are perfectly happy using the knee-capped system Apple has in place. He noted that using an iPhone/Pad is much like belonging to a gated community. Standards are put in place to ensure that your perfect little existence remains as unblemished as possible; and if you're willing to deal with the inconveniences and the isolation, that can be a fine life. It's just certainly not for me.

It's also worth noting that, in most gated communities, the residents are either allowed to be part of the decision making or at least have the possibility of becoming part of the board that makes the rules. No such luck here. As so many have noted, Apple has seemingly become the Big Brother it pretended to be rebelling against in the (in)famous 1984 ad; going so far as to tell us which generally inoffensive, scientific words cannot go in our book descriptions. Nobody really cares, though. Apple is doing it for The Greater Good (The Greater Good).

Oh well, I just hope that there are enough of us who aren't willing to sacrifice free access to information that the market will continue to count us as worthwhile and that Apple doesn't get big enough in the field of pervasive computing to kill Net Neutrality in a way that service providers never dreamed possible. Long live Google.

Blurring Genres

People who have seen me play action games, especially games that allow me to save anywhere and reload quickly, know that I have an odd habit of not being content with merely completing a section of the game. By and large, I feel challenged to a way of progressing through the challenges posed to me in a way that causes me the least damage while progressing through the sequence as smoothly as possible. Depending on the specific style of the game, this can mean anything from stealthily removing guards one by one from the shadows to removing the heads of every enemy from the greatest distance possible to using surgical explosive strikes to deform the environment and eliminate the threat.

This could be understood as a desire to preserve my characters life in case another difficult situation is right around the corner, but I intuitively understand it more as a path finding exercise. I feel that, of all of the possible ways to get through a game, there must be some ideal path, one that the game mechanics best support and that is most in line with the character I am manipulating and the atmosphere I'm working in. In this way, the game is much like a puzzle for me to solve, and the experience of iteratively improving my solution is therapeutic in a way.

Now it seems that the fine folks at Ubisoft, and particularly the team behind the Splinter Cell series, have come to the same conclusion. I downloaded the demo for Splinter Cell: Conviction the other day, and while I will say that it doesn't feel like Splinter Cell as I know it, it is a perfect, even planned example of the action game meets puzzle game approach. Mike Fahey at Kotaku came to a similar conclusion during his hands on last month, but I couldn't have realized the extent to which it worked until I played the game for myself. Figuring out where enemies are, the order in which to mark them, and finding the proper guard to melee in order to set off the chain is entirely a matter of trial and error, of learning the level, and of following the path you've decided on until it either shows its imperfections or gets you through the level ideally. You can make up for a botched sequence by getting back to cover and either popping off the enemies individually or sneaking back into the shadows and starting over again; but doing so is both harder and less fulfilling, seemingly be design.

I'm not certain if Splinter Cell: Conviction is a game I'd actually go out and buy, but it's interesting knowing that other people see these games the way I do and that maybe I'm less "weird as hell" and more "ahead of the curve".

On Bromance

I really need to be writing any number of other things right now, but none of them are working for me at the moment and I'm hoping that cranking this out will get the juices flowing again. In any case, I think that this is an interesting topic and one worth talking about briefly, so without further ado, here we go (warning, gross generalizations ahead).

A few months ago, I was talking with a friend about something or other and mentioned that I had a new man-crush brewing (in this instance, it was Rick Bayless, who is my culinary man-crush). She laughed a bit and commented that, for as much as I and others talk about man-crushes, there was no real female analogue. This made me sad, as I can't imagine life without the stupid grin I get when I think of Captain Mal Reynolds. What made me sadder, though, was when I realized that no analogue to the man-crush meant no analogue for bromance. Lord, life without bromance *and* having to deal with menstruation? Talk about short end of the stick! No wonder women tend to be more high strung than men.

To explain exactly what I mean by all this, I suppose I need to quickly break down a man-crush and explain how it relates to bromance and why, exactly, bromance is such an awesome thing. In short, to me, a man-crush is basically a deep seated admiration for another man. A recognition that, if you could, you would echo the abilities or attitude of that individual in your own living. Sometimes man-crushes lead towards emulation, but more often, a man-crush acknowledges that the desired skill or trait is somehow inimitable. That doesn't mean that we don't strive for advancement in admired area; just like a normal crush, the a man-crush motivates us to improve ourselves in hopes of earning the mutual admiration of the crush.

Another way in which man-crushes and normal crushes are alike is that our strongest man-crushes tend to be directed at unattainable individuals. We learn to see the flaws of the people who are actually in our lives, and therefore we cannot idolize them to the same degree; but we can definitely have man-crushes on our friends. And, just as romance arises from a mutual crush between two individuals, bromance is the end result of a reciprocated man-crush. And just as actual romantic relationships far exceed the benefits of a simple one-sided crush; bromance improves our lives vastly more than a simple man-crush.

For one thing, there's something incredibly empowering about knowing that a man you admire admires you. Perhaps more important, though, is the knowledge that somebody has your back. It's simple fact that men desire to protect the people they care about. Failing to at least make an effort take care of your own is reprehensible, and no man would risk the respect of a person he admires by not being there for support when shit goes south. Again, the comfort that comes from knowing that you've got unwavering support when things start to fall apart, whether that support comes in the form of a drinking buddy or a wingman or a second cannot be overstated.

Now, I know that all of this sounds kind of sexist. I know that women admire and support their friends, too, but there's a difference. Not all male-male friendships result in bromance, and we certainly still support and respect those friends. In those friendships that can be described as bromantic, though, there's just a certain...purity and earnestness that seems absent from normal male-male friendships and virtually all female-female friendships. Those few women I've talked with about this seem to agree with this assessment.

I offer the following thought experiment as inadequate proof. I was watching Superbad today, and there's a scene towards the end of the movie where one of the characters, drunk as can be, picks up his passed out friend and carries him as he runs from a party that the police are busting. For most of my friends, I would try to rouse and warn them. I would wonder if they got away safely and call them later to find out. But I would not pick them up and run with them. For my truest friends, though, this is exactly what I would do; and they would do it for me (you know, if they could). Women out there: can you honestly say the same? If not, well, :(