Thursday, June 18, 2026

2600 AD - Future Past


In the beginning of 2025, after years of music recording projects taking For Ever, I promised myself I would write, record and release an album before the end of the year. In mid-August I set forth in earnest to prove that an album can come together in less than a decade. The album was published on December 29th.

I present to you, 2600 AD with the album Future Past. Ten songs about a future world that has fallen only to rise again as a weird version of its past self. In it you will find songs about humans that seek to become technology and technology that seeks to become human. The snake eats its own tail. Enjoy.

https://m.soundcloud.com/2600-ad/sets/future-past


Thursday, February 20, 2025

Beefy Cheese

In an attempt to turn around the ailing business after several unprofitable quarters, renowned pizza and entertainment firm, Chucky Cheese, is reformatting following a successful test run in Florida. The chain will change its name to Beefy Cheese and now feature animatronic male exotic dancers along with the pizza and arcade fare the brand is commonly known for.

Friday, May 27, 2022

Nah, You Cook it Dummy

Are you done with dining out? Tired of asking why is there so much Sprite in my martini? Why in god’s name did I order the rabbit burrito? If my drink arrives  after the check, did it ever really come? 

Never again!

What if I told you that individual portions of real groceries could arrive at your door thrice daily, complete with instructions on how to turn these readily available ingredients into a scant meal of food?

Say goodbye to restaurant regret with Nah, You Cook it Dummy! 

Why bother with the hassle of takeout or kludgy grocery delivery apps. With Nah, You Cook it Dummy, you get only the ingredients for your meal and not a pinch more. Just the stuff you need to chop, dice, and sauté your way to another spin around this nightmarish hellscape.

Our team of recipe curators scours Insta daily for the most photographed dishes and reverse-engineers them in our quantity labs into Depression-era, single-serve portions. We then source only the freshest, most ethically sustainable ingredients and indoctrinate them into a complex, ever-changing ideology that drifts on the breeze of the latest milieu, ensuring you a reproach-free meal experience.

The savvy do-it-yourselfer will love Nah, You Cook it Dummy. Our recipe study guides will get you ready for your proctored online video exam. With your new expertise on topics such as heirloom artichoke propagation and famous soufflés throughout history, you’ll never mis-prepare a meal. Our exclusive military-grade locking container keeps your ingredients sequestered indefinitely until you complete the exam with at least 90% proficiency.

Next time some asshole suggests Applebee’s, tell ‘em Nah, You Cook it Dummy!

Tuesday, May 4, 2021

Goebbels Loves Gerbils

Hallo and guten tag! Welcome to another episode of Goebbels Loves Gerbils. My name is Joseph, and we're coming to you today from the Nationalsozialistische Rennmaus Arbeiterpartei headquarters, inside our secret bunker in Bariloche, Argentina. Okay, this is a sufficient introduction - time to discuss gerbils.


Today I'd like to introduce you to a gerbil who is very, very close to my heart. This is Lída. Lída is a beautiful, affectionate, cinnamon colored Mongolian gerbil who loves to give kisses. If you listen closely, you can hear her purr like a Maybach. Oh! Look at Magda. You think I can't see you staring at us from your favorite spot there next to Karl, but I can see you! Don't worry Magda, your little schweinehund will always have time for you.

Okay, that's enough intrigue for one episode. Let's take a moment to rally the troops, shall we? 

Beachtung little friends! I trust you've enjoyed your daily calisthenics? Toiling against the machinations of the running wheel can certainly build up a thirst - one that the Party can quench! As you all unite your efforts toward the glory of the Fatherland, take pride in that which you and your fellow gerbils have accomplished! Look to your brothers and sisters. It is by their ceaseless devotion that the wheel continues to turn. Praise and glory to Onkel Rennmaus!

Progress! Every turn of the wheel brings you closer to your ration of pellets, your ration of water. My little nation of strong workers, listen! The Fatherland provides unto you your ration, and you provide unto the Fatherland glory!

Yes, glory to the Fatherland. But we must stay vigilant. For around every corner, the hamster lurks. The evil hamster seeks to commandeer the wheel for it's own purposes. How does a gerbil provide a ration for his family and glory to the Fatherland without the wheel?

Ok, that was exhilarating. Now is the time on our show when we spotlight the Party's gerbil of the week. This week's ubermensch is Horst. Horst is a delightful specimen. Just yesterday Horst climbed to the top of the great habitat log and reached up to the sky, as if reaching up to push off the lid of the terrarium - but it was still centimeters away! Didn't you, Horst! You are a dreamer my friend.

As always, the gerbil of the week gets an extra ration of pellets. Enjoy Horst, you deserve it! Very good.

That brings an end to another episode of Goebbels Loves Gerbils. Be sure to join us next week when find out: who is the secret spitzel! Always remember: Onkel Rennmaus is watching you! Tschüss erstmal!

Saturday, January 30, 2021

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride: Gamestop Stonks Vs. Shorty-Shorts



The money-humping greedheads over at Wall Street should have learned their lesson with Tesla. Elon Musk can bend gravity with a mere whisper. I watched in August of 2018 as the infamous "Am considering taking Tesla private at $420. Funding secured." tweet sent my $280 shares to $400+ near-instantaneously. Then the SEC stepped in and punched him square in the nuts, sending the price back to earth. The Short Bus crew on Wall Street smelled blood in the water; "At any minute, he could sink the stock with a rogue tweet," they thought, adding "the fundamentals just aren't there." So they bet against Musk by shorting Tesla, and they lost. He's a sorcerer of public opinion, yet still they short.

But what does that have to do with Gamestop? In 2020, short sharks went on a pandemic feeding frenzy. They had already made $344 billion shorting on the pandemic by March 21, 2020. They wanted to watch the world burn; never waste a good crisis. And now in 2021, when big buffalo like Macy's and JC Penney are practically extinct, they're on to smaller game - who else can I bleed. Because Gamestop trades in primarily digital assets and is saddled with an expansive retail footprint, it appeared to be the next perfect target. 

But they didn't count on the Rain Men over at r/wallstreetbets to simply say No, and establish a viral Wall of Ignorance. Buy and hold. This offends the sensibilities of the Wall Street Old Guard. Buy low and sell high is the law of the land, while the little guy says "take my money" and "thank you for the opportunity." This is how money is printed. But Buy and Hold caught on, and caught a lot of media attention, causing more Buying and more Holding. 

The financial pundits tried Fear when they said Buy and Hold will leave you holding the bag; then doubled down with Empathy and Guilt when they said Buy and Hold will decimate granny's pension. They're kind of right. Buying and holding this one stock is causing a ripple effect. My own account is down about five points this week because the hedge funds who banked on printing money by shorting Gamestop to death have had to sell their long positions in staple stocks to cover the vig, thus dragging down the whole market (read: the hedge funds and other short sellers have assumed ludicrous risk on behalf of the whole market and have now become the bleeders... smells like 2008; same house different couch). 

But that's not the point of Buy and Hold - these greedheads have bet against this stock and others so deeply that they've now sold more borrowed stock than actually exists. I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today. They made a ton of money as the world burned, and now the people want their money back. The Buy and Holders have built a community around holding the line and the premise that when the other shoe drops, the bastards will buy every share they shorted at our price - to the tune of billions. The short squeeze for the people. Buy and Hold is the Sit-In for the stuck-at-home generation. Buy and Hold, it seems, has even saved movie theater chain AMC from the brink to fight another day.

"Ok," you say, "selling a thing that doesn't exist sounds kinda criminal." I agree. "But... perhaps the bastards have milked their last monkey." Maybe, maybe not. Probably not. This is, after all, the all powerful money-printing machine. "Well that sucks." Yep.

This last week has been a hell of a ride. Sure, I looked at Gamestop this summer when it was in the $4 range and took a pass because I didn't want to clutter up my positions with another low-probability bet, instead taking profits here and there with bets on stocks like airlines and cruise lines while doubling down hard on existing holdings. I looked at Gamestop again a couple of weeks ago when the price was a hair under $20. I couldn't bring myself to do it then because my mind was poisoned by those heady $4 shares of the summer. 

Speculating in the stock market is like trying to steal the cheese out of a mouse trap; you need a steady hand and nerves of steel, and it helps if you're the smartest idiot in the room. I've learned from the mistakes of my past and I have the scars; I still hold 1,200 shares of the now defunt Helios and Mattheson (HMNY; Moviepass) as a stark reminder that frothy exuberance is a dangerous drug, and to never buy the dip if it means putting your hand in the toilet. I just couldn't let go.

But this week the Song of the Hype Machine was strong and I got in the game in the frothiest moments Wednesday when the price was $358 and hung on with white knuckles. Wanting to reestablish my position at a lower buy-in, I considered selling during Thursday's $400+ premarket highs and reestablishing during what I assumed would be a dip on the open, but ultimately chose to hang on instead. 

Thursday turned out to be real trench warfare. The circuit breaker seemed to trip every few minutes to buy the greedheads time to regroup, and Robinhood blocked buying on all meme stocks (stocks who's interest was supported by online forums: AMC, BB, GME, NOK), assumedly due to a liquidity crunch (they didn't have the cash to cover all the buys with the clearing house), thus castrating the little guy en masse. Gut-wrenching stuff. I watched from outside my body as I considered buying Thursday's dip at $130, but didn't have the resolve - I was still woozy, my stomach in knots. 

Friday had the looks of a solid day, so I sold in the pre-market run up at $374 as a doctor swabbed my nostrils for evidence of COVID, and reestablished during the 10-10:30 dip at $318. At the current price I'm break even, but I'm holding. No sell limit, no regrets. These moments are my Super Bowl - raw nerve endings, itchy palms, bleeding ulcers. It makes my teeth sweat.

Good luck to you Buy and Holders and may Saint Cajetan, the patron saint of gamblers, forever be on your side.

Wednesday, January 27, 2021

A Memo to The Little Free Library Patrons; May 15, 2020

Hello from your self-appointed Little Free Library librarian. For the safety of our patrons in light of COVID 19, we are establishing new rules around the removal and placing of literature within the outdoor Little Free Library cabinet.



Please do not loiter outside of the Little Free Library. If you find yourself at the Little Free Library without a mask, you may extract one book to use as a mask to prevent droplets.

If you are a child who is currently picking your nose, please do not use the Little Free Library. If you are very old and not wearing a mask because you are stubborn, or if you are under the age of 25 and aren't wearing a mask because you think you're invincible, I'm going to have to ask you not to use the Little Free Library. The Little Free Library is not responsible for lost or stolen items.

The Little Free Library is not a location to store your sandwich while you visit the regular library. The Little Free Library is for locals only; out-of-towners are not to use it due to a higher risk of depositing of droplets. There are to be no droplets deposited in the Little Free Library.

All deposits to the Little Free Library will be sanitized daily with either a dusting of Comet or powdered sugar, depending on availability. Please do not deposit your pornography in the Little Free Library. If your book has been "red flagged," please do not deposit it. The depositing of how-to books and cookbooks is prohibited as all that stuff is available online. The depositing of coffee table books of excessive size is also prohibited. If you insist on depositing pornography into the Little Free Library, please ensure that it is tasteful.

If you are homeless while using the Little Free Library, it is understood that you will not take books with lots of pages to use as toilet paper. If you are not homeless but having a hard time finding toilet paper, same goes for you. Understand: the pages of books DO NOT dematerialize in your septic system and they will clog the pipes. I repeat: THEY WILL CLOG THE PIPES. Don't ask me how I know, I just know. Don't use it. Also, paper cuts.

The Little Free Library will be sponsoring an afternoon tea and book discussion at 2:30 p.m. on the second Thursday of every month, rain or shine. Please bring your own chairs, table, tea, condiments, friends, book club, and books. There is often a heated debate because patrons are not reading the same book, and it is absolutely prohibited to discuss the title of the book.

During times of national mourning the Little Free Library will be at half-mast. No one is to extract any books, and only the deposit WWII books will be allowed. If you borrow a book from the Little Free Library and it stinks, please feel free to bring it to a friends house and hide it in their bathroom.

You can now follow the Little Free Library on TikTok. A new video of the Little Free Library will be posted daily, but due to privacy concerns, the titles of the books will be obscured.

If, in your perusing of the Little Free Library you find a title by Ian Fleming, it's your lucky day! Please extract the book and search inside the Little Free Library for a small candy, typically a Werther's Original. You win! Congrats!

Thank you for visiting the Little Free Library. Please be sure to tip your librarian.


Monday, May 4, 2020

The Coronavirus Limerick

There once was a merchant from Wuhan,
who sold me some nice bats to chew on.
I developed a cough,
and to top it all off,
all the people I meet I now flu on.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Maxx: Still Looking at Something on Amazon?

Hello Maxx, you recently viewed Caribbean Joe Ultra-Soft Double Brushed 4-Piece Microfiber Sheet Set. You know, the one with the pineapple pattern? It's a great looking bedding set, but I sense hesitation. Are you concerned that the Hawaiian-style motif will cause your wife to daydream about a tropical vacation, leading to an uncomfortable conversation? Is the pineapple not a symbol of hospitality and luxury - and isn't that the kind of symbolism you want in your bedroom, where you sleep, in spite of the crippling realities of your current unemployment, the ever-eroding environment, and a political climate so balmy with the spittle of vitriolic hate-speech that every day feels like being caught on a street corner in the pouring rain while passing car after passing car full of the true creme of giggling bozoness splashes you with grey street-water?

I hear ya. It's tough out there. So, I was thinking, based on your recent activity, we thought you might be interested in Deep South Barrels 2-Liter American White Oak Barrel Bourbon Kit. I know what you're thinking - that's a pretty big step. But you did just order Libbey Martini Glasses, Set of 12, and if we're being honest with each other, when are you going to serve twelve martinis at the same time. This is clearly a hedge against breakage, you lush. So why not just skip the middleman and start turning out your own bourbon?

Now you're ashamed. I'm deeply sorry about that. Well, the good news is, I found some new recommendations you might be interested in: Debbie Does Dallas. I thought I'd complete your shame spiral, through the majesty of 70's porn. You were already looking at sheets, and well, you know. Categorically similar...

Before I go, let me tell you what's new with Alexa. Now, through the miracle of data analysis, Alexa can identify which of your neighbors has similar interests to you and would likely make a good friend. Not to worry, Alexa has already sent a fruit basket. Through the same algorithms, Alexa has also identified which of your neighbors is likely a pedophile. Unfortunately, due to a minor programming error, Alexa has sent a fruit basket to these neighbors as well. As an apology for the error, Amazon would like to offer you a free month of Amazon Prime. Unfortunately, due to yet another minor programming error, Alexa has sent your whole order history to those potential pedophile neighbors. As well as your kids' favorite colors.

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Genghis Khan and the Story of the First Thanksgiving



Thanksgiving is here and it's time to get stuffed and wander the earth like a craven horde, looting and rioting until the very fabric of civilization winces from the strain. Many think this ritual dates back to when the Pilgrims stormed a beach on Cape Cod in search of curry and other spices, and were served a feast by a gathering of local rubes. The theory is that this, followed by centuries of looting and pillaging, sets the stage for the modern Thanksgiving. Lies! In order to observe The Truth, let us recast our gaze from the 1600's back to 1200 or so, AD. Now open your mind the true first Thanksgiving.

While Genghis Khan's Mongolian horde was trouncing Asia, they naturally reached the Pacific ocean, and immediately took to the sea on outriggers in search of the New World. They sought trade routes, spices, and most importantly, weak cultures to subjugate. The horde made for novice sea-farers, but they were enthusiastic, and sometimes that's enough. They soon found their horses to be ill-equipped for ocean travel—but what they lacked in aquatic prowess, they made up for in flavor, and their skulls made excellent hats.

The ocean is a cruel mistress, and enormous. As the horde traveled and fished, they became weary and despondent. The lack of adversaries made them lonely, and the lack of dry land and potable water took its psychological toll as well. But in time, fortune smiled upon those hapless Mongols. They eventually found dry land in the shape of Hawaii, and to their pleasant surprise, it was inhabited - but not by Hawaiians, as one would expect. No, they came upon the original Polynesian settlers, and those fuckers were hearty.

As the two forces sized each other up it became clear that any conflict would amount to the wholesale eradication of everyone, so a weary truce was established. They all rejoiced. They broke bread. Whole herds of swine were roasted on spits. Many Mai Tai's, Pina Colada's, and, of course, Blue Hawaiian's, were served. It was a great celebration. In the early morning fog of the next day, the Mongolian horde packed up their ships and headed out, waving to their new friends as they drifted off toward Easter Island, where they subsequently landed and pillaged before heading back home to Asia.

And that's the story of the real first Thanksgiving. The end.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Throat Slitting Time - Winning Black Friday

A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon. 
- Napoleon Bonaparte

Grit your teeth. Hard. Now punch yourself square in the nuts. Okay, off to a good start. Now, the question: Did a prize come out? Some twinkling gizmo of questionable quality? An ill-fitting sweater? An unrefrigerated cheese? If you answered no, then you're probably doing it wrong. I suggest you repeat this several times daily if you want to have any hope of succeeding at Black Friday.

In caveman times, men were simpler. Their appetite for plastic nonsense was low, their craving for branded apparel was near non-existent. They didn't need to fill the caverns of their homes, of their souls, with stuff. In those simpler times, the Black Friday sale merely served as a means to bring harmony to the profit and loss columns of their crudely cut stone tablet balance sheets. And they never had to go to war over it.

Today, though, the siren's song beckons you. An orgy of savings awaits! One must gird himself with a prophylactic ethos in order to see this thing through rightly. It may seem counterintuitive, but I suggest taking a page out of the caveman book and bringing along a heavy wooden club, for it is our ability to use tools which sets us apart from the animals—and if you intend to go foraging for bargains during the holiest of retail communions, you will surely come face to face with some of the gamiest and mange-ridden creatures that god ever turned his back on. And they will thirst for your blood.

No good Black Friday run-up is complete without a zealous overindulging in zombie-themed movies and television. This can really put you in a wonderful headspace for the upcoming melee, remove all fear of death, and desensitize you to violence in such a way that strips all humanity from your future victims. You'll know you're ready when you can truly enjoy turkey and cranberry sauce while watching a YouTube medley of The Top Ten Goriest Zombie Attacks.

Lastly, it's important to go into the fray with a healthy sense of American entitlement. Remember: those limited-supply bargains that you wish to purchase belong to you already. Anyone who would prevent you from retrieving your rightfully-owned property is stealing, and therefore must be punished to within an inch of their life. Happy shopping!

Friday, October 19, 2018

Hey Kid, Wanna Buy a Used Bitcoin?

Look, there’s no easy way to say this: you missed the boat. And now you wait on the bread lines like all the other saps who didn’t have the good sense to get in while it was hot. Those were heady times, a few months ago. Why, the Bitcoins cost mere pennies, and don’t get me started on the Ethereums… they fell to earth like feathers from an angel’s wings. But you missed big. There, I said it; we can move past that now.

I know what you’re thinking - you’re the only chump who didn’t bet the farm and win it all, and you’re probably right. But that doesn’t mean it’s too late - far from it! The finance gurus will try to tell you that it was all a crazy dream; “Tulips!” they’ll shout, their faces turning purple, eyes bulging, veins protruding, the very seams of their skin threatening to burst with rage. It’s impressive, it’s convincing, but it’s not warning enough for the savvy investor.

Heavies like Buffet know better than placing their name too strongly in the for or against column, because it's just too early to tell; and nobody wants to sound like that idiot Jamie Dimon, who openly told investors that he’d rather throw is money right in the toilet - or worse, give it to the needy - than to bet a bill on these ponies. He backpedaled, of course, much to his very public shame.


But the financial elite have a different code, a different set of rules by which they operate. In that structure there’s no room for anyone to thrash about in wild speculation, except the hedge fund managers whose ancient rituals cause them to twitch about in a way that somehow resembles the wild gyrations of a peacock in heat, just to make it rain cash. No, making vast fortunes from instruments and futures as meaningless as the used betting slips that litter the grounds outside of a Hoboken dog track is their turf, and any rival gang that tries to peddle the same gag gets dealt with, West Side Story style.


The point is, that little man in your tummy who’s telling you to heed their warnings, to take it easy, to play it safe - you tell that bozo to pound sand. That’s no way to live anyway. Once you shake off that feeling, you can do anything. So, first-things-first, let’s talk assets.


Savings is a good place to start. This has traditionally been a place where money goes to die. With current interest rates doing such a poor job keeping up with inflation, it’s a grossly negligent investor who keeps money stored this way. Let’s fix that straight away. Once you’ve flushed every cent out of your savings, I recommend putting it right into Monero - it’s the one that criminals use, so it must be good.


Many investors first get their feet wet choosing from a smattering of funds offered by their company’s 401K retirement benefit program. This is a great store of wealth that, like savings, mostly just sits there, despondent like Sylvia Plath, waiting for retirement and the sweet respite of death. Time to let those bucks boogie! For a mere 10% penalty (and applicable taxes), you can siphon the juices off of your future for the wealth today! In the spirit of the balance and variety that a properly administered 401K program offers, I recommend putting these funds into a mix of 50% vanilla cryptos (Bitcoin, Ethereum, Litecoin, Ripple, etc.), and the other 50% in fun outliers like Verge, Siacoin, NEM, Funfair, Bitbean, etc. - maybe even some PowerLedger if you’re a bro. Taking this approach is a healthy way to honor the spirit of what was once a lavish and nourishing retirement program.


I will admit, there’s a lot of bad advice out there when it comes to getting really deep into the cryptos. A lot of the real serious geeks may even propose that you follow a similar plan to that outlined above - and why not, it worked for them. They showed up early, ponied up at the nickel slots, and now they have their yachts. But those on the outside looking to get into it late in the game are faced with an uphill battle. And when the whole table bets on red, you better be the one who bets on black or else what’s the point? Now it’s time to pull out the big guns. There’s a line in the sand. Wheat, chaff. Men. Boys.


The American Dream often revolves around the notion of a family, a car, any number of large-format meats sweating out the antibiotics under the unforgiving kilojoules of your oven in the kitchen of your very own home, which you are somewhere in the midst of your prescribed 30 years of indentured servitude struggling to pay off. Yes, the home - that last bastion of value in the modern citizen’s net worth. Banks will fork over the big bucks for almost any reason at all if you’re willing to put your house in hock to get your filthy mitts on it. Any reason except the willfully irresponsible endeavor of getting big into the cryptos. A bank manager once told me in the confines of a dirty roadhouse with no washroom on the outskirts of Lawrence, KS that he’d sooner sign off on a loan for a significant amount of fentanyl-laced heroin than Bitcoin, no matter the collateral. “Once they get into that stuff,” he said, sweating like a man who had battled these demons himself, “they lose all sensation in their fingers and constantly check values against the major exchanges. It’s a sickness.” So remodeling - tell the bank it’s for remodeling, they’d never turn down a well-adjusted individual such as yourself who simply wants to improve the value of their primary investment.


Because the risks involved with taking money against your home are so significant, you can only truly honor and respect that risk by going balls deep on some seriously questionable and risky cryptos. For this purpose, I like Dogecoin. It was created as a joke, which by definition makes it a double-negative, a fake-fake currency. Therefore, as a value-positive asset, it theoretically holds more real value than any other crypto. I once saw a t-shirt with the caption “GO BIG OR GO HOME”. While I hated it at the time, and the guy who wore its mullet and his general demeanor and lack of sleeves, and his girlfriend’s matching mullet and lack of sleeves, I must admit - the logic stands to reason. And now is the time. Why toil? The worst that could happen is you lose it all - but even in the event of a catastrophic loss you will in fact gain, in short order, the sagest investment wisdom of all. But who am I kidding, with this fool-proof plan, there is no losing, only winning. Audentes Fortuna iuvat.


Friday, June 22, 2018

Zero-Sum Life

It's a Zero-Sum Life, there's no two ways about it, Bub. You come in with nothing and you leave with nothing. And that's fine. Every minute is zero sum - it's here, it's gone. We sell our time, most of it, anyway. We work for someone else (whether you're punching a clock or running your own business, you're working in service of someone else), we absorb content that's riddle with advertising messages (selling our eyeballs to marketers, who are selling their time to sell our time to others who are selling their time to make something to sell to us for the money we made selling our time to someone else), and of course we sell our time to our kids, our friends, our family, our community, etc...

Sure, there's learning, selling our time essentially back to ourselves to become better and more effective at selling pieces of our lives to others. We learn about the wonderful discoveries of others who were learning things in their great endeavor of selling themselves to others, and we become more productive salesmen of our own time. And we think there may be a few of the super-wealthy who can opt out, but are they not constantly selling their time to promote benefits of their gilded-cage lifestyle? Hell, right now I'm selling my time to you - the time it takes to write this, I sell that to you - you might enjoy how great a writer I am or endure how terrible, I'm selling you this content in exchange for your attention and the time it takes you to read it, or maybe you give up and just stop here -

"Ok, so if it's all zero-sum," you ask, "what's the point." Excellent question. Is ours the task of furthering the Human Endeavor? Maybe. Sounds nice, has an egalitarian optimism to it. But what's that for? The end game is, it seems, that we as humans reach that pivotal point of Utopia. That moment where humanity is free from the chains of fate, chance, the gruel of life, pain, suffering... the stuff of being human. In such a world, the underpinnings of what we all live by just fall away - capitalism and wealth, time, health, politics and class, lifestyle, and conflict all become obsolete. Happiness becomes the final capital.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

The Year of the Ostrich

"Insanity in individuals is something rare - but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule." 
- Friedrich Nietzsche

The acrid tinfoil taste in our mouths from these ugly times, I imagine, is the same taste that inspired legions of young folks and open minds to take to the road in the late 60's to experience what Kerouac and Ginsberg and Cassady were on about - the hallmark of the culture that bore the hippies and All of That. And rightly so, we are in an Era of Change. These are tipsy times, and it stands to reason that no teetotaller should remain standing. One cannot see with one's eyes closed... I'm looking at you, ostrich.

So the mighty ostrich is our current culture's spirit animal. A beast, a fowl, pretending to be a bush with it's head in the ground. I beam with pride. In the same way that in the 60's, The Man was so dismissive of the beats and that entire un-understandable youth culture, now we see the same dismissive attitude toward Millennials. Their ways confuse us, their motives are subversive, their insatiable appetite for sriracha & avocado flavored Tide Pods is alarming. They stand to destroy everything we stand for, after we finally destroyed everything the previous generation stood for. We can't catch a goddamn break.

Maybe they're onto something. Maybe Facebook should just be a scrapbook between consenting adults, maybe Tide Pods are delicious. They might rise to the occasion, and I hope they do. Because if not, I'm going to wake up one day in something resembling a cold war era Soviet nursing home for criminals and ex-pats eating table-cheese and longing for the days when I could casually unplug my inter-cranial datajack and enjoy the solitude of a quiet, warm, sunlit deck on June morning, without having to report back to our cybernetic AI overlords.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Mouthwork

"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut."
- Ernest Hemingway

It takes a special type of person to go into the Mouth Business. Mouth is not for the faint of heart - most of the horrible things we do daily involve the mouth: eating yogurt, eating liverwurst, swears, lies, politics, spitting, smoking, chewing tobacco, oral, rimming, all the liguses, flossing, singing Journey, opinions, etc., the list goes on. So to get into the filthy business of other peoples dirty, spaghetti crusted cakeholes takes certain qualities: grit certainly, morbid curiosity and a sturdy gag reflex. I'm not sure the desire to help people weighs in there, though I'm sure they'll tell you that.

I've seen the gamut of Mouth People. As such, some were more sympathetic than others. As a youngster I had my teeth filed by a sadistic orthodontist who I must have offended in some way, so much so that he needed to grind my glorious fangs down to negligible stumps. And I'll never forgive that son of a bitch. I once had a cleaning in a questionable back-alley dental dungeon. The tile floor was grimy and cracked, the receptionist was also the hygienist, which is fine, the dentist resembled Newman from Seinfeld, but somehow I knew in my heart that he was a dirty old man who was heavily into upskirt photography.

But some how, I still have all my teeth, and these fuckers are shiny! Sure, I chipped a tooth in a fight back in high school (against a guy whose real name was actually Rocky, which, in retrospect, could have been a red flag), and chipped another ungracefully dismounting a stage at a gig somewhere in the armpit of Massachusetts, but they're at least 98% accounted for. After all my trials and tribulations I finally landed a reasonable professional to do my Mouthwork. No wrenching, no torque, no anestheticly enabled shenanigans. I travel for good Mouthwork. After all, the mouth is the window to the soul.

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Crypto Thousandaire

"They were drunk on youth, fueled by greed, and higher than kites."
- Jordon Belfort, The Wolf of Wall Street

My curiosity in cryptocurrency started back in 2014, I think, when I had heard, for some time, whispers in the darker corners of the internet starting to bubble up about a rarefied fake money called The Bitcoin was starting to make waves and people were starting to make money from it. After a bit of research I learned that it was something you could apply the right kind of technology to and pull this fake money right out of thin air. I was intrigued. As a youngish dad of twins I had been on the prowl for some easy money and this seemed like just the scam.

After further reading, I accepted that I was already too late - oh, what a fool I was. An article at the time wove the tale of an Australian Bitcoin miner who was facing the ever increasing challenge - the most basic tenet of Bitcoin - it gets harder to mine as time goes on by requiring more juice, better computers to do the work and get paid. Here, the work is verifying transactions, which of course is now relegated to finest back-alley server farms in China, all crunching away to dig up digital pirate treasure.

In a lot of ways I was right to give up, assuming that I was too late to the game and not able to mine this fake money out of the ether. Now just few years later, I see my error. I've never milked my own cows, so why would I think I needed to milk the damn internet? There's the rub - I slept on it, perchance. The opportunity, it seems, would have been to sink the cash I thought I'd sink into a mining rig right into the few cryptos that existed at the time. Hindsight is a bitch.

At the time, a single Bitcoin went from hundreds, to about a thousand dollars, then back down to hundreds. If I had the wherewithal to figure out how to buy it at the time, and was somehow able to hang onto it, I would've done ok. And yet, here I am - a Crypto Thousandaire, in spite of myself. I bought my first ticket to the rollercoaster last spring, added a little cash through the summer and into the fall, cashed out enough Bitcoin, Bitcoin Cash, Litecoin, and Ethereum to cover my initial investment, and reinvested much of the rest into a handful of other coins of varying returns.

Having hedged my original investment, now I'm just playing with house money and waiting for the whole damn thing to crash to burn. But until then, it's all Champale wishes and Cavalier dreams.

Monday, July 24, 2017

The Garbage People Have Arrived

Newport, RI, once home to the summering elite from the mid-nineteenth century to about the 1930s, has again been found by the Garbage People. Don't get me wrong - I don't have any room in my heart for mansion dwellers or real estate magnates, but at least when the move around in their weekend-khakis and tucked seersuckers, they do so with some semblance of grace and dignity. But not the Garbage People.

The Garbage People move from bar to bar in a jerky fashion like the dice in a Pop-O-Matic bubble. If seen from above they would come off as frenzied ants under a cruel child's magnifying glass, scrambling away from something unseen, probably their past, but who knows. These are Jimmy Buffett's people whether they like it or not, lost in the world and invasive, like some choking vine. But here they are ignorant of the aloha shirts and kitschy pseudo island music that allows the general population - good, wholesome folks such as myself - to identify them at a distance. No, for the Garbage People, the music is a more personal decision. Perhaps it's the Eagles, Hall and Oats, or maybe the Rolling Stones.

These are not people of conventional trappings. They might own a boat. They may, at times, drive around in a forest green Jeep Wrangler with deployed airbags draping lifelessly into their laps as they avoid pedestrians. Perhaps they buzz around on a rattly old scooter (for legal or other reasons). But when the sun goes down and they head out on the town, they will get stinking drunk on a mix of cleverly named cocktails, and proceed to crash about in restaurant bathrooms and dance haphazardly in the delightful breeze of the electric hand-dryer, squealing in delight. The are, after all, Garbage People. They have to ruin everything.

A dramatization of a Garbage Person in real life, as portrayed
here by this particularly haggard looking lost doll.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Don't Trust the Lies of the Gluten-Industrial Complex

It's been brought to my attention that in my efforts to avoid wheat, I may have been inadvertently ruining spaghetti time for all. I get it. It's no fun to not eat pasta and bread and, seemingly, everything else. It's a very sad existence foraging, nachos all the time, grudges, and heavy judgment. No one understands this more than me. And I do understand.

But it is important to point out that while the initial gold rush of the gluten-free fad has hopefully peaked - a peak covered with dustcakes and slime pasta and foambread - and has left many a forsaken avoider hung out to be dry-mouthed by the false promises of all the faked breads and noodles. In light of all the fad driven shenanigans, it's important to remember that there are a bunch of people still avoiding and it's only getting worse. There are nearly as many articles that might as well be titled If You Have Ever Had Gluten Even Once You're Already Dead as there are 10 Reasons You're Going to Die Tomorrow if You Don't Eat More Gluten Right Now God Damnit! It's all lies - be it from the granola-eaters or the Gluten-Industrial Complex.

But still, even as a skeptic, I felt I had a build-up of some unidentifiable compound in my body, so I experimented. I had no idea what brain fog was until I started avoiding at first gluten, then, more specifically wheat. Now I know - it's that pervasive lack of critical thinking capability that I thought was just the result of being a tired parent in my thirties, but now I believe there were other sinister forces at work. As I continue to avoid wheat and my body flushes something out, I live with much less brain fog, I don't eat antacid every night, my afternoons aren't a struggle to stay awake, and I'm starting to become more smarter-er again, albeit slowly. So there is a thing here, but what?

After spending what must have been tens of minutes looking into it (thanks internet), here's what I've learned. Here, National Geographic talks about the herbicide Round Up, made by Monsanto (GMO people), and how it may have carcinogenic effects (and how the active ingredient, glyphosate, is not included in the US government's testing for toxic residues in food). Here, on the Round Up website, are instructions for pre-harvest application of Round Up (skip to page 36 for the Harvest Management benefits). And here, Reuters talks about how the EU almost banned (but eventually didn't) the stuff, while Malta, Sri Lanka, the Netherlands and Argentina have. The state of California even says it can cause cancer (just like everything else). Ok, so what?

Here's the deal: there has been a gradual increased use of Round Up not only to help squash weeds that could take over crop lands just after harvest of wheat, barley, soy, corn, etc..., but also to help control the harvest. Once the good stuff, the kernels, are just about ready to go, a farmer could just dowse the crop with Round Up, which, in turn speeds that crop to a more uniform maturity (ripening as it chokes), enabling it to be straight cut instead of swathed (easier, more productive harvest). Sure, it makes it easier for the farmer... but what about the brain fog?

Friday, March 31, 2017

This Is Bullshit - Jack Ziegler, 7/13/42 - 3/29/17

He was going to live forever, or die in the attempt.
- Joseph Heller, Catch-22

Standing in my father's kitchen eating fistfuls of black forest deli ham and swiss cheese from the Hy-Vee (which I assumed is a pharmacy but now hope it's not), I look out the window at the blooming dogwood and get what he saw in this place. It's great. The neighbors and friends who brought the food over, all great. Those of us here in the aftermath, I like to think he thought we were pretty great, too. I worry very little about what he would have wanted now because I know he already carved out of life what he would have wanted.

Earlier in the week as I made my way from airport security down to the concourse the text from my sister came in: "Holy shit, its over." He stood so goddamn tall, and he cut a hell of a swath. Over the following days, bits from here or there would come in, outward condolences and praise for what he did, who he was, the greatness that he represented to so many. The gravity of this, measured against the approval I had always sought, the respect I had gained as a young man, growing, starting a family, all the warmth that I never really noticed as a child (he used to call me Gnat Boy because I was constantly assaulting him with jokes), my transformation into someone whose opinion had value, who could make a great martini and could entertain in a way that he loved.

I'm really not disappointed that I didn't get to say goodbye. Although I was on my way, I know he didn't want to be seen in a hospital bed as his last impression. The final conversation we had was cut short by some sort of phone issue, but things had been looking up that day, and the nurse had come in to wash his hair. He was practically giggling because it was so wonderful. "This is great," I'm sure he said. Although we were cut off, never said goodbye, never said I love you, I am okay with all of it because it's such a wonderful, absurd memory.

While on the phone in the confusing hours shortly after the 9/11 attacks, my dad, wit so sharp even when noticeably shaken by the chaos and bereft at the thought of lost friends, said the final thing that ever needed to be said about it; "It's like everyone you've ever known has just died." And it's true; one of those multi-layered truths that speak more as years go on. Now, as I sit at his desk in the basement studio of his home in Lawrence, Kansas, grappling with this, I can only muster the reflection I had on that Southwest flight out of Hartford shortly after his passing: It's like every hero has died - every great artist, every great writer, every great musician, and every great philosopher. Bob Mankoff said it best, I think, in his own memoriam: "Fuck! Jack Ziegler Is Dead!"

Goddamn it's beautiful down here, looking out the sliders onto the greens, peppered with strong trees. It's great.


Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Team America - Not in the Playoffs

"That's it, man. Game over, man. Game over! What the fuck are we gonna do now? What are we gonna do?" - Private Hudson, Aliens (1986)

Something horrible has happened over the past, oh, say - thirty years. Politics in America has become The War on America. But this one isn't fought out on the front lines, this one is trench warfare. The trenches are so deep that neither side can see anything that isn't two feet in front of their collective faces.

Team Politics has become so prolific, so rampant, that the enlightened serf of America who has been classically trained in the art of team worship and rivalry, has become a split-camped, foam-mouthed, rabid sociopathic rotten curd of the really underbelly-cheese. Blindly so do they frolic forth, vitriol streaming from both sides. It's as if they've been trained, from a very young age, that the other side poses a threat to their very way of life, to rob the coffers and send do-gooders to the pokey, and those baddies would sell out America to get what they want - and what they want is the purity of unfiltered evil. But here's the rub: both sides think this.

Wade through all the baloney, all the rhetoric, peel back the patina of importance, look beyond the talking heads - try, just this once, to participate in the Actual Truth, and this one fact will become blindingly clear. What is the real a-bo-bo of truth here isn't quite a lie, but rather, an exaggeration. What has happened over these thirty-some-odd years is that what was once a simple and well-intentioned leadership vote has been fueled by every throbbing pundit-exaggeration into a gas fire and can be distilled into one simple question: Are you ready to submit to orifice-probing by your new Martian Nazi Overlords?

The Truth: If everyone is so wrapped up in the greased-back slime pitch of either party, convinced that the opposite team is trying to destroy America - blood-lusting, screaming, frantic - guess who wins? Take a moment and think about who stands to gain the most when a royalty-free, content generating behemoth not only takes over the airwaves, but takes over all the attention, AND - and this is the big one - AND pays through the nose for a huge chunk of prime airtime throughout the land?

Could it be? Could the media be stoking the flames of discontent, only to sell airtime to a couple of bozos who it has been established that nobody likes - and everyone is on the sidelines lapping it up like a bunch of grateful strays?

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Peak America

The jig, as it were, is officially up. We have reached peak America. The experiment has died on the table, the only thing left in it's wake is something like a granfalloon consisting solely of our own truncated philosophies. The nubs of these philosophies poke out, probing, searching, never fully expanding - for fear of Stepping on Toes. We have become a nation of toes. You can be anything; you just can't do anything.

So, with that I present to you: Peak America. We are speeding toward an election, the foreplay of which has lasted much longer than anyone could have ever, not in their most nightmarish dreams imagined, we shutter down the tracks at break-neck speed in this unruly game of chicken. As a child I remember the worlds most dangerous roller coaster, at Quassy Amusement Park in Middlebury, CT; the Monster Mouse. The rickety construction of it wasn't particularly scary, nor was the ride, until you made your way to the top, and the fear kicked in as the little cart cut ninety degree turns, at speed, far too high off the ground, and that crummy little cart would go on two wheels, and it wasn't fear of heights or speed that gripped you, it was the fear that some half crazed drunken coaster designer didn't factor in all the calculus that keeps a young boy from being ejected from the top of this hastily constructed scaffolding. But I digress...

Back to the facts: Due to recent events, this has now become a gun vote. There is a huge swath of middle America that has, much to their horror, had their collective face rubbed in men in dresses, and now in their agitated state they are being told that men dark-colored suits will arrive at their homes in black SUV's to take their guns. The lizard brain vote is now activated. This was a sleeping giant two months ago, and the lizard brain demands a lizard king.

Enter the Reality Show Host officially as a contender. Not even his own party can stop him, try as they might. The genie is out of the bottle... His speech patterns are erratic, stream-of-consciousness style, and dripping with the thickest sauce of velvety bullshit. The very type of bullshit I know rote, because I see the same identical meandering quick-thought patterns that I use when completely out of my depth and unable to stop talking, grasping for the punchline. Completely eviscerated of all meaning. But this type of talk the lizard brain eats it up, like so much bagged food, because it's not about meaning, it's about presentation. The unwashed reality of it assaults the senses. Acrid. Pure entertainment, like traffic-cam footage of highway pileup. One simply cannot look away.

But there is hope. All party lines aside, there is one factor, one weapon, that could change what looks to be the apex in American history - that moment when the poor, destitute remnant of society look back to and see the glaring flaw to which we are all so blinded, unable to steer the past and avert complete and utter wreckage. Ryan Seacrest. If there is one person who could divert this disaster, it would be him. An anti-political battle-royale with Michael Bay at the wheel - give the people their bread and circuses. Ryan Seacrest is the only pop culture figure as ubiquitous; the benign to Trump's malignant. If we're going to crazytown anyway, might as well.