Hole in One!

Huh. Yeah, it's been a while, and it's likely to be another while, or maybe even two. So here's the bullet points - the highlights, if you will - of my Awesome Rise To Power (as foretold in revelations, movie rights optioned to Universal):

- Wife is pregnant. Which is AWESOME. Well, it's awesome for me, but she's going through hell. Hospitals and everything. So I guess it kind of blows. I'm conflicted.
- Yesterday was my 35th birthday, and it sucked. I worked an eighteen hour day and got no presents. Was supposed to do breakfast with The Boxer, but it didn't pan out due to unreasonable amounts of snow.
- Ironman moved to the West wing of PerpetualStartup, and now I work for Obelix. So far, so (mostly) good, but the workload is killing me.
- I haven't started my xmas shopping. And yes, I use "xmas" in the ironic sense, intended to piss off Christians (or "Xtians", as I like to refer to them). Spread the holiday cheer.

These are the dark times, the calm before the storm, the darkest before the dawn. I am become death, destroyer of morale, a horseman of the apocalypse.

But, like, on a bike. Horses are expensive, apparantly.

...but delicious.

Speaking of delicious, Ironman treated me to a birthday risotto at Bueno Notte this noon. Yum.

And that's the nutshell. I know I'm forgetting something (natch), but whatever. It can wait until next fiscal quarter, when the terms of my release dictate I must once again blog what passes for my thoughts, fodder for the brave brave souls of Homeland Security surveillance units everywhere.

The question for you to ponder over the course of these arctic frigid freezing windblown arid icy killing months of perpetual darkness: Zombies vs. Vampires. If a zombie bites a vampire, the vampire will turn into a Zombie Vampire. But if a vampire bites a zombie, the zombie will turn into a Vampire Zombie. In the end, no one wins, and everyone is twice as hungry as before. This is a maquette of the futility of war.

You're welcome.

And so, in the spirit of the holidays, I bid you a cheery Kwanza, and a happy new year. Wait... Is that mistletoe?




....hey, where are you going?

StumbleUpon

Bertrand Russel once said that the point of philosophy is to start from something so simple as to not be worth stating, and to end with something so paradoxical that no one will believe it. In Plato's Meno, the title character asks Socrates "How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?" In other words, how can you know that you've arrived at the truth, when you don't know what the truth is?

Socrates runs circles around Meno, suggesting that by this logic, man cannot search for that which he knows, because he already knows it, nor for what he doesn't know, because he wouldn't know what he was looking for. Of course, this is the dumbest thing EVER, and so Meno, duly chastened, shuts his uninformed trap.

Personally, I'm of the opinion that the most rewarding way to arrive at an unknown truth is to trip over it in the dark, while on the way to the fridge for a midnight snack. Usually there is a sufficiently loud noise, as of a small plastic McDonald's toy being crushed by a grown man's bare foot, possibly a chair falling over. Some quiet but earnest swearing may also erupt.

More often, though, I resort to the "There is no absolute truth, and therefore to explore the nature of the Known or Unknown is ultimately without reward, so let's just watch Survivor."

This morning as I was leaving the house, Son gave me a big hug and said "I very love you, Daddy".

So cute.

Behold This, Biatch

Keats says "Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know". Keats, in many ways, was a genius. In many other ways his stuff is utter, utter shite. The same can be said of most of us. Literary deconstructionists and philosopher pedants like myself will try to put one over on you by suggesting that The Truth Can Sometimes Be Harsh And Disturbing, So How Is That Beautiful, eh Smart Guy?

By way of riposte, allow me to arm you, not with any real ammunition, but something that makes a loud noise and bright light, enough to distract these assailants while you escape via carefully pre-planted neologism. Just as there is no Objective Beauty, there is no Absolute Truth. While it's quite the leap to suggest that this mere coincidence implies equality, at least in this, they are equal abstracts, convenient placeholders for whatever the hell it is we were just talking about.

Ooh Look! Something shiny!

I spent a thoroughly delightful evening in the company of the League of Overachievers last night, "swilling wine with willing swine", as it were, and came away with that warm, fuzzy, light-hearted feeling that has been all too rare lately. Boxer, IronMan and Directrix were all there, along with Boxer's Big Kid (probationary League intern). Of course I dazzled with my usual charm, wit, charisma and bonhomie (or at least drank enough wine to convince myself of my own charm, wit and charisma. The bonhomie, I still maintain, was genuine).

Of such an intensity was the awesomeness, that at times I cried tears of joy, and where my tears fell, tiny white flowers blossomed. Until around 2:00 AM, when I cried tears of intense peptic discomfort as all the wine I had downed wreaked it's tanniny revenge.

So, for lack of a feast, my brain has baked us a couple of Welsh rarebits:

1. Clichés should be avoided like the plague.
2. Speed Dating vs. Carbon Dating: Discuss.
3. The trick with Midget Porn is to watch it on a really big TV. Then it's just like regular porn.
4. Did you know that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary? ("Oh no", you will say, astute reader, "I'm not falling for that one. Everyone knows there's no such thing as a dictionary!")
5. Yes, I sometimes have stubble. Does it make you want to kiss me any less? No? Then what's the problem?
6. I wonder if they have Methadone clinics, but for boobs? I'm totally addicted to boobs.

Next time: Stay tuned, victim! Is that...doggerel?

Probably not, actually.

It's Not a Race

So we stand once again on the edge of the stream of consciousness, and prepare to skip a rock across the placid waters of the mind. Prepare for unimaginable boredom.

One of Zeno's paradoxes of motion is illustrated in the parable of Achilles and the Tortoise. Basically Achilles - indestructible killing machine of the Myrmidon army, hero of various engagements in the Trojan war, and all-around stud - is set to race against a tortoise - wizened armored slowpoke and butt of philosophers' jokes.

Being a good sport, Achilles gives the tortoise a head start of, say, a hundred meters. If Achilles runs at ten meters per second (a prodigious pace of 22 miles per hour), and the tortoise runs at one meter per second, Zeno, venal and doddering old rascal that he is, says that Achilles can never catch the tortoise.

The theory is that by the time Achilles has run a hundred meters to catch up to the tortoise, the tortoise will have run an additional ten meters. In the time it takes Achilles to cover that additional distance, the tortoise will have progressed another meter, and so on, ad infinitum. This is the same logic that irrefutably proves that the minute hand on your watch can never overtake the hour hand. And as slow as time may seem to crawl on certain painful days, it is immediately apparent to the most casual observer that there must be some flaw, some hidden fallacy, in Zeno's perfect logic.

Ever get the feeling that no matter how hard you work, how much you apply yourself to a task, you'll never reach the end? All the tortoises are writing the rules and, slow as they are, they can't be beaten. Now I'm not such a good sport, and rarely give head starts if I can avoid it, but I've run a lot of those races recently, and visions of turtle soup are starting to dance through my head.

The tortoises will tell you "Work Smarter, Not Harder". This is a facile platitude for they that have no intelligence to lend. The only way to win this kind of race is to be the tortoise, and have other people try to catch up to you. But who wants to be a fucking tortoise?

Our philosopher's stone, flat, round and smooth, whipped with all the speed and skill that our feeble modern minds can muster, skips off the water here, causing easily ignorable ripples, sails low through the air, and splashes down again on the Fletcher's Paradox.

Another of Zeno's illegitimate sons of politics and philosophy, the Fletcher's Paradox asks us to imagine an arrow, released at speed. Maybe shot by that consummate archer, Achilles. Maybe he's trying to kill that fucking tortoise.

We are then asked to imagine an indivisible unit of time. Observing the position of the arrow at any of these moments, we see that the arrow is not moving. But, the theory goes, movement must occur in the present. It can't be that the thing only moves in the past, and in the future, but right now is motionless. Straining the credulity of the sane, we are asked to deduce that throughout all time, the arrow is motionless.

That makes no sense. Let me try again: If we posit an infinitely small period of time, then the amount of movement permitted in that period of time will be correspondingly small. Infinitely small movement is about as good as no movement at all (at least in 450 BC, when the value of PI was 3). But since all time is composed of the sum of these tiny moments, there must be no movement throughout all time.

Of course, this ties in nicely with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principal (doesn't everything?), which basically describes how precisely the position and momentum of a particle (or arrow) can be simultaneously measured -- if we increase the precision in measuring one quantity, we are forced to lose precision in measuring the other. So if Zeno has us imagine an infinitely small, indivisible unit of time, wherein we may observe the arrow's location with pinpoint accuracy, then yeah, our measurement of it's momentum will be correspondingly inaccurate.

Okay, so it's not moving. So what?

I've been doing whatever it is I do for going on 15 years now. And I do it well (according to my own unbiased and objective evaluation). A couple months ago I got "promoted" to Team Leader. I know, it sounds cool, like I'm captain of the Super Friends or something, but really, in a team of two people, it's a little underwhelming.

Time crawls. I go nowhere.

I need a vacation.

All I'm Sayin' Is It Goes Without Sayin'

Some people find it difficult to make friends. I have been, and sometimes still am, one of those people.

There are lines drawn in the desert of our interactions with others, and these lines must not be crossed. Of course, they are constantly shifting with the winds and the dunes, and what may be appropriate dinner conversation in one context will get you thrown out of the restaurant under different circumstances.

For people who are less well equipped to discern these societal norms and unspoken rules, charting the waters of human interaction can be tricky business. Reefs and shoals abound, invisible tides and currents wait to carry you out to sea, beyond hope of rescue or redemption. Cut that girl loose, because after what you said last night, she'll never talk to you again.

These are the people who don't get the girl, who don't have a lot of friends, or who always say the wrong thing. The people who don't shower on a regular basis, because no one ever told them they should. The guy might be brilliant, he might have a heart of gold, he might even be a demon in the sack, but he doesn't shower, doesn't shave, and has no idea how to talk to co-workers, superiors, or women. He's toast. And no one will tell him why.

No one comes out and tells you what is acceptable behavior, you just have to figure it out. The topic of situational appropriateness is, paradoxically (or ironically, I can't remember which), one of the things we never talk about. I guess it's inappropriate.

(Something else weird: You know that Alanis Morissette song about how everything's ironic? And you know how all the things she talks about - rain on your wedding day, a free ride when you're already there, etc - aren't actually examples of irony? Don't you think that's a bit.... ironic?)

One of these unwritten rules of "appropriateness" (or maybe it is written, but I'm too lazy to look it up) governs the use of mixed metaphors. In a nutshell, the rule is: Don't. Reading back, you can see I've employed the use of "desert" and "ocean" metaphors, to describe the same thing. I wish I could say that this was by way of illustrating some point, but really it's because I'm a frickin' rookie.

There are some questions to which only personal experience can provide the answer. Things that cannot be taught, only learned. These lessons are always the most valuable, but so priceless is the lesson we have learned today (or failed to learn), that we should encase in salt and bury it a thousand miles beneath the Nevada desert, preserved for generations to come. Then, like the Egyptian pharaohs of old, we should bury the architects and builders of this tomb, and ensure that this lesson can only ever be "self-taught".

Of course I exaggerate to make a point, but if you've ever read anything that tries to teach the rules of human interaction, say a book on how to make friends, or how to meet women, you can begin to understand how difficult it is to verbalize some of the things we need to learn, to pass on. These books are almost painful to read.

If you can't verbalize it, you pretty much can't teach it. And so our loser-protagonist is doomed to wander the arctic wasteland of peer-society, never or rarely to know the warmth of successful interaction, and the many rewards it brings. Yet another metaphor. In case you're keeping score, that's 3-0.

Some things can be spoken, or written, and some can't. And some things cannot be blogged.

Totally unrelated: Condolences on the ending, and congratulations on the beginning, Boxer. She'd better deserve you.

Beauty

In science, the observer effect refers to changes effected on an observed phenomena, by the mere act of observation.

For example, in order for an audience to listen to a live performance of Verdi's la traviata, they must be present in the auditorium. By virtue of the presence of all these rustling, sighing (and in my case yawning) people, the acoustics of the auditorium are altered, thereby altering the observed phenomena.

Some performers may get stage fright due to the presence of an audience, altering it further.

I may begin to snore. My snoring has a high-pitched, flute-like consonance that, I feel, can only enhance the auditory experience we are describing. Nonetheless, the observed phenomena would likely suffer alteration.

As an aside, do not be misled into thinking that I am a connoisseur (nor even mildly tolerant) of opera. I enjoy all the meats of our cultural stew, but opera is the diamond in the stew. Everyone loves diamonds, but who wants to break a tooth on a rock when you're trying to enjoy some good stew, am I right?

So, back to the Observer Effect. I have a couple of questions, Mr. Wizard (RIP) :

Does observing evidence of the "observer effect" alter the effect?

Okay, but seriously: What about déjà vu?

Of course you know what déjà vu is, but scientists are still sort of puzzling out how it really works. After we got over accusations of witchcraft, precognition and prophecy, one theory used to be that different visual signals might take different neural pathways from your eyes to your visual cortex, one signal arriving picoseconds after the other, causing the sensation of having "seen" this thing before.

This, of course has been thoroughly dismissed as unscientific nincompoopery. Which is unfortunate, since it kind of takes the wind out of the sails of my most interesting question: If I observe a phenomena (thereby changing it, according to the observer effect), and experience déjà vu (thereby observing the same phenomena again), have I un-changed it? Have I reversed this specific instance of the observer effect, or simply compounded it? Have I un-observed?

How many people have "observed" the Mona Lisa? How many infinitesimal changes does that make?

Is someone observing me right now?

You see now, that I can write about pretty much any claptrap that pops into my head. My ninja master informs me I must use this power for good, not evil.

But before I do, let me draw a depressing conclusion from out of left field: According to the observer effect, perfection can not exist. Because in order for something to be perfect -- let's say, the perfect woman -- it must be subjectively judged by an observer to meet the stringent criteria of perfection. In absolute terms, these criteria are non-negotiable. Either you are (subjectively) perfect, or you're not. There's no such thing as more perfect, because perfection is, well, the best you can do, really.

If I observe this hypothetical perfect woman, my act of observation must change some aspect of her perfection, rendering her imperfect. Since perfection must be perceived in order to exist, and cannot be perceived without being altered, and cannot be altered without being diminished, it can not exist. Ergo liquet, QED.

You're thinking, "Hah, smarty pants! The object or person you deem perfect may not meet my high standards." And you are technically correct. This is, unfortunately, irrelevant. Even if you are the only person who ever observes this mythical perfection (from within, say, the confines of your isolated log cabin in the Jersey Pine Barrens, using a closed-circuit camera), this theory still applies.*

So the next time someone tells you that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, tell them to go fuck their hat.

Soon: Doggerel!

*The theory of non-perfection does not apply to imaginary girlfriends. Rest easy, chess-club.

Things You Assume You Know, But Don't Really

Friday, a sad day in Company's history. Guy I Barely Know has left, and so we all went out for a quick beer or three after work, you know, to say good-bye. Of course, during the course of these social club tea parties, I always discover things about my co-workers that makes them seem more like real people, and not hallucinations, and Friday night fit that mold nicely.

It was Grand-Prix weekend in Montreal, so of course all the waitresses were either a) replaced with off-duty strippers, or b) dressed in painted-on Molson Dry outfits that left nothing to the imagination. Our waitress appeared to be of the latter variety, and let me just say: Bravo. I and my dozen-or-so compatriot bargoers (mostly male) spent some time creatively ogling the waitress, but trying not to, you know, make her uncomfortable (or any more uncomfortable than that outfit was already making her).

At some point, Lipstick showed up to mitigate the sausage-fest. We eagerly pointed out to her the object of our collective desire, and she was suitably impressed, quipping "Wow, yes indeedy, that's some nice titty action".

Nice. Titty. Action.

Before I go any further here, let me back up a bit and mention that Lipstick is gay (and gorgeous), and so, we figured, in a unique position to appreciate the feminine charms of our appointed hostess, as well as point out other less obvious charms that we, as knuckle-dragging males, might have overlooked. So it was a bit of a surprise to go from our polite male conversation of "wow, she's really beautiful", "good from any angle", "nice cheekbones", etc. to "Nice titties".

I'm not sure what I was expecting, and maybe it wasn't fair to put her on the spot like that, but what I think happened is that she said what we were all thinking, instead of what we were all saying.

Girls, you think you know what men say when you're not around. But you really don't. And at this point I think it's safe to assume the opposite as well. Hate to break it to you, guys, but when we're not around, the attractive women are probably not having pillow fights in their skivvies.

Opportunities to re-examine the stereotypes we hold so dear (e.g.: knuckle-dragging males, dainty and polite females, baby-eating republicans, etc.) are few and far between (unless you seek them out), and when the occasion presents itself, we are duty-bound to exploit it. What other cliché stereotypes are we wrong about? All of them?

Probably.

This Post, It Could Be Better

Tonight, as I delivered unto the Golden One his nightly bottle of milk (he's too young to appreciate the fact that he's too old for a bottle of milk at bed-time), he yanked it roughly out of my hand, bonking Wife on the chest with it. Quick to instruct Son in proper manners (I can hear you laughing from here), words were spoken:

Wife: ouch!
Self (sternly): Son, say sorry to Mommy!
Son (bottle in mouth): Thorry Mommy.
Self: And say thank-you to Daddy (you know, for the milk).
Son: Thank-oo, Daddy.
Self (getting the hang of this): And say "I love you" to Mommy.
Son: I love you, mommy.
Self (trying not to giggle): And say "I love you, Daddy".
Son: ...
Self: ... Okay. Well, g'night then, sweetie (*kiss*).

The hypocrisy of me attempting to teach Son proper manners and etiquette is, I'm sure, not lost on any who know me. For those who don't, allow me to elucidate by way of an anecdote:

Today at Company marks a momentous occasion (at least for me, and really, who else is there?). Project (an amazing bit of software that I believe will be used to torture heretics during the next Inquisition) has finally gone to QA for testing, freeing me up for further abuse from the project driver and chief stakeholder, Meathead.

Everyone has a Meathead at their work. The upper-middle manager who doesn't return emails, brushes off your concerns about outstanding requirements issues by saying "don't worry about it", then points the finger at you when the project fails. He or she has unrealistic expectations that are not expressed in the project requirements, interrupts or talks over you in meetings, misunderstands most of the project and therefore misrepresents it to upper management, and basically has the attention span of a hummingbird.

Meathead is not actually evil, just difficult to work with sometimes. He considers himself a political animal, and concentrates on what he thinks is important at any one time (like most of us), to the detriment of what is actually important. So this entire project has been an exercise in "Cover Your Ass". Everything is documented, Boss is CC'ed on every email to Meathead, responsibility for delays due to unapproved changes is unambiguously laid at his feet. It's fucking exhausting.

Seriously, any time spent in a room with this guy takes about five layers of enamel off my teeth from the grinding.

Patience is the only thing for which I set myself a limit. This, coupled with the need to express myself within the constraint of Meathead's ten-second attention span, can sometimes result in some hastily-chosen words. Words that could be jeopardizing career-advancement opportunities. Often (okay, not often, but you know) after a meeting, I'll think back and wonder: was I more of a dick than was strictly necessary, given the circumstances?

Viz: I was about three tooth-layers into a meeting yesterday, with Meathead, The Directrix, and Boss Sr, to go over Meathead's requirements documentation for an upcoming project. After much semi-heated debate over the questionable sense of some of his needs, I arrived at a section of my notes where I had given up on intelligent comment, and instead scrawled WTF in orange hi-lighter.

Self: Yeah, I don't think I understood this part correctly.
Meathead (playing with BlackBerry): What do you mean? I think it's pretty clear.
Self: I mean, I don't know what language this was written in, but it isn't English.

Now, taken out of context, that little exchange has me coming off as a bit of a dick. To be fair, this document was a joint effort between Meathead and The Directrix (a capital whip-wielder and efficient task master fully deserving of further commentary, and don't worry, I'll get to her). Directrix and Meathead have both worked with me for a while and know what to expect, so they weren't, you know, insulted or anything. Still, after the fact, I couldn't help but wonder if that could have gone better.

In the near future (as soon as tomorrow, in fact), IronMan, a.k.a. Boss Jr, will be getting involved. Boss Jr, or "BJ" for short (snigger), is a genius at dealing with Meathead, as well as The Directrix (not to mention Boss Sr, Mr Clean, Laurel and Hardy, and The Cossacks), without snapping like a wishbone. Should prove diverting.

"Could that have gone better?" is a question that crosses my mind fairly frequently, usually with it's head down and collar up, trying not to make eye contact. Generally, one already knows the answer before ever posing the question (in case you're wondering, it's yes). And this doesn't just happen at work:

Self: C'mon, Son, time to get ready for bed.
Son: I want my Spider-man shirt!
Self: That shirt's dirty, we'll wash it tonight, and you can wear it tomorrow
Son: I. Want. My. Spider. Man. Shirt.
Self: It's just for one night. Look, you're already wearing your spider-man underwear, spider-man socks, spider-man sandals, spider-man shorts, and spider-man baseball cap, and you're going to sleep on spider-man sheets with a giant stuffed spider-man while listening to the London cast of "Spider-man, The Musical". Can we just wear this other shirt for tonight?
Son: I WANT MY SPIDER-MAN SHIRT!!!!!

So of course I cave. I mean, really, who has the time? But after fifteen minutes of arguing, tantrums, and hi-pitched screaming, loud enough to break every window in the house, I inevitably find myself swabbing the blood from my ruptured eardrums and asking "Could that have gone better?"

Now, I'm no expert (natch), but the frequency with which I find myself confronted by this type of post hoc second-guessing may speak to Psychological Issues.

Idea!: One of the goals of our Ongoing Game will be to express the nature of said Issues without exacerbating them. Good luck with that.

In other news, HaikuBoxer has found my muddy little hole in the internet. Time to pull up stakes, board up the blog, and move to Panama under an assumed name. Revisionist history has struck. Boxer thought the picture I had of her on the site, all sweaty and sporty looking after running a triathlon, was "icky", so I swapped it out.

This is one thing the electronic medium has over traditional forms. You can go back in time and erase, redact, tweak, and just make like it never happened. In fact, I just erased something off this very blog. Can you tell what it was? Maybe I was talking about you.

Non-Sequitur: About that money I owe you. Do you take sex?

You Can Buy Land On The Moon!

This evening, Son, wriggling into his spiderman pyjamas in preparation for Dinosaurs and Dr. Seuss, voice muffled by the corner of his Winnie-the-Pooh binkie, spake unto me: "Daddy, I want to sleep in your bed".

This of course was uttered in the indescribable whine that only the parents of a two-to-five-year-old can come close to appreciating. Half of you know exactly what I mean. The other half have no fucking clue. Really. You think you know, but you really don't. Trust me.

A perverse compulsion, no doubt supernatural in origin, came over me, and I could not restrain myself. "Why?" I asked. Son gave me The Look. This was a look that seemed to say "What the hell kind of idiot are you?" He learned this look from his mother.

Too polite to express his low esteem of my intellectual gifts, the conversation proceeded thusly:

Self: Why do you want to sleep in our bed?
Son: Because I love it.
Self: But why don't you want to sleep in your own bed?
Son: Because I want to sleep in yours.
Self: But why? You have a very nice bed.
Son: But. But. But. I don't want to sleep in mine.
Self: What's wrong with it?
Son: I want to sleep in yoouuuurrrrs..

So of course I caved. I mean, really, who has the time? This, to me, represented a perfect tautology. Ayn Rand would be proud. A is A. Son, going on four years of age, has not yet learned the necessary skill of self-justification. He wants to sleep in my bed because that's what I fucking want! Why do I need a reason?

Prima facie, this phenomena seems confined to children and the insane, which would seem to indicate that the behavior that governs justification, or motivational invention, is either a learned behavior, or, if innate, is encoded in neural structures that, by age five, are not yet mature enough to allow the kind of profound self-deception the rest of us take for granted.

An adult, considering a change in venue for the evening, might concoct any number of inanities -- "Because the front room is quieter, darker, cooler, warmer, has better feng shui", whatever -- and convince themselves of that very proposition. This is not technically a lie, the master bedroom may possess any one of these many fine qualities and more, but the fundamental pre-linguistic, pre-justified motivation, rarely examined, is simple: I want it.

It's a funny old thing, the brain.

And on the subject of completely unjustifiable desire: I received spam the other day that suggested in bold type that it is now possible to -- I'm not kidding here -- buy land on the moon. Yes, you too can own a piece of our nearest celestial neighbor. Real estate speculators are apparently snatching up this valuable acreage in a land-grab that rivals that of the 1849 California Gold Rush.

This communique seemed sent from God himself, and spoke directly to the Sci-Fi centers of my brain.

As you may have guessed by now, I'm not really an expert in anything, and real estate is no exception, but as I put pen to paper to apply for the necessary mortgage, I seemed to recall some trite pearl of wisdom identifying the three cardinal rules of real estate as "location, location, location". Too, common sense tells me that one good reason to own land, aside from raising puppies or medicinal marijuana, is to build something on it.

These two basic tenets seem to diverge somewhat from the concept of buying land that's four hundred thousand kilometers from the nearest flush toilet, let alone schools, shops, and businesses.

I mean, think of the commute.

And so, common sense has weighed in, and I am swayed by it's persuasive arguments and feminine charms. Against the express wishes of co-workers and neighbors, I shan't be moving to the moon any time soon.

There are those, however, for whom proprietorship of a slice of the Mare Tranquillitas holds an irresistible allure. To such a visionary, I would wish the best of luck and ask that, fifty years from now, as they relax on the porch swing of their lunar retirement cottage, sipping their lunar lemonade and watching the earth choke to death on smog, drown in the "globally warmed" ice caps, and blog about American Idol, they try not to rub it in our faces too much.

Visionaries: click here. Realists: Have another drink.

Colorless green ideas sleep furiously

The title is a Chomsky gem. A sentence which, while grammatically correct, makes no sense whatsoever (remind you of anything?).

Related: Other languages don't have spelling bees, because they would be too simple. They hold grammar bees, though (cadavre exquis, anyone?). The Boxer is a grammar fiend. She subscribes to a grammar magazine, is a member of a grammar Facebook group. They have tee shirts. God-damn, I hope she never reads this.

In Other News That I'm Not Even Remotely Qualified To Comment On:

Liberals: Tax cuts for everyone!
Public: YAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!!!!!
PQ: Wait, let's use the money to fund health care instead!
Public: Um. Yay!
Liberals & PQ: We disagree! Time for an election!
Public: wtf?
ADQ: Yay!

"The duty of an opposition is very simple: to oppose everything, and propose nothing" -- The Earl of Derby, British Prime Minister

This adage in mind, the newly-captained PQ appear to be performing their duty admirably. Dumont has to be smarting that the ADQ's best chance at winning an election has come and gone. It is, after all, unlikely that the PQ will soon put another straw man in the captain's chair whose unpopularity could ever approach that of Boisclair, the coke-snorting homosexual.

Let's take a moment here...

I mean, they had to figure that the portion of their voter demographic that would not be alienated by Boisclair's homosexuality (and let me assure you that this is not my personal sticking point), would likely fall to his admitted cocaine use. I mean a simple Venn diagram, a technique imparted to third-graders, could have saved them.

By spinning their budgetary objections as a health-care issue, the PQ have set the stage for a potential victory in a snap election. The only chance the Liberals have to conserve power (albeit in name only), is to come to some agreement.

Honestly, it's a win-win. Either we get tax breaks, or we get better health care. My vote? Tax Break. Here's why:

Quebec has a fairly high tax rate. The old chestnut that we are the highest-taxed nation in the western hemisphere, while not strictly true, certainly corresponds to citizen's feelings on the subject. It hurts. quite a bit.

Quebec's health care system is in need of, if not an overhaul, then at least some major financial shoring-up. On this topic you will hear no disagreement from me. However history has shown us that government spending is as leaky as Montreal's wooden plumbing. My bet is that a three-hundred million injection to the health care budget won't see a lot of improvement on the ground.

Sure, the PQ can walk away saying "Look what we did: We just gave you 300 million dollars! We're heroes!", but what the average shmuck - lying for nineteen hours on the floor of a hallway in Montreal's Royal Vic hospital, for lack of a stretcher, before seeing a doctor - wants to know is: will this reduce waiting times? Will I be able to find a family doctor now? Will I still have to wait in line for six months for an MRI scan to diagnose my tumor? Can I get a fucking bed, or a stretcher, or a chair, or something?

In case you hadn't noticed, I don't know squat about politics. It is that most base profession, vocation of swindlers, sheisters and lawyers that aren't attractive enough for more conventional forms of prostitution. Idealists, believers of a political stripe, such as the Boxer or Delrin, are reserved a special kind of pity (that I'm sure is mutual).

"You poor saps, can't you see it doesn't matter who you vote for, they're going to take your vote, suck some corporate dick for kickbacks, and leave in four years?", I will say, to which the true-believer will respond: "It is your duty, your responsibility, your privilege to vote, to have your voice heard in the public forum, to affect history!". The true-believer will invoke the ghosts of soldiers dead in various wars, who arguably gave their life for my right to contribute in some small, meaningful way to the nation's political destiny.

I mean what do you say to that? I usually just look at the floor and mumble sheepishly.

They will discuss politics over lunch, have their picture taken with their favorite politician. They will volunteer. They will (shudder) make me care.

Truly, there is no worse fate.

Pissing in the Stream of Consciousness

And so it begins anew. Except it's not really new, and it's not beginning. Forever, since before the word "blog" even existed, back in the days of slashdot and kuro5hin, I've excreted more blogs -- Not blog posts, mind you, but individual blogs -- than I can count. A chronic serial blogger, I would start one, make one or two inconsequential posts, then, spent from the sisyphean effort of self-expression in a medium that seems hewn from a solid block of undifferentiated navel-gazing, I would slouch off into the dark, sunless oort cloud at the periphery of the blog-o-verse, or blogger-system, or blog-space, or whatever meaningless term is most recently employed, to mull and think, and prepare my next post, thoughts skating across the empty ocean of my mind with the speed of continental drift.

The word "blog" itself is distasteful to me on an almost instinctual level. The onomatopoeia of "blog" suggests some regurgitative therapy, perhaps as the culmination of an evening spent doing things one will regret the next day. The parallels here are obvious. One: vomiting. To observe a small sample of available "blogs" is to assault the sensorium with the sour odor of pre-digested content. Ideas once teeming with nutritional value now lay curdled and bubbling before you, full of all the promise of a pavement pizza after an evening of serious drinking (that is to say: none at all).

And really, mostly, at least for me, and as with most things in life, with the possible exception of run-on sentences, blogging involves regret. "I wish I hadn't written that", I will say, or "I wish I had written that witty thing before this other dude wrote it", or "I wish I hadn't plagiarized that one girl whose blog, it turns out, is much more widely read than I had anticipated".

So why the hell am I blogging, one might ask, and to such a one, to whom I would normally thumb my nose, or bite my thumb, or hoot derisively, or whatever it is the kids are doing these days, I will instead extend the temporary grace of my ephemeral and fleeting good humor, and respond "It's all her fault."

An ex-co-worker (the grammatically astute among you are welcome to silently criticize the over-use-of-hyphens), the poet pugilist has ever been an inspiration to me. Braver, kinder, smarter, funnier, more earnest, more cheerful, more honest, more deserving-of-unconditional-praise a person you can never hope to find. In the words of John the Baptist, I am not worthy to loose the thong upon her sandals. Her blog is the rare exception to the rule, the subtle edelweiss that blooms in the shade of that mountain of shit that is the blog-mass. She rises above the blogger lumpenproletariat, and makes me want to be a better person.

...But perhaps I gush.

Superlatives aside, Leila really is a brick of a gal (the first in a series of intriguing and charming characters who pass, underappreciated, through my life, and to whom I hope to introduce you in the course of this intermittent verbal diarrhea), for whom I must confess a slight hero-worship.

She blogs, and therefore must I blog. Blogito ergo sum. I will not, however, I refuse, to use those goddamn e.e. cummings headlines. Ew.

As an aside, and on the subject of Descartes, one finds philosophical depth in the strangest of places...

It is verbose, it is pretentious, it will use big, unnecessary words and complicated grammar, and at times there will be cussing. It will be a journey from unpolished pretension and blatant sesquipedalianism to a hopefully more streamlined, hemingwayesque paradigm.

Paradigm, by the way, is another word that makes me want to vomit. I am comforted by the thought that I'm not alone in this.

So desu ka? To the title of this little literary turd: "Nacho Niche". It's really a reference to my current work environment, in the context of which I am regularly exposed to many pearls of marketing wisdom involving "niches", "long tails", and "the box" (getting outside it, getting back in it, throwing it out, decorating it, maybe adding some nice plants, etc.), combined with an extremely childish (and possibly racially insensitive) joke, the punchline to which is "That's Nacho Cheese! That's Nacho Cheese!".

So yeah, this ain't my niche. I don't blog. And when I do it's fucking unreadable, but if you've made it this far, next post will be better, I promise.

Tomorrow: A poem! My first poem in twenty years! Of questionable nutritional value, but delicious nonetheless. The McDonald's of poetry. Empty calories for all!

(See what I did there? I dangled the enticing "carrot", a promise of improvement, then whipped it away and smacked you with the "stick", a threat of imminent poetry. It was an experiment. I promise not to do it again.)