Intimations of Ubiquity

BIG Hiatus This Time

2007-04-20T20:01:00.000+02:00

I haven't been blogging for the past 6 weeks because I've been writing for a magazine, Barcelona Metropolitan, that actually pays. It's been piecemeal in getting started with these guys, but suddenly I've got 7 articles due for them and more on the way. And there's just not enough time to do other things. Also, I've been thinking that if I'm going to have any success with this blogging business, I got to specialize in something. Otherwise, people just won't come in numbers.

If there's anybody out there who still follows this blog and would like to see what I've been up to, here are some of my latest articles, tailored to the magazine. Some are okay, some might be boring unless you live in Barcelona.

I'll be back soon, probably.

Society - Jack LaLanne Running for His Life

2007-03-12T12:17:00.000+01:00

Everybody always knew Jack LaLanne was a poseur, a wannabe ... a mama's boy. But now, at 92 years old, he's showing just what a yellow wimp he really is. Challenged by 91-year-old Roland Fortin to a "gentleman's match" in the boxing ring, LaLanne's response is no response. Ducking his head in the sand, he's hoping that the whole business will just blow over. Or that Fortin will simply die before he's forced to actually man up or pussy out.

Well, you're not fooling us, "Mister Juice Tiger." We see exactly what you're about, pally. Afraid of a 91-year-old man. More than likely, those pecs are silicone.

Politics - Hypocrisy Revealed

2007-03-09T09:03:00.000+01:00

So it turns out the aptly-named reptile, Newt Gingrich, was getting extramarital blowjobs from a House aide while he led the charge against Clinton for getting extra-marital blowjobs from a White House intern. Aside from the mental picture of Newt's cum-face, the most disparaging aspect is that there is no true punishment for this $80 million hypocrisy. Newt made his confession to a group of conservative Christians, stating that he "has fallen far short of God's standards." And that makes it all okay for right-wing Christians. "As long as you invoke God into your sins, you're a Christian man. And that's good enough for us." Such carte blanche by religious zealots is exactly why only atheists should be allowed to be politicians.

Someday a real rain will come and wash all the scum away. Better sooner than later.

Politics - Libby Guilty, Will Go Free

2007-03-07T12:21:00.000+01:00

I don't think anybody doubts that Libby will never see the inside of a prison. If his appeal doesn't get drawn out to the next century, Bush will simply pardon him. In any event, if by some miracle he should be sentenced and not pardoned, he's looking at 1 - 3 years for treason, though nobody has the balls to actually charge him with Treason. One to three years, when somebody selling a nickel-bag of weed can get banged up for 20 years or more.

Speaking of no balls, why isn't anybody going after Bush and his boss, Cheney? Does anybody doubt for a second that they were involved? For christ's sake. Clinton gets taken to the cleaners for a blowjob, and these pricks get away with murder. Yes, murder. Over a hundred thousand people are dead because of their false pretexts for war, a CIA agent's life was jeopardized, the American Intelligence community was compromised in a time of war. And BushCo gets a free ride.

That's why I hate the Democrats nearly as much as I do the Republicans. While the GOP may be evil incarnate, the Democrats have absolutely zero balls. No teeth. No conviction. Bush and Cheney are every bit as guilty as Scooter, but our "democratic process" allows the pantomime of a fallguy.

Them's me two bits. Rant over.

Blogging - John Chow Wants You to Make Money

2007-03-06T11:02:00.000+01:00

The word out there is that there is a lot of money to be made from blogging. But you just have to know how. Well, John Chow is here to tell you all the tricks. This self-described internet mogul reports that his blog went from earning $352.94 his first month last September to $7011.05 in February of 2007. And he's not just gloating, either. He's willing to share all his secrets.

Making Money from a Blog breaks down the sources of John's revenue and links to all the little tricks that will get your blog up there in the big leagues. And like anything else, there is no free lunch. The methods that he describes take time and dedication, but the end result will at least get you a really nice lunch, the kind whose bill of $1,ooo doesn't suddenly make you feel nauseous.

However, no matter how arduously and diligently you follow the steps that he outlines, there is one basic rule that limits the number of moguls in the high-dollar blogger club: Content is Key.

Not everybody can write well, not everybody has the feel for what topics will attract a high number of visitors to a blog, not everybody has the artistic and technical know-how to make their blog visually appealing to more than just a few confederates in their particular aesthetic esoterica. That's something for which one needs talent and/or training.

For example, this blog: I already know how to write. However, my varied interests prevent me from establishing a specialized niche that reaches out to a specific sector. The appearance is fine, but it's something that appeals to my taste (which some describe as Baroque), not to a broader market. And the two hard, long weeks that I spent learning how to program in order to achieve this look were a nightmare to which I hope never to return. I don't imagine myself ever earning much from blogging. One, after all, has to respect their own limitations.

And I imagine that most people --before they invest the hundreds of hours that John's methods require-- should take careful stock of the situation. For many, blogging is just a means to socialize, propagandize and express themselves. While dollar signs are apt to shine in all of our eyes, it's important to embrace our reasons for doing things. John is definitely in it for the money. And more power to him. He does what he does well and he creates content that appeals to the masses.

I suppose that one of these days, I just might try to emulate him. But in a cool way.

Society - Ann Coulter, Again

2007-03-05T11:06:00.000+01:00

Well, this jerk just loves to get attention for herself, no matter how. Little Whore-bag Annie made the headlines yet again by making stupid and offensive comments, this time at the Conservative Political Action Conference. To wit, “I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate John Edwards, but it turns out you have to go into rehab if you use the word ‘faggot,’ so I — so kind of an impasse, can’t really talk about Edwards.”

Her reference was to Grey's Anatomy star, Isaiah Washington, who called one of his co-stars a faggot and subsequently checked into rehab after a public outcry by the gay community. I have to admit, the whole checking into rehab thing is absolutely ridiculous, but it's unfortunate that a cunt like Ann Coulter has to be the only one who brings attention to the zeitgeist of such an exagerrated form of mea culpa.

If I were a fag, I'd probably be offended too by the typical uses of the word. Therefore, it's only with compassion, empathy, respect and common sense that I don't throw the word around like I did in high school. But, that said, I do have pleasant memories of the recent past, when Bill and Ted (remember them?) could hug each other, suddenly push apart, and say, "Fag." The joke was more on them than on gays.

But, alas, such days of free speech are long past. Marketing basically dictates what public performance can and cannot say. And Annie, being the dinosaur that she is, can't help but make an ass of herself. Though, one has to admit, being an ass is exactly what sells her books and makes her a saught after public speaker. She obviously knows what she's doing, at least economically.

But one day, Annie's going to develope a cancer or something. She'll wither away into a semblance of the whining liberals that she disdains so much. And more than likely, nobody will give a rat's ass. So, while she may fill her bank account by acting like an insensitive bitch, in the long run she is, and will be, poorer than the schizophrenic nut on the corner who shouts "Jew!" and "Nigger!" at passing cars. To hell with her.

Language - Did I Just Say That Out Loud?

2007-03-02T11:13:00.000+01:00

There are words or expressions for just about everything in the human experience. The beauty of English is that if we haven't got it, we steal it from another language and make it our own. That's one reason why English is considered the most precise language in existence. Some examples:

NULLIBIST n. One who denies the existence of the soul in space.
PROSOPOPEIA n. A rhetorical introduction of an imagined speaker. "If this bed could talk ..."
DISCISSION n. Sticking a needle in the eye.
DEFENESTRATE v. To throw a person through a window.
HORRESCO REFERENS n. Exhibiting horror from a memory.
OMPHALOSKEPSIS n. Contemplation of one's navel.
GYNOTIKOLOBOMASSOPHILE n. Someone who likes to nibble on a woman's earlobe.

But there is one sensation that I have never been able to find a word for:

That embarrassed feeling one has when uncertain if they have just spoken a thought out loud, usually while deep in thought in a public space.

I once thought that it was something unique to me, just a quirk of personality, or a side-effect from past experimentation with LSD. But I've discovered through various conversations that it's a feeling quite common among people. Yet, nobody has a word for it.

Over the years, when the curiosity has returned from a long absence, I've sent the occasional email to a language expert, searched reverse dictionaries, and when all that failed, I even tried to construct it from word stems. Here are some of my efforts:

proloquor dubium
erubescundus in oratorius ambiguito
verecundor in quam oratorio
andabatic excogitation
uncertain mental encopresis
deja logorrhea malnoia
possible schizophrenia
fucking nuts

I'll say right off the bat that my Latin sucks. Probably the grammatical constructions above are way off. Still, I like the sound of proloquor dubium. Andabatic excogitation is okay as well. But uncertain mental encopresis has an expressive quality that endears. Encopresis means, "unintentional defecation." Nice.

I'd like to make this post a call to arms for any wordsmiths or etymologists out there who might take a jab at this. Does the concept I'm describing already exist in speech? Is there a better way of describing it than what I've attempted above? By all means, please share. Let's make history together. If Dan Savage can create a neoligism for santorum, we can fill an equally important gap in the language. Make it happen, cap'ns.

Culture - The Legacy of Franco

2007-03-01T11:12:00.000+01:00

Catalunya probably suffered the worst during the Franco years. El Caudillo had a special paranoid hatred in his heart for what for centuries had been considered the most cultural and enlightened region of Spain. Aside from the region forming the bastion of The Republic during the war, it was also against the social advances authored by Catalans that Franco staged his military rebellion. And for this reason, in the post-war years up until the death of the dictator, Catalans were subjugated to particularly harsh suppression. Place names were changed --for example, Sant Cugat became San Cucufato-- people speaking their mother tongue were subject to beatings by the Guardia Civil, fines and arrest.

Of course, it wasn't only Catalunya who suffered. Anybody overheard criticizing the dictatorship or even some innocuous element in the system was likely to simply disappear. Over the course of two generations, this began to have a profound effect on the mentality of the population. And this effect can be seen today in the lack of motivation for an essential economic change. The general attitude in the population is, "Keep your head low, keep quiet, don't rock the boat."

A good illustration of this can be made in comparing the country to France. The French are very quick to go on strike and protest in order to safeguard their own economic dignity. But not so in Spain. In a country where the cost of buying or renting a home has tripled in the past 8 years, where the cost of basic necessities has doubled while the average income has grown only 2 or 3% per year, people discuss and complain about the problem in private, but nobody hits the streets en masse to rectify the situation.

A typical salary here can run between €600 and €1,400 per month. But the cost of a flat begins at €500. The situation is in stasis, because those who are older purchased their homes before the spike in housing. And those who are 30 years old or younger still live with their parents. Nobody is happy about the situation, but nobody is willing to do anything about it either. My boss, for example, has increased her prices over 50% in the past few years, but this increase doesn't reflect any investment in facilities or salaries. In other words, it all goes in her pocket. And the other employees, Spaniards, prefer not to complain openly to the boss. They prefer to go about their job without lios. It's a very typical attitude here.

But what's curious about this attitude is that it was the very opposite before the Civil War. People fought hard in order to gain social and economic dignity. Protests were as common as milk wagons on the street. Pamphlets and newspapers were published with enormous headlines in harsh rhetoric, full of exclamation points. But no more. The people have been cowed. And most of them don't realize it or even know why. Es así, is the phrase du jour. It's like that. Very Zen, very Taoist. But, it's also reminsicent of the old adage, "If you act like a victim, you will be victimized."

One thing is certain: The situation will not remain viable much longer. When young people eventually move out of their parents' homes and begin looking for their own apartments, and they discover just how impossible it is to survive with the shit salaries that are being paid, there will be a demand for drastic change. The economy, while stable now, will eventually suffer a profound paradigm shift. Something volatile is on the horizon.

War - Where Are the Killer Dolphins?

2007-02-28T10:52:00.000+01:00

Cathy Sorbo recently wrote about the military's use of animals to battle "aquaterrorism." And it reminded me of an interesting story that blew out of Hurricane Katrina. Thirty-six killer dolphins, armed with deadly darts allegedly escaped their enclosure during the hurricane and were roaming the Gulf of Mexico.

Though it was reported in The Observer, a casual inquiry is difficult for establishing the verity of the story. A quick Google search found the original article, but also a plethora of sites, such as Snopes, which claim that it was all a hoax.

Unfortunately, my current internet research skills impede me in establishing the actual truth, as well as filtering through the thousands of search hits to find the outcome of the tale. Any suggestions on how to efficiently get to the bottom of this would be greatly appreciated.

Anyway, true or not, it's a great story.

Society - Obsessed With Guilt

2007-02-27T10:56:00.000+01:00

Ten years ago, when I lived in Korea, a friend shared with me his observations about the differences between Occidental and Oriental cultures. One of the most important, he noted from his experiences working with various corporations, is that in the West, when there is a problem of some kind, the first thing people do is try and establish who is to blame for the problem. In the East, the first thing they do is try and fix the problem. In general, people have faith that the one responsible will not only be aware of their culpability, but will also be conscious that others will be aware of it too. And it wasn't until my Asian friend pointed this out to me that --in my experiences over there-- I recognized it to be true.

That's not the case in Europe and the Americas. An anecdotal example of this happened to me just this past Friday at work. I showed up on my day off in order to collect some papers and prepare a fax that needed to be sent for my visa application. Unfortunately, my boss, who never works on Fridays, had failed to leave two very important papers. I informed the secretary of the problem, adding that it was urgent that this fax be sent out that very day. And, instead of looking through the files to find the necessary papers, she began asking me why I didn't make sure the boss had left the papers for me.

Feeling somewhat on the defensive, I mentioned the list of three items I'd given the boss, that it was very clear and that it was she who had only provided one of these items. "Yes, but why didn't you make sure of this yesterday?" the boss' right-hand woman insisted. It went back and forth like this for a long minute: Me claiming that I had done what was necessary and her asking the same question over and over.

It was aggravating, and I took a long breath to keep my cool. This was going nowhere, so I decided to change tack. I pointed out that whatever happened --or failed to happen-- the previous day was in the past and not relevant now. More important was the fact that these papers are missing and that we needed them at that very moment. "This is what we should be thinking about now," I added with finality.

She blinked, somewhat disconcerted. Then, after a pause, she said, "Yes, but why didn't you take care of this yesterday?"

Now, I'm a passionate man, but I recognize that in difficult moments this passion can cause me to act like a prick. So, experience has taught me to curb my reflexes and not go on the attack. At least, that is, when I want or need something from my nemesis. Thankfully I was able to suppress whatever words were clawing to escape my throat. But in moments like these, when that surge of anger and adrenaline make my face burn and my eyes rattle, when the room itself seems to tremble, it's impossible for me to be completely silent. A quick mental calculation chose a self-effacing yet sarcastic response: "Because I'm stupid. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

I thought it was benign enough. But she didn't. The end result was an emotional rant from an unstable secretary, no aid in securing the papers, and a wasted 6 months of aggravating preparation for this moment. Not only that, but my boss runs the risk of paying a €30,000 fine for having an undocumented employee. This is what happens when irrelevant pursuits get the best of us.

Perhaps it's all the Judeo-Christian crap that is our inheritance, this Jonathon Edwards bullshit that invests so much importance on culpability. But, criminy, what a senseless waste of thought and energy. One could say that the secretary where I work is a jerk, or was just in a bad mood or whatever. But if you think about it, she behaved very typically for people in Europe and the Americas. If she were a person who had behaved in the opposite manner, by leaping on the problem and trying to solve it rather than establishing who was responsible for the mess, she would be remarkable for having an enlightened character. Yet, in the East, such enlightenment is more the rule than the exception.

We have a lot to learn over here.

Online Tests - Career Self-Assessment

2007-02-26T10:49:00.000+01:00

My original intention was to direct readers to the Monster.com site for career enhancement personality tests. But, it turns out that Monster doesn't offer the same tests that they did some years ago. Apparently the Myers-Briggs/Kiersey mafia has decided that there's too much money to be made instead of offering the tests free. But here's a site that links to many of the tests for free. Worth trying out if you're interested in a career change, or even getting started on a career.

Personally, I found them remarkably accurate. For example, one suggestion was that I should go into animation. I actually took their advice a few years ago and shelled out three grand for an animation school. Though I was considerably older than most of the other students, my natural abilities surpassed them in most every respect.

Unfortunately, I chose the wrong school --probably because I had been smitten by the receptionist. The teachers were excellent professional animators who had no idea how to teach, and the demo reel that I was promised to have at the end of the course never materialized. Money lost, career put on hold. And I never got more than a lunch date out of the receptionist.

But don't let my unfortunate experience discourage you from trying these tests. If you feel lost and don't know which way to go --career-wise-- try out these tests. It just might change your life for the better.

Society - Reborn Babies

2007-02-23T08:47:00.000+01:00

Now this is pretty sick.

If you're the parent of a still-born child, which option would you choose? a) Grieve? b) Rejoice? c) Have a Plastic Likeness of Your Child Made, Complete With Beating Heart and Pulsing Veins?

In a new twist on just how warped our species is, option c) is now a real possibility. The Daily Mail reports on this new trend that many aggrieved parents are embracing. The five stages of grief have traditionally been described as Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. But many unsuccessful breeders are miring themselves in stage one by accepting their denial. They contract a UK company, Reborn Baby, to re-create their dead baby in order to ease their loss.

In the interests of taste and compassion, I will summarize my opinion in one word: Pitiful.

Television - The Winner

2007-02-21T13:01:00.000+01:00

Not long ago, I recommended an online film called, The Old Negro Space Program, written, produced and directed by a "man" named Andy Bobrow, who also wrote for Malcolm in the Middle. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen.

Well, I got an email from Andy today, touting a new show that he's writing for Fox. Here's what he has to say:

Last spring I was fortunate enough to get hired to help write a new show on Fox called “The Winner.” It stars Rob Corddry, of "The Daily Show" fame. And I swear to you, I am proud to be a part of it. We all believe we have captured lightning in a bottle with this show. Even my mom laughed at the pilot, and she hates television.

The show premiers on March 4th on Fox. But they are taking the unprecedented step of putting full episodes online before the premiere. They want to create “buzz,” and I want them to have all the frickin' buzz they can get. If the show launches well, I get to keep my job.

So please go to <http://www.fox.com/winner/> and watch a few episodes. I recommend the first two, “Single Dates,” and “What Happens in Albany.”

I haven't seen it yet, but I don't doubt it's worth checking out.

Author's Note - Another Hiatus

2007-02-19T11:07:00.000+01:00

A week has passed without any posts. Sorry about that. A baby with high fever from a throat infection plus an article past its deadline made for a prioritizing decision to put the blog on hold.

Actually, it was kind of nice to step back from it. I started wondering if this is something I really need or want to do on a daily basis. The original idea was to improve my writing by meeting a daily deadline and, hopefully, generate a little extra income through this AdSense NonSense. The former has come to fruition, for sure. Three months of steady writing has taught me how to cut out the bullshit that fills the work of an aspiring and amateurish writer. And I'm sure that three more months will improve my technique far more. So, at least in that respect, there's a reason to continue.

As far as generating revenue, I see that the most successful blogs are either by writers who already have a fan base established (Rude Pundit) or by bloggers who have a near-obsessive specialization in their content (Mind Hacks). Unfortunately I'm a nobody --in the grand scheme of writers and readers-- and my interests are far too varied to be content with just a single theme; an anthropology professor impressed that idea into my malleable young mind at university when he came in to class the first day and said iconically, "Specialization leads to extinction."

This, I suppose, could partially explain how I could arrive at my 40th journey around the sun without having altered my quality of life much from when I was 25. It's good to stay young, sure. But it sucks to be poor. Thus, I wonder how much time I should continue to invest in the blogosphere when I can be free-lancing articles that pay --however boring they may be at times.

It does feel on occasion like I'm flying, when I get going on something that unleashes a modicum of passion but that, also, most magazines wouldn't want to publish; and it's nice when my Statcounter soars to 140+ hits in a single day. But it's a lot of work, too. And gratification, while it may put a smile on my face, doesn't pay for a decent vacation --which, if memory serves me correctly, puts an even greater smile on my face.

Oy vey. What to do. Guess I'll just keep pegging away at it, without expecting any ka-ching! to come of it. Perhaps I'm just feeling a tad cynical today. Half a bottle of absinthe can really dry out the happy hormones one day later. Hoo-boy.

Sport - Underwater Rugby

2007-02-12T10:46:00.000+01:00

It's been around for nearly fifty years, is played in dozens of countries, yet very few people have heard of it. Unfortunately, the conditions aren't ideal for spectators, but if they were, Underwater Rugby would probably be a lot more popular.

Here's an article I wrote that came out this month in Barcelona Metropolitan magazine.

Society - Ann Coulter Deconstructed

2007-02-09T11:27:00.000+01:00

Ann Coulter Deconstructed is a Flash commentary I made back around August and have only recently remembered that it's floating around out there in Internetland. Even though the events that it addresses have since passed, it still seems pertinent today.

Cool Websites - The Internet Archive

2007-02-08T10:51:00.000+01:00

The Internet Achive is an impressive collection of documents, audio, music and moving images, available for free to everybody. Their motto at the top of the page is "Universal Access to Human Knowledge," and they seem to be sincere. Another nice feature is the "Curator's Choice" that they offer in each category in order to help you wade through the thousands of items in their collection. It's a very good site, either for browsing or the serious researcher.

Books - The Wisdom of Crowds

2007-02-07T10:42:00.000+01:00

The Wisdom of Crowds: Why the Many Are Smarter Than the Few and How Collective Wisdom Shapes Business, Economies, Societies and Nations, by James Surowiecki.

I just finished this book and found it thoroughly fascinating. It's full of studies, anecdotes and insights that I never imagined, but in retrospect make perfect sense. There's no need for me to go into a critique here, because it's a fairly well-known work by now and plenty has been written on it. I would recommend it to just about anybody, but especially to people in management.

Wikipedia has a decent summary here. This is the Amazon link. And Salon has a thorough critique here.

Check it out. Enjoy.

Personal Essay - Gay Magnet?

2007-02-06T11:03:00.000+01:00

Occasionally in life, there are moments of clarity which have a bracing effect similar to opening all the windows in a stuffy house and filling it with brisk, cool air. The mind clears suddenly and you literally feel the fresh blood flowing through your brain. I had just such a moment last evening, coming home on the train, when I was faced with the stark realization that it must really suck to be a woman.

Now, before I elaborate, I think it's important to go a little into the backstory. Just over a week ago, I made a drastic change in my appearance by going from fairly long hair to scalp-hugging short. No small part in this decision was the fact that chicks just don't check me out like they used to. Sure, there's the sense of identity which marks a long-haired person --free spirit, artistic type, independent, out of the main-stream-- and there's also the tactile pleasure of a healthy mane. But, a man who lives with his ex-girlfriend and their 2-year old child really needs to maximize his possibilities if he's going to swim in the stream of free coitus.

So, since the lines in my face have closed all doors to the kind of hippy university girls who once waltzed with me to various dark niches, I decided to go with a clean, professional and fiscally responsible look. . . . In order to get laid, in case that wasn't clear. However, my strategy seems to have backfired on me.

Last night on the train, I opened my eyes and glanced around. My vision panned across the eyes of an attentive man. I continued to scan my environment, instinctively glancing back to see if the other guy had broken his stare. But he hadn't. I looked away again, thinking, What's up with this guy? Unwillingly, I looked back. Still staring. What the fuck?! Oh, christ, yea. He's gay. Now he thinks I'm gay ... and coquettish. I just don't like being stared at, and --try as I might-- I couldn't stop peeking back periodically. And of course, he misread my interest. The compliment would have been flattering maybe; but to be honest, this guy seemed to be way too hard up. Even if I was gay, I wouldn't want to get together with such a desperate loser.

I started staring out the window across the aisle. While watching points of light float past, my eyes focussed on the reflection in the window. There was another man who seemed to be watching me. Or maybe, I considered, he was doing the same thing as I. But, if he was watching me --and I was watching a point directly behind his reflection-- then, he must be thinking that I'm staring into his eyes. My eyes jumped over onto the owner of the reflection before I could pull them back. Then, emboldened, he turned his head and faced me directly, eliminating any doubts. Oh, shit, I thought, before turning to look out the other window.

And now he kept staring. Granted, this guy was a bit more stylish and on the ball than the other, in some ineffably suave sort of way. But he was still a dude. Now, I don't make any judgements on where people eat, I just know what I prefer. Yet, ironically, here I was, a hungry man with a feast before me and no stomache for the food that was offered. Both these guys were in my field of vision unless I looked down or away. Their eyes burned into me like lasers, making me feel like I was being scanned by two horny Terminator robots. It's unfortunate they can't see each other, I thought. Because if somehow they could just start staring at each other, everybody would come out a winner.

I began to curse my hair-stylist, thinking that she'd given me a gay haircut. It wasn't the first time that a man has shown interest in me, but for some reason this was the first time outside of a gay club that I was so popular. I looked at myself reflected in the window and preened, not caring anymore if I appeared coy. She had left me with echos of Freddie Mercury. The only thing missing was the frou frou mustache. Damn.

Then suddenly it dawned on me: This is what women experience on a constant basis. Thus, my prefatory statement. What torture, having to go through life, negotiating eye-contact and enduring the tight-lipped, predatorial gazes of men. It's like having a spotlight glaring in your face. I'm sure many women must learn to love it, like little ballarinas pirhouetting on the stage. But I wonder what percentage of them must absolutely despise it. I really felt like giving the finger to these two guys. With both hands, criss-crossing my arms while flashing a Billy Idol sneer.

It struck me suddenly that I wasn't so different than them; I often can't help focussing on attractive women and wonder if their uncomfortable glances signal an interest in squishing it. A forgotten memory came just then, of me sitting in a pub in Edinburgh, chatting with some friends, when a woman walked by the table. An attractive, ballsy Scot. Our eyes met. Without even thinking about it, I turned around to check her out from behind and found myself raising my eyes into her furious expression. She gave me the finger and mouthed, Fuck you, before spinning on her heel. It hardly seemed reasonable to me at the time. It's just what guys do. But sitting on the train, I realized that, if I'd been born a woman, sooner or later I would have done exactly the same thing.

And so it was, with great loathing, I found myself rising to my feet as the train pulled into my station. Squeezing through scrunched knees, I stepped out into the aisle, gazing blankly at nothing at all, knowing the inevitable conclusion to this scene. I walked the length of the wagon, feeling two pairs of eyes burning into my backside. And I thought, From this day forward, I will stop checking out women's asses. Then I wondered how I was going to fill up the time.

War - Now Iran

2007-02-05T11:08:00.000+01:00

Bush, the one-trick pony, is repeating himself and mirroring his Iraq strategy to launch the U.S. into yet another war. And for once, the American media is doing its job. They are actually shining a light on obvious developments of great importance. It wasn't at all so --exactly 5 years ago-- for Iraq.

A full 13 months before the U.S. invaded Iraq, The Guardian ran a special report that revealed the intentions of the Bush Administration. That was in February, 2002 and it wasn't until the following September that Bush made a statement to the U.N. which confirmed that the mechanations of war were already in motion.

I remember that special report very well, because shortly after reading it, I mentioned the invasion plans to my brother. He was incredulous. It wasn't possible that some foreign press could know and report something that the good ol' American media wasn't reporting. Ours is the land of the free press, and there's absolutely no way that something as important as that would go unreported. My brother cautioned me not to read any more of those Third World rags like The Goblin or The Guardian or whatever it's called. He snorted and changed the subject to whether or not it was warm here in Barcelona, a favourite topic of conversation in my family.

I realized then that the media really does create reality.

I felt like a kind of soothsayer over the next 7 months, as if I had tapped into some esoteric source that revealed ethereal knowledge of great import on this mortal plane, and nobody else could see the road through the fog. I read my "Third-World rags" and noticed a sudden pre-occupation with Iraqi No-Fly Zone rules. I monitored the escalation of bombardment from 0 in March 2002 to between 7 and 14 tons per month in May-August, marvelled as it reached a pre-war peak of 54.6 tons in September. I, and everybody else in Europe, noticed that these bombardments were focussed mostly on southern military targets. We noticed this sudden preoccupation with weapons of mass-destruction. Yet, everybody else in the U.S. was completely in the dark. And when BushCo. began to play the media card, it was a coup.

At least now the U.S. media is telling people what seems to be down the pike. The AP reports:

In recent days:

_Bush raised the U.S. naval presence in the Persian Gulf to its highest level since 2003 by ordering a second aircraft carrier strike group to the region.

_The administration confirmed that Bush has authorized the military to kill or capture Iranian agents who are plotting attacks on U.S. forces.

_The administration has armed Iran's Arab neighbors with Patriot missiles.

Also, the Enron Junta is leaking unsubstantiated reports that Iranian agents were part of a brilliant, well-coordinated operation which resulted in the kidnapping and execution of 4 U.S. soldiers.

It's hard to believe that these guys are so stupid as to really start another war on top of the two that we're losing, but maybe to them it's not so stupid after all. Perhaps it's part of some other plan that fits with scripture. Who knows what these boneheads are up to. But thank the Gods that the Fourth Estate is no longer giving them carte blanche.

Politics - Biden Screws It Up Early

2007-02-02T08:58:00.000+01:00

If there was a Political Darwin Award, Senator Joe Biden would have just won it. In a most incredible act of stupidity, Biden said publicly that Barack Obama is "the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean." He later claimed that he didn't mean to say it quite that way. Apparently, he originally intended to say, "All them other nigras is stinky and ignunt."

It's a pity, because I actually like his plan for Iraq. But after watching him squirm on The Daily Show, I was left with the overwhelming opinion that this guy is about as presidential as William Macy's character in Fargo. Here is a perfect example of the Peter Principal in politics.

But, you know, one thing I don't get is: How is it that Barack Obama is considered African-American in the first place? I've had the same question about Tiger Woods being labeled "The First Black Golfer." Tiger is as Thai as he is black. In fact, he looks more Thai than he does black, yet nobody calls him "The First Thai Golfer."

So, what is it that makes Barack black? Just because his father is Kenyan? Does that make him more black than white? He doesn't even come from an African-American culture, however you decide to define that. Barack grew up with his white mother in Hawaii and Jakarta and went to Harvard, about as far removed from any kind of black culture that I know. In fact, in his book, Dreams from My Father, Barack wrote, "my father looked nothing like the people around me."

The real issue here is that by calling Barack black, or African-American --or whatever the current PC fashion is-- this is the true racist crime. It is a form of hypodescent that comes from The One Drop Theory, a formula which concludes, essentially, that because he is not one hundred percent white, Barack therefore cannot be considered as such. In the Either You're With Us or Against us line of reasoning, this practice basically says, "He ain't all white, so he must be colored." This is what people should be getting up in arms about. Yet, nobody even notices the incoherent logic and inherent racism in that common practice.

Why not just let Obama be Obama? What difference does it make, so long as he has all the qualifications and qualities to salvage the shit-house that the current administration has created? Hell, I'll vote for him. Not least because he has had the balls to admit that he smoked weed and snorted blow. He's a true man of the people. Let him reign.

Politics - Gonzalez the Prick

2007-02-01T11:20:00.000+01:00

Alberto Gonzalez, sometimes also referred to as "That Smarmy Little Fuck," has revealed yet more of the evil that fuels the current Enron junta in Washington. Evil is the very word for it --and that's not a word I use lightly. Unfortunately it's been abused by religious extremists who employ it as a catch-all phrase for something they haven't the insight or lucidity to describe with accuracy. But in this case, evil can be defined as the very act of destroying certain fundamental rights for hundreds of millions of people while at the same time killing tens of thousands in order to enforce the same democratic ideals that --again-- are being undermined. Hypocrisy, totalitarianism, chicanery and casuistry are not even strong enough words for that.

Yet Alberto, with a smirk, sits before a Senate Judiciary Committee and says, "The constitution doesn't say that every individual in the United States or every citizen is hereby granted or assured the right to habeas. It simply says that right shall not be suspended."

There's not much more to say on this that hasn't been said already. I'll let Steve Colbert take it from here.

Cool Websites - Kirk and Spock are Gay?

2007-01-31T10:47:00.000+01:00

Apparently there's a huge cult of people who entertain the idea that Kirk and Spock were riding each other across the cosmos, going where --at least for them-- no man had gone before. The term "Slash Fiction" actually originated with unauthorized Kirk/Spock stories which emphasized double photon torpedos of love scenes.

The All Ages Kirk/Spock Archive has a collection of poetry, prose and art dedicated to this endeavour. And it is massive. Also, it's "safe for kids"! Here's one haphazard sample from their archives:

"Jim, I've been waiting for you to ask," Spock told his friend, and pressed his lips to Jim's. This made Jim moan and open up to the invading lips and for the first time, Jim felt the alien tongue invade his mouth.Lost in the sensation, all Jim could do was suck on the invader, and hold on for the ride of his life. It was unlike anything he had ever felt and somehow, Jim knew he'd never feel it again because independent of where they went from that point, he knew this would always be their first kiss. --Author: AtieJen

I found this site while searching for a video that I'd heard rumours of in the '80s. Apparently some group of middle-aged housewives had re-edited their collections of Star Trek into an hour-long episode which basically re-invented Spock and Kirk's relationship. Unfortunately, I still haven't found this video --if indeed it does exist. Any leads would be greatly appreciated.

Iraq - Bush the Sucker

2007-01-30T10:36:00.000+01:00

I would love to play poker with George W. Bush. His ferret eyes and blinking gob-smacked wonderment would be a welcome addition to the felt. Not so much for the scintillating banter, rather, but for the P.T. Barnum feast his withered corpse would serve up. As his stacks of chips diminished with Twin Towers rapidity and mine grew, he'd turn to the house with hat in hand and ask the dealer, "You think you could spot me another 21,500?"

Aside from being a pure and simple idiot, Dubya also plays a strategy that every adept poker player knows and which distinguishes the Winner from the Loser. Regardless of how much you've invested in the hand, every round of betting is a new bet, and you must be prepared to fold when the hand has changed.

Let's say in a game of Seven Stud, Dubya starts out with a pair of jacks showing and he rightly bets it hard, shouting "Mission Accomplished!" in a cute attempt at braggadocio. As the game progresses, it's possible that his opponent could draw and show three kings. If he hasn't improved his hand, Bush should fold immediately. But that's not what the stupid player does. The stupid player thinks, Well, hell. I've already invested nearly 160,000 in this hand. If I fold now, I'd be throwing it all away!

Not so, says the wise player. The money is most definitely lost anyway. And in the face of such overwhelming odds, throwing more money into the pot is a sure way to guarantee a net loss for the evening. What the losing player fails to do in such situations is consider the hand past, as if it were one of the many already decided. He's still locked in the moment, mesmerized by Schroedinger's Cat hidden in the down-turned cards. My fate is not yet decided, he lies to himself. After all, God told him to play this hand, and he intends to see it through no matter what. God wouldn't lie to me, now would He?

Well, guess what, Georgie. He did. And it's time you grew up and realized that the Easter Bunny don't play Stud. Good poker players are decidedly Zen in their philosophy: One hand does not decide the night, and when the moment has turned sour it's best to prepare for the next. Let it go, George. When the deal comes back around you can change the game to Draw, Texas Hold'em, or Partition. Cut'n'Run, even. But save your money, save some lives. Just fold, for chrissake.

War - Brilliant!

2007-01-29T10:52:00.000+01:00

The sophistication of Iraqi insurgents has reached a new level. Nine to twelve English-speaking gunmen, dressed and armed as U.S. soldiers infiltrated the provinicial headquarters in Karbala and, after kidnapping 4 U.S. soldiers, they then drove them 25 kilometers away and executed them.

The brilliance in this attack lies not in the score of 4 enemy dead that these fighters achieved; indeed, it was one hell of a risk for such a large number of well-trained, specialized units. But what they may have achieved surpasses the potential damage of a well-armed battalion. From now on, U.S. soldiers will be extremely wary of their own brethren, never relaxing, possibly shooting it out with each other over mistaken doubts.

In other words-- Soldiers' uniforms: $1,200. Weapons: $3,000. Vehicles: $27,000. Enemy self-paranoia: Priceless.

It's not my intention to be callous. I truly do feel for these four U.S. soldiers and their families, just like I feel for the approximately 60,000 Iraqi civilians who have been killed since this conflict began. But to be honest, the deaths of these soldiers don't strike me as an injustice in the same way that the deaths of civilians register as simply tragic. After all, the soldiers are participating members of an invading force. Of course, I do care about my countrymen; we have a common cultural heritage and therefore I can relate to them possibly better than I could to those of another culture. But my concern extends to the opinion that they shouldn't be there.

Also, from a distance, and free from the emotional drum-beating of the U.S. media, I have a decidedly abstract view of the events in Iraq. It's like reading the play-by-play notation of a chess match. Sure, I've got family and friends over there, and I hope that they will return safely, even moreso than I wish that everybody over there could be safe. But I'm certainly not rooting for the Americans to be victorious, no more than we could understand how the average German could root for the Nazis nearly 70 years ago. If this were a cakewalk, then the Neo-Cons and others of their American Taliban ilk would become emboldened to invade other countries, killing even more civilians and U.S. soldiers.

And so it is, with an abstract and rational view of these events, I'm able to simply admire a bold play by someone who isn't necessarily my enemy. This doesn't necessarily make me anti-American. If anything, it makes me pro-American. We never should have gone over there, and it's time for us to get the fuck out asap.

World - The Balls on that Hugo

2007-01-26T11:38:00.000+01:00

Sure, it's fashionable for Americans to refer to Iraq as "Bush's War," as if it hadn't been supported by a majority of even the Democrats in Congress, along with the media and general population. Regardless of this myopic view of history --current events, rather-- the fact remains that it was the U.S. --and not only BushCo.-- that began this neauvou Vietnam War, and it's the U.S. that needs world leaders like Hugo Chavez to keep it honest, humble and wise. And thank the gods that he's back in the news this week to poke his finger in the face of Goliath.

Ever since the arrogant manner in which the U.S. defied the wisdom of the U.N. and the world by invading Iraq, it's been clear that the only extant Superpower must be challenged. After all, when you're spread thin in Iraq and Afghanistan, you can't very well invade North Korea, Iran, Syria, Somalia and Venezuela, now can you? It only seems natural that the leaders of these countries try to bring themselves up a notch. Any nation would do the same.

But only Hugo does it with panache.

It remains to be seen how he will handle his nearly absolute power; history doesn't instill too much optimism on that score. But for the moment, he appears to be a man who sincerely believes in empowering the Venezuelan poor. Revolutionary and charismatic, Chavez also has one huge pair of balls.

After his failed 1992 coup, Chavez was permitted by the Perez government to appear on television to call for an end to hostilities. During the speech, and surrounded by his captors, he quipped that he had "failed ... for the moment."

In September, 2006, Chavez stood before the U.N. General Assembly and referred to Bush as "The Devil." He went on to say that Bush had come to the Assembly a day earlier to "share his nostrums to try to preserve the current pattern of domination, exploitation and pillage of the peoples of the world." His words were received with wild, unabashed applause.

Most of my compatriots would think that I'm a traitor for siding with this thorn in the side of my country. But I don't see Hugo as a thorn. I see him as the little pimply guy who faces up to the jock bully and tells him straight to his face to stop acting like an asshole. And if there's any nobility in that jock, he'll respect the moxy. If there's any intelligence in that massive, thick skull, he'll think about the words.

I don't know how he treats his wife or if he kicks stray dogs, but from what I see of Hugo, he seems to be a fine man. Let's hope modern-day Borgias don't slip a little something extra in his coffee.

Society - Who's the Faggot Now?

2007-01-25T13:06:00.000+01:00

Free Speech is now officially a rotting corpse. Isaiah Washington, an actor on “Grey’s Anatomy,” has become another willing victim of the Cult of the Politically Correct, ascending to the evil pantheon alongside Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Rosie O’Donnel. Though there can be no doubt that the offenses committed by the men on this list were intended to be abusive, Rosie was merely careless. And therefore it is right that these men have publicly apologized and agreed to reassess their values while Ms. O’Donnel has merely shrugged.

Still, I lament the loss of the Stoic American. The Cowboy and the Soldier who merely grunted at superficial slights, the Dustbowl Matriarch with leathery skin, and the resilient American Negro—they are all now shadows of a distant past. In their stead are talking torsos behind podiums, spewing outrage or apology. Our modern heroes are unremarkable protagonists in made-for-television dramas about people who fight picayune injustices.

And it’s all just so … anti-aesthetic. This current zeitgeist that obsesses over personal suffering strikes me as an assault on the rugged dignity we once represented. I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with being strong and hard and crass at times, meeting like for like, without responding to mere words as if they were mortal wounds.

Just to be clear on this, it’s necessary to emphasize that I’m not talking about assaults by people who intend to inflict terror and true injury, fag-bashers or skin-head rednecks who surround an Asian woman in a car with her baby beside her. Such people should be hanged by a mob, or at least publicly humiliated and run out of town on a pole. Certain aberrant behaviour, by necessity, must be combatted.

It’s this assault on the general status quo that worries me so. The colorful speech of the past is now laden with psychological word-mines that can explode unexpectedly with any footfall. The new milieu is a regime with robotic thought-police on ubiquitous patrol. The insectoid PC drones prowl public thoroughfares and private recesses, seeking out the bad seeds of society, those who utter the prohibited syllables of an overthrown dynasty. When their minutely attuned attenae detect the slightest murmur of The Proscribed Words, words like ching-chong and faggot and nigger, alarms shriek across the globe. The machines clamber together and form a donut around the perpetrator, their metallic limbs pointing censoriously at this single focus. The wailing permeates the offender’s cranium, inflicting discomfort and unrest. Coded messages are beamed out to the social network: This Will Have Economic Repercussions.

Surrounded, and with no way out, the deviant falls to his knees and pleads mea culpa. He asks for mercy, but the sentence is binding. “You are guilty of thought crimes. Crimes are evil. Therefore, your thoughts are evil. Your mind must be changed.” With head bowed, the pariah walks through the throng as a path spreads before him. Their appendages now point in unison toward his destiny: The Counseling Facility.

So it is, and so it shall be. The Cowboy has been laid to rest.

Psychology - Art and Personality

2007-01-24T12:01:00.000+01:00

By the same group who brought you the Brain Sex Test, here's an Art and Personality test that matches your taste to your personality. It's kind of long, and for me the taste part wasn't very accurate. But the personality profile was right on. Not a bad thing to do if you have 15 minutes to spend.

Parenthood – To Spank or Not to Spank

2007-01-23T12:30:00.000+01:00

Cathy Sorbo has written an interesting commentary on new legislation that will punish parents who spank their children. This is an issue with which I’ve had to do much soul-searching since becoming a father nearly three years ago.

In general, I think that spanking is unnecessary. Children can be quite reasonable, in their own way, and with patience, repetition and lots of “time outs,” they can usually be educated appropriately. Spanking, more often than not, serves only as a vent for frustrated parents.

However, I live in a busy city, with lots of traffic. And though I have educated my toddler to the dangers of moving vehicles, there was one occasion in which he forgot himself and stepped out into the street. On this occasion I gave him a good sharp wallop. But it wasn’t out of anger. Rather, it was a very calculated, premeditated strategy of education, based on the idea that the quickest and surest way to learn that fire hurts is to touch it one time. Pain, after all, is a very effective teacher.

That’s not to say that pain should be the exclusive means of education. When overdone, it can become quite meaningless. But the shock to him of actually being hit by me on this rare occasion brought the severity of the issue home to him in a way that insured he would never repeat it again.

Going back to the metaphor of fire and pain, burned fingers are not quite as fatal as a cross-town bus over-running tender young entrails. Usually, you only get one chance; there’s not much margin for learning in such a situation. So I decided –on that occasion-- that a small amount of pain was preferable to the unpalatable alternative. I don’t regret it. I suffered for it, more than him, but I think it was the right thing to do.

In other words: When the lesson is as serious as life-or-death, a spanking is a very expedient means toward learning.

It’s possible, though, in retrospect, that a spanking would also have been well-served when the remote control got thrown out in the garbage. But that was a year ago, and the statute of limitations is up. Anyway, I’m getting more exercise because of it. … Well, actually, he’s getting the exercise now.

Society - Sexual Apartheid

2007-01-23T11:47:00.000+01:00

Q: Why is it that men can never contract Mad Cow Disease?

A: Because they’re all pigs.

As a man, I am unable to take umbrage at this female chauvinist assault on our character, first and foremost because it is mostly true. Anyone who doubts it has only to compare the men’s and women’s lavatories in any public space. The women’s room is always pristine and fresh-smelling, sans puddles and errant sprays of pee-pee, whereas the men’s looks like a Pollock in urine. The smell alone makes my nose-hair curl just thinking about all the stray bacteria that must be floating in the air. And gods forbid that one should have to do a number two in there. Without an adept sense of balance, the enterprise is tantamount to sitting on strips of fly paper.

That’s why, whenever possible, I slip into the ladies’ room. After all, I happen to be a very neat pee-er. So, why should I have to suffer the iniquities of my ingroup? That’s not to say that I'm not prone to certain moral dilemmas in such situations. Not least of which is how to leave the toilet seat when I’m done.

Common courtesy would dictate that I should leave it down for the next lady in line. But, if the next lady, after giving me the stink-eye, should squeeze past and notice that the seat is down, she may think that I had left it down during my evacuation. And if I should leave it up --ostensibly to advertise my cleanliness-- that may be misconstrued as an inconsiderate abuse of my liberty. After much thought on the subject, I decided long ago that the best course of action is to put the lid down as well as the seat. And in cases where there is no lid, I improvise. Occasionally, I might even inform the glaring woman that I have indeed peed with the seat up.

It seems to me that here we have a system in which the elite pee-ers –i.e. women—are imposing their wills on all men (just because most men are pigs) and are relegating all of us to the hell of specified urinals. And I think that is a gross injustice.

After all, it’s considered a moral aberration these days to designate “colored” lavatories. So, why stop at skin color? What happened to the sexual revolution? If –rightfully—women feel that they should have a clean environment for their biological evacuations, perhaps we should stop designating these areas by sex, rather, and impose a merit system.

In an age of sexual predator lists, no-flight lists and electronic certification, it doesn’t seem like it would be too difficult to calibrate a man’s peeing skills and –if he qualifies as a skillful and clean urinator—he should be allowed the luxury of a clean latrine. Rather than “Women’s” and “Men’s,” we could designate our public conveniences as “Refined” and “Pigs.” Certain men, like myself, could be issued an electronic pass that will give them access to the convenience of a clean place of business.

I can only hope that the new Democratic congress will stop running circles around such unimportant issues like the Iraq War and Public Health, and that they will press into more urgent matters like this Old Testament apartheid system which unfairly castigates civilized urinators. It’s time for us, as a people, to stand up for those who don’t sit to pee.

By Special Request

2007-01-23T07:41:00.000+01:00

Colorado Bob asked for some commentary on Barcelona. Guess I should get around to that someday. But for the moment, here's an article I wrote a few weeks ago, A Crappy Catalan Christmas. One of these days, when I get around to making a Highlights of Ubiquity section, this will be one of them. Enjoy.

Rant - Stinking Flu

2007-01-22T11:32:00.000+01:00

You know what sucks about having the flu? It's like a time machine that automatically takes you back to the days when you were a kid and people took good care of you and coddled you and didn't make you feel guilty about laying out on the sofa and watching crap tv. It's an oddly pleasant memory that makes you realize immediately those days are gone forever.

When you're older, nobody cuts you any slack. Your partner gets pissed off that you don't help out around the house; your boss indirectly makes you feel guilty for taking a day off --and maybe even insists that you get a doctor's note, when all you really need is rest; your kid still needs looking after; and even your own conscience hounds you about all the things that need seeing to. (That's the super-ego working overtime, right?)

Anyway, that's my long explanation about why I'm not posting anything decent today. You got a problem with it? Get in line.

Internet - Alexa

2007-01-19T11:22:00.000+01:00

It's been said that I'm as dense as a porn-star's money-shot; so it's not surprising that Alexa is news to me. This site is like the Nielson Ratings of the internet. Here you can find the most popular websites on the internet and even monitor changes in a Dow Jones spirit. Browse by country or subject. It's a great way to find what's hot or even discover sites that are tailored to your interests.

It's cool. Check it out.

Cool Websites - ESP Tester

2007-01-18T12:05:00.000+01:00

Ever wanted to measure your paranormal abilities? The Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment has an online ESP Tester, which will gauge your ability to predict which of 10 colors have been selected, over 20 trials. Statistically, you should get it right 2 out of 20 times. Four or six indicates a high level of ESP is at work.

I consistently got 0 out of 20, which --according to the website-- suggests that I use ESP to fuck myself up. (That apparently explains my life history.) "Psi-missing" is what they call it. So, at least I have some kind of psychic talent. Now, if only I could cultivate my telekinetic abilities to stimulate that woman on the metro who hounds my fantasies, I might be able to eek more than a dirty look out of her every morning.

Race - Are You a Racist?

2007-01-17T12:55:00.000+01:00

The Implicit Association Test, run by Harvard, is an online test that monitors the speed of your reactions, which somehow determines whether or not you are actually a racist. The way it works is: It tests your speed at associating words with both a positive and negative connotation to white and black faces. A micro-second delay in putting a positive word to one racial group indicates a subconscious or conscious reluctance.

Personally, I have to disagree with the methodology, as one's reactions can improve upon becoming accustomed to the task over the duration of the test. In my case, the Negative-Words-Associated-With-Blacks part was at the beginning, while I was still trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. So, I was tested as "moderately racist." Unbelievable. I happen to have lots of Jewish friends and have banged more black chicks than I can count. Pffft.

Still, it is put out by Harvard, so it must be accurate. Right? Whether you agree with it or not, it's an interesting test to try.

Notable Blogs - Mind Hacks

2007-01-16T15:13:00.000+01:00

If you like psychology, neuroscience or anything related to the mind and brain, you should make this part of your daily reading. If it makes you groove, you may even want to buy the book.

Check it out: Mind Hacks.

.

Paranormal - Past Lives?

2007-01-15T11:34:00.000+01:00

This isn't exactly late-breaking news, but it's a story that fascinates me just the same. University of Virginia researcher, Jim Tucker, studies the past-life memories of children and has some amazing cases to report. This particular story tells of James Leininger, a 6-year old kid who has vivid memories of being a WWII pilot, James Huston. His recall of facts is so impressive, that he has even attended and been welcomed to a reunion of Huston's old squadron.

I don't know what to think about past lives. The skeptics would say that if you study 1,000 children, you're very likely to find eery anomalies in 10 or so cases. Statistically, it makes sense. Is it possible that, if these cases are more than just statistical detritus, that they indicate some ability to channel into past lives rather than actual reincarnation? In the same way that a television 60 light years away in space would pick up The Jack Benny show only now, perhaps little James simply has a talent that is latent in all/most/some/a few of us.

(Unfortunately, the most legitimate news source I could find on this is ABC News --ahem-- and the Connellsville Daily Courier. If anybody has research suggestions on scouring reliable news sources --outside the realm of subscribing to Lexis-- please share. )

Blogging - Welcome to My New Look

2007-01-14T17:12:00.000+01:00

It took one hell of a long time to learn how to do this. CSS coding, templates, upload, download, copy widgets, and bla-bla-bla-bla-fucking-bla. But finally here it is. Let's see how long it takes before something goes pear-shaped.

I will have to say, that I have Colorado Bob to thank for this. He took me through the first few steps of dealing with html and pointed me toward all the good websites for resources and tutorials, which got my courage up for the big leap into CSS. Hats off to the nice man from Texas. I always did like that country, even if they are responsible for that beady-eyed, draft-dodging psychopath at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

And I really should thank Hans at Beautiful Beta for the excellent instructions on how to add a third column to the template. That is one dude dedicated to explaining how it's done.

Anyway, the new look is installed. I still got to figure out how to achieve that delicate combination of profit and taste with the ads, some more good links and articles etc. But for chissakes, get off my back wouldja? I'm busy as hell over here.

Author's Note - Hiatus

2007-01-02T11:23:00.000+01:00

Just when I was getting into the groove of this blogging thing. I actually had so much material that it was an effort for me to limit my posts to one a day. However, some pressing matters have come up and I must put my writing efforts into them. The most important reason, of course, is that they pay.

I have 4 articles pending for the Metropolitan Magazine here in Barcelona and whatever free time I can garner for myself has to be for them. Give me a week, and I'll be back. Not that too many people will miss my posts; with between 30 and 120 hits a day on this blog, I don't imagine there will be much of a public outcry.

Feel free to check out the archives if you're truly jonesing for a bit of Ubiquity.

But for those of you who will be mourning this brief hiatus, the good news is that I will soon be upgrading the appearance of this blog. With the help of a generous soul named Colorado Bob, I am endeavouring to learn how to modify templates and hope to have a whiz-bang design set up very shortly.

For those of you interested in the process, you can check out how things are coming along at Less Than Civil.

Happy Random Change of the Calendar Year to all of you, and I will see you soon, bigger and better.

Cool Websites - Celebrity Rumours

2006-12-29T10:31:00.000+01:00

Richard Gere with a gerbil up his ass? J. Edgar in a lace teddy? Walt Disney’s cryogenic remains beneath Disneyland? If you want to know the truth behind these rumours, chances are you won’t find it at The 40 Best Celebrity Rumors. Most of the entries seem to end with “Who knows?”

But you will find a lot of old myths that you’d forgotten plus a few new ones. This would be perfect toilet reading. Now, just waiting for the day when a computer terminal and internet connection is a standard feature of the commode.

Culture - A Crappy Catalan Christmas

2006-12-28T11:59:00.000+01:00

Okay, it’s been three days now and I thought I’d get over this. But I can’t get it out of my head: The image of my two-year old son beating on a log until it shits out gifts.

It’s a tradition here in Catalunya, a region which seems to have an unhealthy obsession with crap, especially when it comes to Christmas and religion. As if it weren’t enough to hear daily throughout the year, ¡Me cago en dios!, an epithet which translates directly as “I shit on God.” No Nativity scene is complete here without the Caganer, a figurine who squats behind the manger, Joseph and Mary, the animals and Three Wise Guys while his bare ass hovers proudly over a tiny, brown swirly of crap.

I’ve lived here long enough that most things seem normal to me, but this is the first year that I’ve had direct experience with the Caga Tió, or The Shit Dude. Essentially it’s a log with a face and hat on one end, propped up by two sticks which –with a little imagination—could be construed as legs. A blanket is thrown over his back-side and food is set out for him on the days leading up to Christmas. This, in order to plenish his bowels. Then, on Christmas day, the whole family gathers around and they beat on him with wooden spoons, mallets, and whatever violent sundry can be found around the house.

Meanwhile, they sing a song:

Shit, dude! Shit lots of candy!

Shit some wine and cookies!

Whether you shit or not,

I’m going to hit you with my stick!

After each refrain, they march in a parade around the house while some sneaky member of the family tosses gifts under the blanket. When the children return, all the adults begin to say, Let’s see if the dude has crapped. Look what the dude has crapped out! Ohh, what nice crap! Then it’s back to the song and parade and more gifts.

You know, I’m really not too uptight when it comes to language and my child, but something about this just doesn’t sit right with me. I guess it’s not so much the words as it is the focus on defecation and coprophagy by proxy.

But who am I to argue with tradition? In the same way that one can never really pinpoint the origins of obsessive-compulsive acts, cultural traditions inevitably guard their own secrets. Some say that it began in the Pyrenees and spread down from the mountains. My in-laws, who never miss an opportunity to describe their hardships during the Civil War, explained to me about 5 or 12 times over dinner that they had to beat on just an ordinary Tió, with no face, legs or hat. In the face of such determination to eat the crap from a log, I doubt that I will ever be able to dissuade my son from participating in this deviant ritual.

But all told, I don’t suppose it’s quite so bad in comparison to a tradition in which I grew up, in which every Sunday I was forced to eat the flesh and drink the blood of some long-dead guy who had been beaten to a pulp and executed in a brutal and excruciating manner. So, really it’s all just a matter of perspective. On the one hand, coprophagy. On the other, cannibalism. It’s so hard to judge.

Society - More Statistical Bullshit

2006-12-27T12:09:00.000+01:00

Among the top headlines today is a report by the BBC that 94% of banknotes in Spain have residues of cocaine on them. The story suggests that not all of those bills were used for snorting, but that residues may have come from contact with other banknotes.

Now, how did the un-named “experts” in the article come to this sweeping generalization about the approximate one billion banknotes in Spain? They sampled 100 bills. 100 out of a billion. That's 0.00001% .

Further, they sampled 20 bills from each of 5 cities. The cities and their populations are:

Barcelona 1,600,000

Bilbao 350,000

Madrid 3,000,000

Valencia 735,000

Seville 695,000

________

Total: 6,380,000

That’s 6,380,000 out of a population of 40,000,000. 16%. They sampled 0.00001% of the banknotes in the country focusing on 5 urban centers which comprise 16% of the population, not taking into account any of the rural communities. And somehow that is considered hard research worthy of international headlines.

Granted, I’m no statistician. And perhaps the nuances of the science escape me. But that sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.

Update - Damn, I Won

2006-12-26T12:11:00.000+01:00

A few days ago I posted on the topic of my newfound fear of winning the lottery. And I'm sorry to say that I won. I hit for 120€. So now I'm faced with some vital decisions. Really, I want to make this money work for me, but I'm not sure if I should invest it in something secure or venture into real estate. I suppose I'll need an accountant now. I'm not even sure how to begin deciding on one of those. That's a whole ball of wax right there. But I guess it must be done. Fortune oblige and all.

Please, no emails requesting donations to charity or funding for a performance art space.

The Christmas Truce

2006-12-25T08:10:00.000+01:00

It was a mass movement that began with songs. German voices strained across No Man’s Land, carrying the words of Stille Nacht to the hearts of war-weary British troops, who knew the song as Silent Night. They began to sing along. Then the soldiers took turns serenading their enemies, one song after another. Brave party crashers crawled across No Man’s Land, carrying not grenades, but bottles of brandy, or jars of marmalade.

Before long, an unofficial truce was established as German, French and British enemies left the trenches to join each other on the battlefield in a novel way. They shook hands and shared cigars. They regarded each other warmly. Almost immediately, it became obvious how unpleasant the party was with all those dead bodies around. So they set about to burying them. Chaplains came out from both sides as they quoted psalms together and sang hymns.

Once the field was clear, it was only natural that they should play football. Rifles were exchanged for a ball, vital organs replaced with a goal, and they battled nation against nation in the truest of true world cups. There was more singing and dancing as soldiers continued fraternizing with their enemies, day after day, until the generals could stand it no longer, and they unanimously decided that this was bad for the war and it must stop at once.

The only problem was: The soldiers didn’t want to end the truce. For once, they were having a good time. Orders to return to battle were issued, but ignored. In some cases, officers aimed their weapons at their own troops and ordered them to begin shooting at their newfound friends. But no shots or artillery would strike human flesh in the aftermath of that impromptu holiday truce.

In the end, troops had to be rotated to the rear so that perfect strangers could once again be counted on to kill each other without remorse. And every Christmas after that, for the remainder of World War I, the generals ordered constant artillery barrage at Christmas to avoid any repeat of this expression of good will.

Fortunately, for the generals, they were able to control this impulse toward cameraderie and the war managed to continue another four years. If it hadn’t been for their perspicacity, the trench warfare might have ended right there and we may never have discovered tanks, anti-aircraft guns and flamethrowers. But the event will forever be remembered as The Christmas Truce.

Have a Merry Druidic Tree-Slaughtering Festival and a Happy Random Change of the Calendar Year!

Notable Blogs - The Rude Pundit

2006-12-22T13:42:00.000+01:00

To anybody who's read me or knows me, I don't guess it would be much of a surprise that I really like this guy, The Rude Pundit. Anybody who can create an adjective like bugfuck, or a phrase like Whitehouse Spokesdouche, borders on brilliant and should not be ignored.

He almost gives me something to aspire toward, were it not for the fact that he specializes in politics. Alas, I'm beginning to glean that the key to success in the blogosphere lies in specialization, rather than the diverse flotsam that I harbor.

If you've got any sense of taste and humour, you will make Rude Pundit part of your daily reading. And if not, you have no idea what you're missing. Check him out.

Personal Essay - Lotophobia

2006-12-21T11:49:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow is the drawing for the Spanish Christmas Lottery, and like approximately two-thirds of the Iberian population, I’m already planning on how I will manage this substantial change in my personal economy. As the day has drawn closer my revelries have grown less sporadic and far more elaborate, so much so that last night I suffered a bout of nausea just dealing with all the headaches that my sudden and imaginary fortune will bring.

I came to the conclusion that perhaps I would be better off if by some remote chance I shouldn’t win tomorrow. After all, I have zero experience in handling sums of money larger than the purchase of some domestic electronic device. What would I do with it? What kinds of things would I be forced to learn? How do I know that I could trust other people whom I would charge with the management of my hard-played fortune?

That’s when I imagined my reaction to winning. I don’t think I would jump up and down screaming. Rather, I would probably become very scared and withdraw to my bed for a number of days, with the winning ticket tucked back in the closet and filling a space immensely beyond its proper dimensions. Somewhat like a chunk of plutonium.

It occurs to me that most people, when they buy a lottery ticket, are buying a piece of hope, a commodity that is infinitely valuable in a society that rarely offers more than currency for our labors. But I, on the other hand, just now realize that I have bought 15 pieces of fear. Man, that is wack.

So, I suppose it will be with relief when I face the inevitable tomorrow, and fail to come into my millions. Still, there’s a one in six chance of hitting something in this special draw. While millions might be a little stressful to handle, I think I could make do with 500,000. Maybe a little more.

Cool Websites - Brain Sex

2006-12-20T11:25:00.000+01:00

I always knew that I had a feminine side. I just didn't know how large it was.

This is a very interesting online test that analyzes your mental faculties in various arenas and places them in the categories of what we traditionally consider feminine or masculine capacities.

Take the test. Or, are you afraid?

Television - To Be or Not to Be in the Entourage

2006-12-19T12:17:00.000+01:00

Let’s face it, this is not compelling drama. The plot line and story arc are as thin as the cocktails at an Amish wedding. But what drives this show –for good and for bad—are the characters. And this, even though the writers have failed to give them any depth. Quite simply, these characters are shallow.

And that is either the most profitable event of serendipity in history or a ballsy risk taken by the writing staff of this program, because somehow these boys are interesting despite the fact that they are not interesting at all. They seem like people we all know; they’re not superlative; they’re accessible, like guys you could comfortably hang out with.

That’s the point, right? The boys have a modicum of charisma and a reasonably chill attitude, so much so that you’d feel right at home doing bong-hits with them in their kitchen. They celebrate E’s breakup by rolling off to Vegas, and you’re right there wedged in the car with them. Throw in millions of dollars to waste like spare change, and you’ve got the ultimate plug-in fantasy.

At least, that’s the way it is through the first two seasons. If you’ve plodded through the show week by week, forgetting about it between seasons, you may not have picked up on the nuances of change. But if, like me, you’ve watched all three seasons back to back over the course of ten days, you may have returned to your pre-Entourage ennui –if not visceral hatred—of the shallow cesspool that is LA.

By Season 3, you decide that these guys maybe aren’t so cool. It might be fun to have them visit you for a couple of days, as long as they stay in a hotel and not your crib—but after that it would be best if they moved on. No sense ruining a good thing.

By Season 3, Vince’s laid-back affability transforms into a perennially glib, affected aloofness. E’s natural modesty and insecurity has grown into smarmy superiority. Johnny Drama remains the same oaf, but is no longer low-key; rather, he’s grown exagerrated to the point of obnoxious. Turtle, probably the least attractive member and therefore not subject to quite as much off-screen, ego-inflating attention as the others, has maintained his odd blend of confident humility. So far.

The character of Ari, played by Jeremy Piven, if not the most experienced actor in the cast at least the most adept, has somehow improved. It’s as if he has taken the journey in reverse. Starting out as the most exagerrated egomaniac in the show, he has come to embody the more endearing qualities of honor and respect. Great credit for this must be given to Ari having actually had compelling events written for his character.

Still, as much as these guys have come to make me smirk rather than grin, I’m eager to see Season 4. It is an addictive show. Perhaps I should get a life.

Blogging - What Hullaballoo

2006-12-18T11:38:00.000+01:00

Well, talk about a scandal. My previous post, Poriticarry Collect, generated quite an emotional response, so much so that I've decided to forego my intended post today and dedicate more attention to this.

It's amazing how easy it is to get a little attention in the Blogosphere. I haven't had this much fun since my Defamation of Character suit against the Anti-Defamation League . True story, but that's an anecdote to share some other time.

On the advice of an adept blogger, I posted a link to my opinions on a few other blogs and news forums, which generated over 300 hits over the weekend. Not a lot, by blogging standards for sure, but quite surprising to me.

There were many anonymous comments which threatened violence and ill-will upon me and/or my children. And, curiously, a large portion of those wannabe violent ne'er-do-wells linked to my site from Model Minority, a self-described Asian American Empowerment zone. Naturally, I tried to register and log in just to see what was being said, but my email and IP address have been banned. I petitioned a few friends to try as well, but they are also banned. So apparently membership to this site is exclusive and their discussions are highly secretive. And judging by the commentators to my blog, their discussions must be somewhat volatile.

The commentators at one very nice looking blog, Kimchi Mamas, have also taken quite a bit of umbrage at my "white privileged status" and ignorant volubility, so much so that I felt the need to express regret at any ill-feelings I may have stirred up.

This is one of the reasons that I have emigrated from my home country, the U.S., where race is just far too much of an issue for my tastes. It reminds me of an experience I had here in Barcelona a few years ago in a pub: I had come across a couple of merchant marines and found out that they were also from Virginia. We chatted pleasantly for awhile until one of them turned to his friend and said, "How you like that? We come halfway 'round the world, meet a guy from Virginia, and he's white!"

I took no offense. It just seemed a pity to me that it was a fact even worth mentioning. I actually felt sorry for the old guy that this was something to which he gave importance, like a throwback to another era. Yet it was refreshing to see that his younger colleague grimaced in a way that expressed that he, like me, believed it was time to move beyond that mode of thinking. And the young guy and I continued to chat, ignoring the dinosaur who --rightfully or not-- operated under a different paradigm than us.

And in the end, I had a much more pleasant experience than if I'd engaged the old guy on my definition of "right" thinking. There are times when it just seems best to teach by example, not debate. I wonder if I'll ever figure out how to do that in the blogosphere, a realm whose cellulose seems to comprise strictly of debate.

Society - Poriticarry Collect

2006-12-15T12:03:00.000+01:00

Once there was a time when the Chinese weren’t a bunch of Politically Correct crybabies. They weren’t so insecure as to jump on any opportunity to scream and kick about some perceived slight. I used to think they were the only ones left who felt secure enough in their long history and incredibly massive unity that they were indifferent to harmless jokes and even outright racist slurs. In a word, the Chinese stood strong.

Sadly, that day appears to have passed and Rosie O’Donnell has caved in to pressure from a group of Asian American journalists for an apology. Certainly, the whole Chinese race –or agglomeration of races—hasn’t changed so much as all that; and probably not the whole of Chinese Americans, which makes this whining group of journalists something of a disgrace to their people.

In regards to the self-confidence historically displayed by the Chinese American community, could this be the beginning of the end?

The video of O’Donnell’s bit hardly seems that offensive to me. The humour of it is based on the comic concept of Surprise and Incongruity. Essentially, she improvised a Chinese news broadcast, using Chinese sounds, and speckled it with a few English words. I’ve lived in Korea and travelled around Asia, have worked and socialized with dozens of Chinese in The States, and I can attest that this actually happens in real life; and when it does, it’s only natural to laugh. For some reason, our brains are hardwired for such a reaction. Imagine Oscar Wilde speckling his speech with hip-hop slang. The effect would be similar.

And this is one of the reasons that the Politically Correct movement gets in my craw so much: It’s unnatural, the way they intend to manipulate and control human nature. They incorrectly imagine that they are going to change attitudes by attacking the language in the same way that totalitarian regimes believe that the suppression of speech controls the attitude of the population.

If Unity: Journalists of Color Inc. finds offense in O’Donnell’s use of “ching-chong” during her poor rendition of a Chinese language, perhaps they would be better served by teaching her Mandarin or Cantonese. But of course, what’s really at the heart of this is that this organization needs to find a cause to fight in order to justify their own existence. Now that Americans are somewhat more enlightened than a few decades ago, Unity: Journalists of Color Inc. has no choice but to find a racist under every bed. Otherwise, they would have to close up shop.

Rant - Cracking Under The Barrage

2006-12-14T12:36:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I wish I had a firehose, like riot cops, so that I could just spray it around me in a circle as I struggle through the city.

Every day I take a crowded metro to work and have to push my way through bodies just to disembark. At my destination there are always a couple of guys at the top of the escalator, slowing down the crowd as they hand out free “newspapers,” which are light on news and heavy on ads. They block the escalator, shoving their rags in my face and I burst through them like Henry Rollins in an angst-laden music video. Often they’re accompanied by a man named Professor Ali who hands out flyers offering his services as a professional psychic. He actually goes so far as to shove his flyers, unsuccessfully, into my clenched fists. I get across the street and there’s an old gypsy woman in a shawl who steps in my path with her hand raised and pleading for a donation in a sing-song voice.

Her intrusive technique is similar to another beggar who prowls the metro on my return trip. He never fails to shock me by shoving a scabrous stump between my face and the pages of my book. Walking the sidewalk to my apartment, I’m often confronted by people with clipboards who want to tell me about some “amazing offer” they have for a travel agency or in the Mormon Church.

I get home and the phone starts ringing. It’s somebody wanting me to change telephone or internet providers. While I’m sitting down to lunch, the doorbell rings. It’s somebody else with a clipboard and a bright, irritating smile. After lunch, it’s back to the street and metro for more of the same.

Speckled throughout my day, I’m inundated with a barrage of disorienting advertisements in the form of posters which practically scream out for attention, video screens in the metro selling some product and the incessant abuse of television spots. Like the beggars who invade your psyche with a visual appeal to your conscience, or the chipper door-to-door and telephone salesmen who invade your home, these ads are scientifically designed to get in your head visually or through the use of jingles. Even on Sundays, there’s a man who sets up a large electronic keyboard which pours forth a cacaphony even though he plays with just one finger.

And it’s driving me fucking crazy. Somehow, what we consider to be rude behaviour is considered acceptable when it plies the interests of Capitalism. (Even the beggars where I live are part of an organization that provides training, transport and coordination.) For some reason it’s okay to be pushy and offensive, as long as you don’t do it within your own monkeysphere.

And why is that? I mean, what if I stood in front of the elevator doors in my apartment building and blocked my neighbours, asking them for financial assistance or forcing them to take some paper that sells my services? Maybe I could ring their doorbells at dinner time and try to sell them something. I could plaster posters up in the lobby, stand there with a guitar and sing obnoxious jingles. How long do you think I would last in my building before somebody gave me a royal ass-kicking? Yet we accept this horrible behaviour from complete strangers.

You know, I like money, I like having things. And I recognize that the economy depends on the buying, selling and promotion of things. But every day, I feel more and more that Capitalism is just so stinking obnoxious.

Disclaimer: This article in no way reflects the views of Google AdSense or its advertisers. Support this site, buy their products. In fact, send me your phone number and I’ll tell you all about the benefits to you.

Technology - iPod-Nike Conspiracy

2006-12-13T10:30:00.000+01:00

NPR reports that your Nikes could be your worst enemy. Apparently iPod and Nike are in cahoots to create a secret spy program that will give anybody with a little know-how the ability to track your every movement merely by sitting at home and watching you on GoogleMaps.

Beware.

Cool Websites - The Negro Space Program

2006-12-12T12:47:00.000+01:00

This is among the top ten funny things I’ve ever seen. No intro necessary, it speaks for itself.

Language - What’s Wrong With "Fuck"?

2006-12-11T11:06:00.000+01:00

In the presence of my toddler recently, I let fly the phrase, “That’s fucked up.” And of course it became a new addition to his rapidly expanding toolbox of expression. What was remarkable to me about the episode is that, once confronted with it, I really didn’t care if he spoke that way or not. Another way of putting it, of course, is: I really didn’t give a fuck. And I couldn’t help but wonder if there is something wrong with my attitude.

A friend of mine lowers his voice on the phone when uttering the word as an intensifier, as if he were telling me about some whore he screwed in Utah while his wife’s in the background wiping oatmeal off his kid’s cheeks. It’s such an evil word for a child to be exposed to. Apparently. Yet, aside from the fact that everybody else thinks so, I don’t see why. As I expressed to my child’s mother, if eventually he can distinguish between situations in which it’s acceptable or not, what’s the big deal?

It’s a word, nothing more. A labiodental fricative and a velar plosive, separated by a monophthong. So what? Fff, uh, kk. Three sounds that, in any other combination, are harmless. Twenty years ago I read –in some unremembered source—that what anglophones consider vulgar or not is actually descended from an ancient form of ethnocentricity. For a few centuries after William the Conqueror, the language of the English court was French. So all words deriving from French, such as fornicate, penis, or vagina were considered acceptable. Fuck, cock and cunt, however are Anglo-Saxon, deriving from the Germanic origins of the language and were therefore considered vulgar. Vulgar, by the way, originally meant “common” and only later came to include the definition of “in bad taste”

Its power lies not so much in its presence but in the intention behind it. Once, in high school, a teacher ripped my Sony Walkman out of my hands in the hallway and took it into his classroom. Feeling a sense of injustice had been committed, I followed him into his class and, in front of his remedial reading group, demanded the return of my property. Persuant to my understanding of the regulations, walkmen were prohibited in class, but not in the hallway. When I refused to leave without my device, he wrote me up for detention. Then, very slowly, I tore the detention slip in two and dropped it on his desk, saying, “You can go fuck yourself.”

The strength in the statement lay not in the literal meaning of the phrase, though it would have been amusing to see him try. What rankled him and his administrative overlords more was the absolute destruction of that pedestal of respect that authority depends on. Not only did I refuse to acknowledge the sancity of his quarters, nor give importance to his imposition of d-hall, but with one fell swoop I tore down the barrier of propriety that divides students and teachers and said, essentially, You are not important enough for me to observe the rules of language. For some reason, that was worse than any of my other “offenses,” and it begat a series of parental meetings ultimately resulting in my suspension from school.

I’d like to think that words like “fuck” and “nigger” will eventually become disempowered along with all their cronies, that they will become like a rubber knife that will only be laughed at if used seriously. But given the self-importance of both the puritanical and politically correct, it seems that day is a long way away, even if, due to overusage, the word is far less powerful than when Holden Caufield freely commented on it in 1951. Indeed, the television show Deadwood is fighting the good fight by defusing the word through overusage, as can be measured in The Deadwood Fuck Count. I look forward to the day when politicos speak as freely as the characters on HBO. “That miserable fuckwit thinks he can run this country better than I, and god help every one of you cocksuckers if he wins this fucking election.” I wonder how many more votes Kerry would have won if I had been his speechwriter.

I suppose that –in the spirit of “If it bends, it’s funny; if it breaks, it’s not”—I will continue to be amused at the sporadic “fuck” that my baby utters, knowing that it offends sensibilities that I neither share nor approve of. As he goes through life, I’ll do my best to instill an idea of pertinence and moderation, along with respect for individuals. But if, on the odd occasion, he looks up at me and says, “Papa, that Blues Clues is one fucking good show!” I’ll just smile and scratch his head. “That’s my boy.”

Science - Cooperative Hunting

2006-12-08T10:41:00.000+01:00

The recent discovery of cooperative hunting between two species could signal the inchoate beginnings of an evolutionary leap similar to that which propelled humans to the dominant position they now maintain. It seems that, in the Red Sea at least, when groupers are thwarted in the hunt, they enlist the aid of moray eels, who –depending on prior engagements—may or may not accompany their petitioner to the offending crevice where said prey is hiding.

The behaviour is similar to the relationship that exists between real-estate agents and homowners; the difference being that an eel is a slimy, slithering legless predator with toxic blood while a real-estate agent actually has legs.

Could this be the beginning of a threat to Homo Sapien dominance? Should we be concerned? Many anthropologists believe that human abilities and civilization began with a need to develop the mental capacity to cooperate in the hunt. We domesticated the dog in order to assist us and expand our sphere of cooperation. This in turn led to other forms of animal husbandry. What if these two species leapfrog over us and become our masters? Perhaps, just to be safe, we should eliminate the eel and grouper from our planet. And, while we’re at it, we could get rid of real-estate agents too.

For if we don’t act now, it could very well be that, down the evolutionary pike, when there is nothing left of man’s hegemony but a fossil record and a layer of oxidized metal far below the Manhattan Desert, the descendants of these creatures will have evolved into two separate societies battling over their own underwater version of the Holy Land. Perhaps in some distant future, when the mighty United Giant Squids provide unlimited support to the Eels, some renegade Groupers will fly a manta ray into the twin coral towers. Then in response, the Squids will ignore the Groupers and, instead, will seek vengance on some unsuspecting nation of Clown Fish.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just looking too deep into this. I think I’ll go get myself a plate of unagi.

Society - Who's In Charge Here?

2006-12-07T14:19:00.000+01:00

What would you say if I decided that I could shit anywhere that I want, whenever the urge came, and what's more, if I insisted that you follow me around constantly and pick up my droppings throughout the day? Would you feel this role to be somewhat subservient?

Well, it seems to me that most people would. Yet, I can't walk down the street without seeing such a dysfunctional relationship 5 or 10 times a day. And what's worse is these people do it without receiving so much as a grunt or nod of thanks. Not even a squint of appreciation.

You've probably already figured out that I'm talking about dogs and their owners. It's puzzling to me, because these people consider themselves "the masters" when they are clearly the slaves. It's been a while since I've had a dog and, thankfully, I've gained some insight from my distant perspective. But I guarantee that if I ever get another one, I'm going to train him to yelp at least a modicum of gratitude.

Author's Note - Hiatus

2006-12-07T14:17:00.000+01:00

For personal and professional reasons, I had to take a break from posting. But don't you worry, never fear. Mackey's back in town.

Random Thoughts - If My Ass Itched...

2006-11-24T12:19:00.000+01:00

My son, who turns two and a half years old today, had a slight fungal infection earlier this week. As a result, he had an itchy bottom. On the way home from the pharmacy, we stopped off at the local supermarket, where he enjoys the rewards of a modest fame. As he made the rounds to collect votives in the form of cheese, ham and breadsticks, he made a point of announcing to each of his acolytes: Em pica el culete, which is Catalan for “My bottom itches.”

Once the general concern had been ameliorated and he had paid for our purchases, we returned home and applied the unction offered to us by the pharmacy. He immediately slipped off into a siesta while I retired to the balcony to suffer a slight twang of envy.

Why is it that only toddlers and lunatics are given a monopoly on such unabashed honesty?, I asked myself. Wouldn’t we all be better served by baring our souls and maladies to casual inquiries regarding our state of health and mind? Isn’t that what cooperative existence implies?

I tried to imagine the reaction of cashiers and toll collectors. They would say, “How are you doing today?” And I would respond, “Well, I’ve got a slight touch of gonorrhea, but other than that, not bad.” Or perhaps, “I’m feeling like I’ve squandered my life away and have fantasies of a piano falling on my head and putting an end to this anxiety.”

In an ideal world, the clerk would hand over my change and commiserate by sharing a similar jewel. “Mmm. I know how you feel. I pretty much despise my life and wish I was smarter and more attractive.”

Why is it that we all must suffer in private? I guess there are really two answers to that.

One: Humans are a cruel bunch. When they sense weakness in an otherwise strong person, they pounce. Even if they do it harmlessly through distant ridicule and gossip. While it’s distasteful to harass the seriously maligned, we find great pleasure in hearing news of the demise that befell what we thought was “the perfect couple.”

The other reason why our social survival demands reticence is far more obvious and blatant: Nobody gives a fuck.

When you’re an adult and not in the pantheon of the rich and famous, people just don’t want to hear that your ass itches. If Tom Cruise stopped off to buy toilet paper and mentioned that every day he looks in the mirror and gazes at a disturbed, ridiculous freak, the news would hit the wires like “Officer down!” through police dispatches. But the rest of us are about as interesting as televised government meetings.

For those who feel indifference toward the unimportant, it would only be fair if, in this utopia –or, depending on your sensibilities, dystopia—that I imagine, one should be allowed the liberty of saying, “I’m not really sorry about your husband, because I didn’t know him. And, actually, I’m thoroughly bored right now. Could you move on, please?”

I don’t suppose that my ideas will ever catch on. Yet another reason why I will never be voted “Ruler of the Planet.” People just don’t know what’s good for them. Lucky for them I don’t have a powerful daddy and smooth relations with the petroleum industry. I might just make a difference.

Comedy - Kramer Goes Nuts

2006-11-23T13:20:00.000+01:00

The racial scandal involving Michael Richards is all over the news and the former Seinfeld star is grasping to recover by hiring a publicist to reach out to leaders of the black community. More than likely this guy’s career is washed up and –though he probably has no financial need to work—my prediction is that he will commit suicide.

I personally don’t have any problem with a white guy saying “nigger,” as long as it’s said in a satirical or affectionate manner; and with that ephemeral and ineffable sense of cool. But on viewing this performance, painfully, it’s evident that this guy has some serious issues. If he were simply an unmitigated and unconscionable racist, he would at least find strength in his convictions, but clearly Richards is repentant and ashamed, which makes the onus that much more unbearable. A conflicted pariah. That must be a hard cross to bear.

After a performance like that, with the eyes of the world glaring at him, I expect a long hard road of soulful suffering for poor Mr. Richards. Let’s see if he can hold up.

Random Thoughts - Business and Sex

2006-11-22T13:02:00.000+01:00

The other night I went out for drinks with my friend Tyrone. After the hour-long banter about music, books, Battlestar Galactica, magic and chicks, he managed to mention in earnest that he has a thing for prostitutes. “I really like them,” he said. “They’re so down to earth. The conversation afterwards is always so interesting.”

Ever the one to find connections in the world, I noted that Tyrone is the third person I’ve known who is a practicing john, and like my other two friends, he is a capable and dedicated businessman. The other two were both brokers, one in steel, the other in petroleum. They differed from Tyrone in that they were both substance abusers and full of self-loathing. Still, I wondered privately if the Adam Smith school of thought somehow lent itself to solicitation.

It’s always dangerous to draw conclusions based on anecdotal evidence. After all, in poker, it’s not too extraordinary to get three of a kind in anything. So, why even remark on it? Well, possibly, because it feels like there’s a correlation. Three johns who are also three hardcore business guys. A successful player in the business world doesn’t simply stumble into the job like one does for, say, a delivery driver or motivational speaker. No, it’s a vocation. It’s a career that takes a certain kind of person, one who thinks and sees the world in a very specific way.

For the adept capitalist, any human interaction is an avenue for commerce and exchange. Casual meetings, weddings, introductions, chance encounters –whatever—they are all legitimate opportunities to feel the ground and swap business cards. Inane banter is gregariously embraced as a vital preliminary to the bonhomie necessary to conduct trade.

Standing on the outside, witnessing these interactions, I can almost see the gears turning behind the rigid smiles as both parties size each other up, asking themselves, What does he or she have that I want? What does he or she want from me? How valuable would this relationship be to me? Yet, where I once suffered a nauseating and visible distaste for such pragmatic calculation, I now tend to think that this is not unlike any interaction between strangers, though most of us tend to perform such calculations on a purely subconscious level. And for that reason, when savvy players are on their game, it’s almost refreshingly pure and honest, if not artless.

As my friend Tyrone says, “Nobody does it better than Americans. The French, they have rules about not talking shop with their cousins or whatever. But that’s why the French suck at business.”

It’s not to say that all who embed themselves into the world of business are insincere and superficial. Perhaps only the majority of them are. My three whoremongering friends, for example, adapt their manner to whomever they are talking to. They’re superficial only part of the time, when it’s to some advantage. But obviously they can be genuine and introspective enough to make the kind of confessions that they’ve made to me, someone who has nothing to offer in business but who also happens to enjoy thought-provoking dialogue.

To get to the point: When, in a person’s perception and attitude, any conceivable human interaction is reduced to the bottom line of economics, certain romantic notions like “true love” and “selfless giving” are regarded as unprofitable. Or so it seems to me. Time is money, and the effort spent in wooing a potential sexual partner must be weighed against the benefits to be incurred. If a romantic interest cannot bring money, connections, aesthetics or consolation to a partnership, but only sex, then the most profitable and efficient course toward orgasm must –and can only be—through a quick and efficient means of monetary exchange. No fuss, no muss. Not only is prostitution a major time saver, it’s good for business.

Me, I make no judgements other than on the art inherent in ritual. I have no moral qualms with most anything that anybody does. Despite my own personal tendency to gravitate toward the romantic means of getting laid, I don’t begrudge anybody who hasn’t time for such tomfoolery. After all, if we were all the same, it would be a pretty boring world. And I don’t suppose that all businessmen (emphasis on men) are the same. Still, I wonder what statistical data a study would bring.

Technology - Clonosexual

2006-11-17T23:12:00.000+01:00

My friend Anastazio has some wierd ideas. Over coffee the other day, he was rifling through the paper and came across an article about the world’s second racehorse to be cloned. He snapped the paper loudly with his fingers and tossed it onto the next table.

“Let me ask you something. Do you masturbate?”

“Of course not,” I assured him.

“Well, I do. A lot. Let me tell you.”

“No thanks. What’s that got to do with a cloned racehorse?”

“It has everything to do with it, my friend. I’ll ask you something else: Why does a dog lick his balls?”

“I don’t know. To get the shit taste out of his mouth?”

“Maybe that, too. But the other reason: Because he can.”

“What the fuck are you going on about?”

This began a long conversation in which I –under protest—became educated to a variety of Anastazio’s masturbation fantasies. However, the apropo scenario began as no fantasy at all before quickly transforming itself into an ominous dilemma. Anastazio had been trying to perform acts on himself that only a lithe gymnast could even comprehend when it suddenly dawned on him that if he could somehow duplicate himself, he would accomplish all that he desired … and more.

After that, his doppleganger became a frequent and familiar actor in his private sock hops. He wondered if perhaps he was discovering a latent homosexuality, so he switched to other fantasies which he once tried out of curiosity –all fizzling out with the same, uninspiring results. No, he was certain: It had to be himself.

“Do you think it’s just vanity?”

"Probably."

“That would make me homosexual in it’s most literal sense, wouldn’t it? ‘Sex with the same,’ right? You can't get anymore same than that.”

“I guess. But there’s a long tradition holding rights to the term. Probably you’d have to come up with a whole new word. Like, ‘Clonosexual.’”

It was with a blend of excitement and shame that he ended these ethereal trysts with the overwhelming recognition that he was an anteclonal deviant, and he wondered if he was not more of a pathetic lecher than a sexual prophet and vanguard.

“You know, it could really be very awkward. I mean, imagine if I made a clone of myself for other reasons, like I needed a kidney or something. Sure, it would enter my head. But imagine if, when face to face, I realized it wasn’t what I wanted, that it was just too weird. You know? Still, he would know what I was thinking. So we’d be standing there, in the hospital or whatever, looking at each other. He’d probably say, right there in front of the doctor and everything, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’" He gulped. "What am I supposed to do with that?”

“More than likely, your clone would be a baby at first. And it would have to grow up, like a normal human.”

“Great. So now we’re talking statutory rape. I guess incest, too. Maybe. Do clones even have rights?”

“Well, technically, there are no human clones. So, for the moment …”

Anastazio leaned back and lost himself in thought. After a few minutes, he wagged a finger at me. “You won’t tell anybody about this conversation.”

“Of course not,” I assured him.

Business - Those Thieving Workers

2006-11-16T13:14:00.000+01:00

By my own estimates, the American workforce is gouging about $25 billion dollars a week out of its generous employers.

A recent survey concludes that fantasy football costs as much as $1.1 billion per week in lost productivity. The study, by Challenger, Gray & Christmas, Inc., culls this figure from Harris polls that estimate 36.8 million participants in the online sport, two-thirds of whom spend about 5 hours a week managing their teams.

“With people spending an average of 43 minutes per day on their teams, it is not out of the realm of possibility that they are spending at least 10 minutes of that time doing so at the office,” said John A. Challenger, chief executive officer of Challenger, Gray & Christmas.

Even though this may be a gaping non sequitur, the methodology by which C, G & C draw their conclusions is intriguing and can be used to conclude that these same employers are actually victims of a much greater injustice.

The company compiled their statistics based on the average salary of these employees ($76,000) and breaking it down to $6 of wages every ten minutes. Multiplied by 5 work days, and again by the number of players, this figure of $1.1 billion dollars is only the tip of the iceberg.

If one should consider that the average employee takes a 5-minute bathroom break every hour, during the average work day that’s 40 minutes a day in the toilet. Four times the criminal cost of fantasy football.

Then there are personal phone calls and emails. Tack on the thrice daily phone conversations of the parents of newborns, the messages between new lovers and friends setting up a time to meet after work, bookings and attempts to correct the sly errata of modern life, and you could be looking at a whopping 60 minutes a day, costing employers $6.6 billion a week.

And we mustn’t forget gossip. If the numerous places I’ve worked at can be any kind of measure, a full 30 minutes a day can be allotted to the discussion of the drinking, work and sexual habits of other employees and their questionable hygiene. $3.3 billion.

Speaking of hygiene, if one figures that the average women spends 20 minutes a day grooming herself at work while a man spends perhaps 1 minute doing the same, that averages out to a little over the 10 minutes spent on fantasy football.

General distractions and lollygagging? Probably about 90 minutes a day, nearly $10 billion a week.

Given that these are all rough estimates, let’s tally the grand total to a conservative $25 billion a week that employers are losing to their lazy, uncooperative workforce. These selfsame workers are fucking around almost 6 hours a day and providing their generous oversears a mere 25% of the work that they are contracted to provide. That is simply egregious.

Given these startling figures, I would recommend that employers cut all bathroom and coffee breaks, eliminate any non-essential conversation in the office and monitor all communications going into and out of the office. If they were to invest only a small portion of that $25 billion that they are being robbed of, they could hire an internal police force to enforce this discipline, and then perhaps we could get about the business of making good business.

Cinema - Lucky Number Slevin

2006-11-12T11:43:00.000+01:00

You know, I’ve always prided myself on an ability to predict the outcome in every mystery/suspense/intrigue film that I’ve ever seen. The subtle clues that the creators are obligated to include in order to make the outcome credible, like the careful buildup –but failure to show—a pivotal character’s presumed murder, have always screamed out to me for attention, announcing exactly what we can expect in the dénouement. This is a necessary weakness in the art of film; because if certain details aren’t provided along the way, we tend to feel ripped off; the entire purpose of intrigue being to engage the intelligence and attention of the audience.

The best way to mask a scream is by diverting attention to other sounds. And, like Orpheus’ battle of the bands against The Sirens, the most elegant diversion is through artful artifice, not by volume –which is exactly what makes Lucky Number Slevin an elegant film. The motus operandi by which this distraction is accomplished is blatantly explained in the beginning, when Bruce Willis’s character, Goodkat, describes a ruse known as The Kansas City Shuffle. “It’s when everybody looks right, but you go left.”

All the details necessary to ruin the surprise are provided, but they are eloquently minimized through shear distraction. Nothing is what it seems, and though we already know that to be the nature of a film like this, we are nevertheless caught up in it’s web, willing to believe the lies of the spider. Why not? They are delivered with so much charm.

The complete reversal of the protagonist’s role of victim to victimizer is executed with mastery and an underlying sense of justice that makes an evil act –or series of acts—unquestionably good. The film surpasses The Usual Suspects and The Sixth Sense on their very own merits, not least of which are the pensive soundtrack and gratifying cinematography. Classic actors Morgan Freeman (as The Boss) and Sir Ben Kingsley (as The Rabbi) provide their usual stade elegance and depth while Bruce Willis commands an ominous presence, which is exactly what he does best.

The subplot love interest between Josh Hartnett and Lucy Liu, while unavoidably gooshy, is nevertheless charming and, dare I say, envious, if for nothing else because of its union of two souls who happen to be true connoisseurs of James Bond.

Slevin represents the film debut of the young screewriter, Jason Smilovic. I’ve never seen any of his television work, nor do I suppose that I will, but I look forward to seeing more from him in the future.

Cinema - I Am a Sex Addict

2006-11-11T21:51:00.000+01:00

The autobiographical docu-drama, I Am a Sex Addict, has a lot of merits, despite Caveh Zahedi’s painfully self-conscious presence in front of the camera. His manner has been compared to Woody Allen, but I would agree with that in only an abstract way. The self-effacing honesty is reminiscent of the Wood-man, but not nearly so irritating nor contrived. Yet, lacking Allen’s budget, it stands out as amateurish and requires the intent acceptance of a serious Indie aficionado to see it for what it is: A refreshing breath of truth, tinged with the kind of humour that makes you squirm in your seat, thinking, I’ve done something like that before. Or, I could have done something like that.

The tale follows Caveh’s spiral from prostitute fantasy to prostitute fetish, ending up on the ashes of two destroyed marriages and a number of failed relationships. After finally finding salvation in the basement of a Methodist church, sitting in the circle of a male-only sex addict’s meeting, Caveh embraces his epiphany and ends the film on a hopeful note: The tearful wedding ceremony of his third marriage. It’s from the dressing room of the church, just before the ceremony, that Caveh narrates a large portion of his story.

All in all, I’d say it’s a film worth seeing, though I found it easy to divide my viewing into two evenings. It doesn’t necessarily provide any insight into the world of whore-mongering, except maybe by making it look surprisingly normal, as if it were similar to a pentient for singing show tunes in the car. Caveh’s bug-eyed discomfort probably bespeaks his true reticence to expose the emotional misery that he intimates but never expresses convincingly. Indeed, the only time he doesn’t seem too uncomfortable is when receiving numerous simulated (?) blow jobs on camera, which makes one wonder if he’s merely substituted prostitutes with struggling actresses in the pursuit of his jollies.

On the surface it seems that this whole venture has been not much more than a therapy process for him. But combined with a mesmerizing score by Hilary Soldati and quirky animations by Bob Sabiston, the humour and originality make for an interesting voyeuristic experience.

Television - Olbermann Rocks

2006-11-06T15:34:00.000+01:00

This is exactly the kind of honest, straightforward commentary that has been severely lacking in the media for decades. It's about time.

Politics - Why Vote?

2006-11-06T12:41:00.000+01:00

The AP just ran a story, titled, “Why So Few People Vote In The U.S.?” In it, they cite Curtis Gans, who is Director of the Center for the Study of the American Electorate at American University. The story quotes and paraphrases Mr. Gans:

"We've had the fragmenting and atomization of our society," Gans said, driven by the 500-channel TV culture, the interstate, strip malls, abandonment of farms and the rise of the Internet. "All of those things have undermined community."

He goes on to blame the politicians and their attack ads along with a lack of clearly defined choices. This is something I truly hate to see: Thousands of dollars invested in a study that justifies itself with lots of brouhaha when the explanation is really very simple: America is not a Democracy. And the voters –perhaps only subconsciously—are aware of that.

I say subconsciously because –despite the Orwellian method of hammering the “cradle of democracy” message into our heads from birth, Americans sense, but hate to admit openly, that we are not a Democracy but an Oligarchy.

Two parties is not a Democracy. If 220,000,000 eligible voters --more or less-- have only two candidates to choose from, it's a guarantee that the majority of voters are not going to be happy with either one. What's truly amazing is that even 40% of voters bother to turn out.

The electoral college is not a Democracy. Nobody I know actually understands this system. The only thing that I truly understand is that it somehow permits the plurality candidate to lose.

A partisan Supreme Court which decides “constitutionally” how an election is to be resolved is not a Democracy. If the decision made in 2000 was actually based on the constitution, how is it possible that our sacred document could be interpreted so radically along party lines? Given such obvious partisanship, the U.N. should have been called in to take the streets of D.C. under marshal law.

Electronic voting machines are a threat to Democracy.

Lobbyists are a threat to Democracy.

Lack of voter turnout has nothing to do with strip malls nor internet, nor 500 channels on satellite nor trousers that hang down to reveal teenage underdrawers. The majority of voters either sense or actually know that their vote really doesn’t count. They know that the Coke or Pepsi choice has little or no reflection on their own demographic interests. They know that even if the candidate they resigned themselves to vote for were elected, that more powerful interests than their own would subvert any promises made during the race.

Those who feel the most confident about their interests being seen to --i.e. the wealthy-- are those who have added influence to insure their needs are a priority. The rest, --i.e. the poor and middle class-- who supposedly have the majority and therefore the power under a Democracy, are forever being swept aside.

In Europe, where I live, there are at least a half a dozen parties to choose from in most countries. Often they must form coalitions and make compromises in order to push their own interests. It’s a very different Democracy than the bipolar model in which Americans alternate between 8 years of conservative agenda and legislation and 8 years of a slightly less conservative agenda and legislation.

Sure, in some states, there are a few Independent or Libertarian candidates. But, what good does it do to vote for them? Any true change would call for drastic measures at the highest levels of government. You’d think that if the government has the wisdom to break up monopolies in business, that they would apply the same sapience to themselves. But, we all know: There’s a fat chance of that happening any time soon. So, really, Why vote?

Personal Essay - Forty Orbits

2006-11-03T12:15:00.000+01:00

I hardly ever make a big deal out of my birthday. No blowouts with friends, no parties. Perhaps this antipathy shares its source with my natural aversion to the sound of applause. Nor will I make much of it today, even though I have just completed 40 journeys around the sun. Most likely I’ll go see a comedian in a pub with a friend or two, just to break up my routine. But no celebrations. I’ve made no effort to remind anybody of the day’s significance because there’s really nothing significant about it, much less the arbitrary importance given to a mulitple of ten. I suppose that some time during the evening, after a few drinks, I may mention something; but then again, I may not. We’ll see.

It hasn’t always been that way. I used to see the importance of making one day special for myself, using it like others do as a form of blackmail that my intimates should be kind to me. But over time, I came to view such kindness as hollow compared to the spontaneous, non-obligatory kind. Thus was my transformation to cynicus natalis.

Nevertheless, I do have to acknowledge that there have been moments in my life when I’ve found the universe to be somewhat magical, and many of those moments have coincided with various birthdays. Very often, these episodes involved affectionate priestesses from the Cult of Woman, their appearance as sudden and iconic as a lady appearing out of a cake, but without the cake. In the interest of good taste and decency, it will suffice to say here simply that the events I refer to had a resemblance to the supernatural and –on at least one occasion—the superhuman. It could be that the perceiver –namely I—was more apt to project mystique into the events, but their effect was no less appreciated for that. I suppose that what I’m trying to say is: Nothing beats a birthday gift from The Gods. And I sure hope I haven’t jinxed myself this evening by mentioning this here.

Perhaps it’s through some reflection of society, but –despite any distaste I may have for premeditated fanfare—a part of me feels that today should be marked by some novel act. Thus, I have started a blog, and a passing curiosity has of this moment been amplified into actual participation. The main reason why can be summarized by a quote from the character Sir Randolph Nettleby, played by James Mason in The Shooting Party. As he writes away in his journal, his grandson asks him what he’s writing. “Oh, just my thoughts,” he mutters. When the boy asks him why he writes them down, Nettleby answers, “To save myself the trouble of sharing them with others.” I paraphrase. It’s been 20 years since I saw the film.

That’s another strange thing. The idea that it could have been 20 years since I experienced some thing significant enough to remember in a mature and pertinent conversation, something other than a crisis involving a certain sibling or toy. It doesn’t seem long ago at all that 20 years ago was before I was born, part of a time when people looked and behaved like the actors on Dragnet, people so alien that they were virtually of a separate species than me. But now, that same yardstick reaches back only to a time when I was still an adult, however rudimentary. The equivalent measure touches an era when I ineptly fumbled with the fairer sex and was inherently incapable of managing any responsibility, a stage of life in which I was not much different than I am now.

Somehow, I am not what I expected to be at this age, though in all my imaginings, I never really dedicated any thought toward the future. Sure, there have been dreams, expectations, but nothing that really involved any concrete plans. Still, instinctively, I envisioned myself a little wiser and not so wracked by insecurity and doubt. In many ways, it’s good that I haven’t stepped into the pipe-puffing tweed world that I subconsciously anticipated. I like that I don’t feel that I have all the answers, that my outlook is fresh and only slightly wizened. I like that I’m shamelessly inquisitive and can talk comfortably with people of all ages, especially the youth, who find me accessible and, on occasion, even sexually attractive. Yet, I look around me at what other people do and wonder if perhaps I’m going about things the wrong way.

Inevitably and reluctantly, my thoughts drift toward the future. If the next ten years pass as rapidly –or most likely, more rapidly—than the past ten, I will soon be puttering about in an aggrieved state imposed upon me by a withering mortality and sagging genitals. All of my friends –who tread a traditional, more conservative path—will have made their final mortgage payments while I, at 50, will still be making sojourns to the shoe store with my mother. Given my current trajectory, in ten years I see myself sitting on a park bench trying to entice college girls to partake in excellent marijuana and a cheap but cheerful bottle of merlot while at the same time scolding their ignorance of Iggy Pop or the Violent Femmes. In some respects, it sounds pretty good.

However, if I should choose to avoid this demise, drastic action is called for. What form this action would take, I don’t know. Perhaps I might finally invest my energies in some sort of business enterprise, one which doesn’t require any form of fiscal or moral responsibility. I could become a lobbyist or a drug-dealer, for example. Perhaps an extortionist or some sort of charlatan, such as an executive in the advertising or entertainment industry. Before making any decision, it seems that more study and market research are in order.

Whether these concerns are invoked by the official advent of middle-age or by a recent transition to fatherhood, I cannot say. Without a doubt, the greatest thing in my life at the moment is my son. At two and a half years old he’s remarkably easy and extraordinarily reasonable. And though his original nature has little to do with me, I can’t help but feel that, at least in one respect, I’m doing something well. But, as most every parent feels, I’m sure, it’s not enough to be merely a patient friend and adviser. It’s for him, and only for him, that I presently worry about material stability.

Thus are the thoughts that drift through my head today. While true that some people feel the need to be depressed on their fortieth birthday, I can’t help but be indifferent. In East Asia, a baby is one year old at birth, zero being an impossible age. Depending on your cultural perspective, I’m actually forty-one. If I were going to be depressed, it should have been a year ago. Also in East Asia, old age is seen as a venerable state of wisdom. Far from entertaining maudlin reflections, they actually rejoice at the elevation in status, much like Americans do at 18, when they’re old enough to vote and die overseas in the interests of the military-industrial complex.

A very wise friend once convinced me that the only thing you can truly control is your attitude. But fortunately I don’t really need to draw on that advice today. Because, in all honesty, when I ask myself, What does it mean to be forty? The answer is easy. Nothing at all.