Aphorisms

• If you can’t say something nice, then it’s time to see a speech therapist.
• Give them an inch and they’ll convert it to 2.5 centimeters.
• Imitation is the sincerest form of copying.
• A penny saved isn’t even worth a penny anymore.
• Measure twice; still screw up the cutting.
• All things come to those have someone to bring it to them.
• An ounce of prevention is worth 28 grams of prevention.
• Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and he’ll say, “Is that all there is to it?”
• No sense in crying over spilt tears.
• You can lead a horse to water, but why?
• The road to hell is paved with chipseal.
• Honesty is the best policy, but lying works better in practice.
• Better safe than “sorry about that; oops.”
• The grass is always greener when you’re wearing sunglasses.
• Don’t count your chickens before they cross the road.
• If it ain’t broke, it will be next time you use it.
• Hindsight is 20/20, but it still needs readers.
• Actions speak louder than a librarian.
• Don’t judge a book by its brown paper bag dust cover.
• A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single search on Google maps.
• Necessity is the mother of Necessity, Junior.
• When in Rome, eat some pizza.
• Power corrupts, absolute power is really fun.
• If you lie down with dogs, you wake up when they pass gas.
• Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and the world laughs at you.
• The more things change, the more you get charged a change fee.
• Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent acquiring venture capital.
• You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool all the people all of the time unless you’re fooling yourself.
• You’ll always regret what you didn’t do more than what you did do, except for this.

Sufficient

How much is enough?  Did Abraham Lincoln wonder whether he was working hard enough to preserve the Union?  Does the Dalai Lama second-guess himself over whether he’s making sufficient progress along the road to enlightenment? At the end of the day, was Jesus Christ worried that there were still some miracles left undone?  Is it enough to not be a terrible person or are we required to really make the world a better place all of the time?

Suppose someone gets up in the morning, drinks organically-raised free trade coffee, takes a quick water-saving shower, dresses in clothes bought second-hand, walks their dog, picks up the poop, and disposes of it responsibly, and then settles down to a day that mostly involves reading fiction, taking walks, preparing vegetarian meals, checking out the news online, and running a few errands by bike; does that earn them the right to consider the day well-lived?  Or is something missing due to their failure to directly confront one of the great problems facing humanity, like homelessness, drug abuse, child trafficking,  climate change, or the proliferation of pickleball courts?

On our deathbed, as we look back over our life, will we say to ourselves, “Good job, old friend, you’ve made a positive dent in the world,” or will we whisper more quietly, “For heaven’s sake, chum, why didn’t you do more for others and less for yourself?”  Or will it be something more in the middle, where we remain puzzled about the overall balance of goodness we effected?  (Probably).

If you compare yourself to the real baddies—people like Charles Manson or Jeffrey Dahmer or a certain world leader who prioritizes their own self-interest over the needs of the people (take your pick here)—you may feel pretty good about what you’ve accomplished.  But if you hold yourself up against saints like Dolly Parton or Mr. Rogers, then it’s likely you don’t come out so well.

Seems obvious, therefore, what to do.

Perspective

I broke a shoelace.  My bike got a flat.  I spilled tomato sauce all over my favorite shirt.  The sports team I root for lost again.  Some guy cut me off in traffic.  They were out of my brand of yogurt at the co-op.  I stepped in my own dog’s dog poop.  Tickets to that band I’d like to see are too expensive.  The hot water ran out during my shower.  I opened the refrigerator and its light was burned out.  The spinach I’d been counting on for my dinner salad was too wilted and slimy.  My pen ran out of ink.  The internet is running slow today.  The clothes came out of the dryer still damp and wrinkled.  The toilet sometimes runs after flushing.  My phone has a new crack in it.  I walked through a spider web this morning.  Only bills and circulars came in the mail.  My colleague hasn’t responded to the email I sent two days ago.  The price of Netflix went up once more.  Some jerk underlined passages in the library book I’m reading.  I still haven’t lost those ten pounds I’d hoped to.  I fell asleep during my meditation practice.  I was counting on it to be sunny, not cloudy this afternoon.  My dog barfed on the rug.  The store coupon doesn’t kick in until your bill is fifty dollars; mine was $47.23.  Why are there commercials on my streaming service?  My socks got wet.  I lost a glove.  And a button. Tall Grass bakery has shrinkflationed their best bread.  Showers Pass stopped making the Transit jacket. La Dive changed their menu.  Seattle Metro modified the 372 bus route; now I have to transfer on my commute to school. My elected representatives at all levels of government continue to disappoint me with their policies and decisions.  I have to wake up three times a night to pee.

Drones are not bombing my neighborhood, though; I have nothing to be upset about.

Lucid

I’m not depressed, I just don’t see any real reason to get out of bed in the morning.

It’s not that I have no faith whatsoever in the abilities of national politicians and world leaders to work effectively towards global peace and harmony, it’s just that one of them, somewhere, has to demonstrate even the faintest possibility of effective efforts in that direction before I’m convinced

I’m sure that addressing human-induced climate change is possible; the problem, however, is that it’s humans who are the ones who would have to do so.

My favorite sports team could surely get hot and win the pennant; all they need do is win more games in a row than any sports team has ever done before.

I easily could lose those ten or fifteen pounds that would make me healthier and more attractive; all that’s involved would be giving up eating after 5:00PM in the evening and before 4:59PM in the afternoon.

I could save lots more money for retirement; to do so would be simple: I’d simply have to not retire.

De-cluttering my house would be a breeze; just pick it up, shake it out, and replace it carefully back on its foundation.

I am right on the verge of writing a thrilling,  best-selling novel like Stephen King; I just have to finish doing the body-swap and Vulcan mind-meld with him.

All those home improvements and little chores are on my “to-do” list; they’ll be in the bag as soon as I transfer them to my “have-done” list.

I’m not really worried about widespread economic collapse and hyperinflation; I’ve got a trusty wheelbarrow in which to carry around all those stacks of dollars I’ll need to buy a loaf of bread.

If history repeats itself, we’re all in for some hard times; however, if unprecedented events occur, we’re also likely to experience hardships never seen before.  So, no matter what happens, (or doesn’t), it hardly really matters, right?

Right?

Nihilism

It’s extremely important to make the case for nihilism in all its forms.

See what I did there?

If nothing matters, then surely it doesn’t matter whether nihilism is the case.

Or does it?

Take moral nihilism.

Please.

If there are no objective values, does that mean that anything goes?  But if anything goes, wouldn’t that imply that there’s something wrong with asserting the existence of objective values?  Does nihilism end up eating its own tail?

There’s nothing wrong with self-contradictory paradoxical statements, except when there is.  Of course, since everything I say about epistemological nihilism is a lie, then there’s nothing to worry about worrying about.

As Ivan Karamazov was wont to proclaim, “If God doesn’t exist, then everything is permitted.”  But if everything is permitted, then nothing is prohibited.  But if nothing is prohibited, then there’s at least one thing—nothing—that isn’t permitted.  

Dang!

I want to be a nihilist, but if I want something, then I’m implying that it’s desirable.  But if it’s desirable, then I seem to be committed to the notion that it has some sort of value.

Dang, again!

Of course, it doesn’t really matter what you do; the Universe doesn’t care, that’s for sure, whether you regularly volunteer at the local soup kitchen or steal candy from unsuspecting babies in their strollers.  The Universe’s little cousin, though, Humanity, might have something to say about this and maybe that’s good enough for government work or jazz—or both, if it’s a government-supported jazz combo!

The simple fact that nihilism is especially popular among teenaged boys should tell you all you want to know about its status as a reasonable way to organize one’s life.  (Same goes double for the philosophical views of Ayn Rand).

Ludwig Wittgenstein, in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, famously states, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent;” but that hasn’t stopped philosophers from holding forth on all sorts of unspeakable claims.

Nilihist: Nothing wrong with that!

Vacation

With summer about to come to its melancholic conclusion, you may be wondering whether there’s still time to get in one last bit of vacation before the whole thing comes crashing down.

Good news!  It is still possible to have a little bit of fun and recreation prior to the traditional Labor Day barbecue marking the end of the season.  Here’s what you need to do:

Take out those old Bermuda shorts, the plaid ones you save for special occasions like weddings, baby showers, and the traditional bris ceremony.  Put them on over your swimsuit and complete the ensemble with a seersucker coat, no shirt.

Strap on your hurache sandals and accessorize with a pina colada and a porkpie hat.

Drink the pina colada and refill.

Stroll around your living room while finishing the second drink.  Put on some music, preferably something with a Latin beat, but you do you.

After 15 minutes, have another pina colada.  Accessorize with your favorite cannabis product.

Trading your porkpie hat for a bicycle helmet, head outside and take a bike ride.  If that isn’t nice, what is?  Assuming the lake is still warm enough and not all goose-poopy, a quick dip will surely add to the festive spirit.

At some point, you may want to take a nap.  This is highly recommended, but be sure to get off your bike and lie down first.

At some other point, another pina colada may be in order.  Again, it’s up to you, but be careful about overconsumption.  The human body can process only so much coconut cream.

Now, some may argue that this isn’t really a vacation; it’s just what we would call “Friday afternoon.”  Let the haters hate; that’s what vacationing is all about!

Others may contend that in order for something to be a vacation, there must be something someone is vacationing from.  Good point.  Point out to them that you are hereby vacationing from listening to their unsolicited opinions.

Absolved

It’s not my fault.

I hardly ever drive.  I don’t eat meat.  I’ve never owned a private jet or superyacht.

I’m not a member of an organized religion that believes its members are more favored by God or that they have a divine right to live in some specific Biblical homeland.  I don’t hold a long-standing grudge against a certain race or ethnic group based on far-off historical event.

I haven’t any aspirations to build a giant casino or massive data center in a desert.  You won’t find me harboring territorial ambitions regarding the places that other people live.  I’m perfectly fine with leaving that forest or untapped wilderness alone.

I have no desire to kill anyone to take their stuff.  I can’t see a need to travel to or colonize other planets.  I don’t even fish.

I’m not into fast fashion.  I don’t indulge in any of the drugs that devastate our cities and rural areas while making the cartels rich.  I’m not a health insurance corporation CEO.

Nor am I a corrupt, self-serving politician.

I let my lawn go dormant in the summer.  I take public transportation whenever possible.  I pay my taxes.

I have flown half a dozen or so times in the past couple of years.  But the planes were already going to those places, anyway, so don’t blame me.  Much, anyway.

On the rare occasions I order take-out coffee, I almost always use my recyclable mug.  It’s made of plastic, sure, but I’m keeping it out of the ocean.

I only have one child.  I pick up my dog’s poop and dispose of it responsibly, according to the guidelines on our local waste management company’s website.  I drop off spray cans and used batteries at the hazardous waste disposal site.

My 401k plan includes mutual funds with holdings from major multinational corporations; my home sits on the stolen lands of indigenous people; I’m an American.

Come to think of it, mea culpa.

Rant

I’m sick and tired of hearing people complain.  Everywhere you go, (or listen to, or read), you find another opinionated loudmouth going off about something that’s probably none of their business anyway.  So, enough, already!  Stop complaining!

It chaps my ass the way humans won’t shut up about whatever it is that annoys them, from something simple like international trade to a far more intractable problem, like whether it’s okay to snooze your alarm five times over half an hour before getting out of bed.

My blood boils at the sense of entitled outrage that people in all walks of life, young and old, rich and poor, find it necessary to express publicly.  “Shut up!” I explain to them; no one wants to put up with your grousing.

Back in my younger days, when nostalgia was so much better, you didn’t have to abide by such nonsense; people accepted their lot in life and kept their mouths shut if things were bothering them.  These days, anyone with an internet connection gets to spew their opinions all around the world; no wonder society is in such dire straits: instead of doing the work necessary to fix things, people just sit in their rooms and rant about what’s wrong.  Disgusting!

Plus, most of the things that people complain about are of their own doing, anyway.  You don’t like that brand of pickles?  Well, you shouldn’t have bought them!  You’re upset about traffic?  Don’t drive!  Can’t stand hearing others complain?  Stop listening!

People need to take more responsibility for their own petty annoyances.  So, don’t blame me if you don’t like what you’re hearing.  It’s not my fault that I’m the way that I am.  If only I hadn’t grown up in a society that celebrates bitching and moaning, I wouldn’t be griping and squawking in this way.

Have some self-awareness, people!  Complaining is just another way of not owning your own shortcomings!

But hey, who am I to complain?

Moribund

They—the Buddhists among others—say that as soon as you’re born, you start dying.  I suppose that’s true for some things, like your skin and hair cells, but it seems to me a bit of an overstatement; the real dying doesn’t start happening until your late twenties or early thirties.  And by the time you’re almost seventy years of age, the declension is in full swing.

The warranty on your body and mind expires sometime around the age you’re old enough to be eligible for the US Presidency, which is sort of ironic; you have to be in your declining years to qualify for the highest office in the land.  

Some folks are already on the downhill slide at 25, when a person can run for the House of Representatives or at 30, when one is allowed to pursue the US Senate, which perhaps explains why the interests of the future are discounted significantly in the setting of public policy.  In any event, it’s clear that the Federal government is made up almost completely by people who are essentially on their way out of here; no wonder so many of their decisions—and non-decisions—are both literally and figuratively killing us.

I tell myself I’m not particularly concerned about my own deliquescence; it is fascinating to watch how things that used to work quite easily, like fingers or knees, start to operate much less effectively and more painfully, but I suppose being able to observe their decline is something of a gift.  When the brain really begins to fail, one is unlikely to be aware and who knows, anosognosia may already be in full swing unbeknownst to the knower.

“Everything arises and passes away” is a fundamental truth of how the Nature operates, although it doesn’t seem to apply in the case of having to pee; that feeling seems to arise and keep arising, unless something is done about it.

So, pardon me now; Nature calls

Autopoesis

 There is no me.  “I” know that; it’s all either one thing or no thing or both or neither.  

We misidentify ourselves as individual beings when, in fact, we are all a singular universal Self, or perhaps we’re just an operation of processes with no discrete identity whatsoever.

In any case, this thing “I” call “me” is an illusion; it has no beginning, nor any end; it’s no more what “I” really am than my image in the mirror or a photograph. When I die, it will re-merge with the fundamental ground of all Being from whence it came and of which it truly is.  This “me” will be no longer, but since it never actually existed, we need not mourn; everything is as it ever was, the song—to quote those great philosophers, Led Zeppelin—remains the same.

All of this is somewhat confounding, however, given one’s appetite for breakfast cereal.  If it’s true that none of us is really what we think we are, then why would “I” be craving another bowl of granola.  Why, in fact, would “I” even had one in the first place?

And if what we really are is the Universal Self, eternal, unchanging, non-dual, pure Being, pure Consciousness, pure Bliss, then how come clothes that “I” purchased last year don’t fit “me” anymore?

Brahman’s got some explaining to do, if you ask “me.”

Perhaps it has something to do with what Alan Watts referred to in the title of his book The Book: On The Taboo Against Knowing Who You Really Are.  Maybe we’re culturally, socially, philosophically, theistically, and just plain stubbornly unable to admit to ourselves that our selves aren’t these things we go around pretending—and convincing—ourselves to be.

It sure would make for a more peaceful and harmonious world to accept the reality of our essential shared identity and moreover, it sure would be nice to share the same bowl of granola every morning as one.

Adequate

You don’t have to bring your “A” game to everything.  Sometimes, “B+” or even “C” is plenty.

Suppose, for instance, you’re cleaning the bathroom.  If you scour the toilet and wipe down the sink, that’s good enough for this week.  Next time, you can mop the floor and scrub the shower.

Or consider your daily yoga or exercise practice.  Just “going through the motions” is better than nothing if, at least, it gets you doing the thing.

Or imagine that you are a college teacher and you’ve overserved yourself a little bit the night before.  You can have students break into groups and discuss the reading; that will get you all through the period and you can prepare to do better the next time your class meets.  

Just imagine.

Striving for excellence is admirable, but occasionally, just settling for adequate is to be appreciated.  

You don’t have to make your beans from scratch; the canned ones are fine in a stew.  It’s not necessary to use the washcloth all over your body every time; as long as you’ve got your pits and privates, that should do the trick.  The dog doesn’t need an hour long walk twice a day; taking her around the block so she can sniff and poop will do.

This isn’t to say you should settle for anything; one draws the line at instant rice, for instance.  And there’s no reason anyone should accept single-ply toilet paper on a regular basis.

But as has been said before: “Not everything is everything.”  Sometimes good enough is good enough.  The bare minimum does meet the minimum requirements.

That old chestnut asks, “What do they call a doctor who graduated last in their class at medical school?” The answer? “Doctor!”  And while you may not want to have them perform your brain surgery; they’d be okay for your annual physical.

No doubt this essay could have been much better, but note it's not nothing and that’s something.

Finale

Human beings have had a pretty good run, but now, it’s almost over, and if you ask me, it’s about time.

We reached our apogee around 478 BCE, when both Confucius and Socrates were alive.  (Granted, Socrates was only 8 or so, but still, that’s a lot of simultaneous smarts.)

It’s been downhill ever since.

I mean, think about it: back in those days, even children could speak Ancient Greek!  

And it only took one person—Confucius—to know all there was to know about Confucianism!  Nowadays, it requires entire academic departments to barely scratch the surface of his teachings.

You might argue that we’ve advanced since 500BC, what with nuclear power, vaccines, and Dippin’ Dots, The Ice Cream of the Future.  And while that latter item does make a powerful case for human progress, it’s to be noted that humanity managed to carry on three thousand years ago in the absence of that former pair.  No way we’re going to make it another thirty centuries given where we stand these days with those two; it’ll be something of a miracle if we make it another thirty years!

People used to know how to do things.  They could build temples, memorize epic poems, sail across the wine-dark seas, using only the power of the human mind (and granted, the bodies of many slaves and peasants, too).  These days, by contrast, people need a computer communicating with a massive data center just to create a menu for a dinner party.  (Actually, ChatGPT does this quite well.)

We’ve befouled our nest and it’s only a matter of time before the Earth has had it with us and homo sapiens ceases to be.  It’s sad to think about a world without Shakespeare or Mozart or Dippin’ Dots, but since there won’t be anyone around to mourn their loss, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

Socrates and Confucius knew when to check out; humanity probably should have joined them then, too.

Amitiveness

 I like to do what I like to do and I’m not a fan of doing what I don’t.

I realize that sometimes we have to perform tasks we’d prefer not to, but why can’t life be more about fulfilling more of our preferences?

I’m guessing that our hunter-gatherer ancestors didn’t spend a lot of time engaged in activities that they didn’t want to, so it’s likely that we’re genetically hard-wired to mostly only do what we desire. No wonder it’s so hard to get out of bed sometimes and why it takes so long to get up the gumption to schedule a dental exam.

Deferred gratification is great and all, but isn’t a marshmallow in the mouth worth two in the researcher’s hand?

Perhaps I’d be more successful if I were more regularly willing to privilege the needs of my future self over those of my current self, but when it comes down to a matter of whether the here-and-now or the there-and-then is the one who has to suck it up: sorry Future Guy.

If you love what you do, you’ll never have to work a day in your life, but the same goes for being chronically unemployed and the thing about the latter option is that it means you never ever need to wear socks.

Doing what you must “builds character,” but you what also has that effect? Coming to grips with the guilty feelings of not having done what you should have.

It’s been shown time and again that the lawn isn’t going to mow itself, but as the 18th century British Empiricist philosopher David Hume reminds us, we can’t be sure that just because it’s always been that way in the past that it will continue to be that way in the future, and who am I to argue with one of the greatest thinkers in Western history?

This is what I wanted to say and now I’ve said it; I’m glad!

Nothing

I’ve got nothing, nada, zip, zilch zero. I’m empty, barren, vacant; even my synonym generator has no words.

Blame it on the time of year, the weather, my upbringing, and what I had or didn’t have for breakfast.  There’s no such thing as free will, anyway, so it’s not my fault, the Universe itself made all this happen; I’m just along for the ride.

I could be sleeping, then I wouldn’t be bored.  But is there anything more boring than sleeping? (I ask that merely rhetorically; don’t let’s bore ourselves with detailed explanations.)

Would that we could avail ourselves of the subjunctive.  Don’t let that get in the way of commands.  Is anyone asking questions?  

Run-on sentences are one way that some people, at least those who live meaningful lives, might express themselves in ways that others, who aren’t as fortunate, wouldn’t be able to unless they experienced an infusion of good will from unnamed sources who choose to remain anonymous because they don’t want their identities revealed.  

Get it?  Got it.  Good.

I’m just trying to make my way in a world that seems so similar to this one that no one can tell the difference.  Does that make sense or is sense something that can’t be understood via false dichotomies?

As I sit here, I’m sitting; when I stand for something, I do so on my own two feet; I won’t take this lying down unless I’m reclining.  Do you know what I mean or are there other options for making meaning?  Try baking cookies, why don’t you?

Remark how this is an example of the unremarkable; notice, then, what you don’t notice, and remember: never forget.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life, or maybe it’s the last one of the previous part.  In any case, it’s all it’s all there is in this moment, right now.  Tomorrow’s another day, and so is the day after.

Nothing doing, doing nothing.

Apocalyptic

Would you want me on your team for the zombie apocalypse?

I can’t fight; I won’t kill; and I don’t really like the sight of blood, especially my own.

I’m not very strong, nor particularly handy, and my farming skills are pretty limited.

I could cook, I guess, but how much of an appetite will there be for soufflés and gratins when the zombies are on the prowl? Like 90% of the population, I sort of learned to bake sourdough bread during the pandemic, but my starter is long dead, so I don’t think I’d be much help there, either.

I suppose I could assist in maintaining the fleet of bicycles, but unless my local bike shop was still open, I’d be hard up for parts and the necessary guidance on unfamiliar tasks.  Don’t expect me to be much use with automobiles, apart from adding windshield wiper fluid when that tank is empty.

Moreover, I’ve never really understood the strong desire to carry on after society completely collapses; if I have to hole up in a bunker and poop in a bucket while the world outside burns, count me out, honestly.  So, clearly, I won’t be much help in the morale department, either.

Perhaps I could teach philosophy or lead yoga classes.  (Oh, I got mixed up there; that’s not the zombie apocalypse, that’s for our Adult Summer camp.)

Maybe I could apply my experience as a Union president if it came to negotiating with the zombies; my sense, though, is that they would be resistant to the collaborative “Interest-Based Bargaining” model with which I am most familiar.

I am a fast reader and have a solid track record as someone who takes afternoon naps.  So, it will help the effort for me to sit in a chair and doze over Victorian fiction, sign me up.

And, of course, if all else fails—and it surely will—I can write 327-word essays about our inevitable collective demise.

Odd, Ya See?

After a trying day of fighting grading, I was trying to leave school and get home, where my wife was overwhelmed with providing snacks to our daughter’s soccer team, but my Dean roped me into an Accreditation meeting that just went on and on.  She promised that if I stayed later and worked on Outcomes Assessment with her that I’d never have to do another post-tenure review, but finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and appealed to the college president to convince her to let me leave.  

He did so but on the bike ride home, it started to storm so powerfully that I had to take refuge in a local bar where I ended up telling my tale of woe to the friendly bartender.  I recounted how, after class the day before, I had gotten so stoned on the ride home that I forget all about getting back quickly and at one point, I had to stop for a BLT with extra bacon at a local eatery.  Getting back on my bike, I came across an outdoor concert where the band was playing such enticing music that I needed to put in my own earbuds and listen to an audiobook to tear myself away.

After that, the bike path narrowed and I was barely able to squeeze past an SUV and a monster truck to continue on my way.

At this, the bartender took pity on me and loaded up my bicycle and me in her cargo van and drove us to my house.  I was pretty dirty and ragged upon my arrival so no one recognized me until my dog started barking and jumping with joy at my arrival.

I sent the soccer players packing and my wife emerged from the kitchen and asked if I could help her move our bed to a new spot in the bedroom.  I complained that it was too heavy; "it's you!" she cried, and she embraced me warmly. 

Home, at last!

Prospectus

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We believe that our platform operationalizes delight and makes manifest the unmanifested joy that consumers don’t even know they are seeking.  The model combines viral enthusiasm with optimized happiness that funnels a scalable ecosystem of joy into the hearts and minds of audiences far and wide (and near and slim, as well.)

Our growth strategy innovates, accelerates, and expands upon existing modalities and frameworks to drive new customer engagement across multiple platforms in a virtual cycle of positive experiences that empower people to deploy and manage their life experiences using mega-AI (Authentic Intelligence) that is easy to use and low in calories, too!

Our competitive strengths include being the undisputed leader in the perpendicular niche market of 327-word weblogs; having a virtual monopoly in this specialized area positions us perfectly for digging deeper into this abyss; we’re sure to strike oil soon!

All investments have risks, of course, and investors should be aware that any and all funds invested in this venture have the potential to disappear in clouds of cannabis smoke or an offshore casino, but it will be worth it, we promise you!

Our management team has hours of experience dreaming of what it would be like to run a major multi-national corporation and with your support, you can make that dream come true!

The principal use of proceeds from this IPO will be to increase our financial flexibility, ensuring the continuation of our “N+1” strategy when it comes to new bicycle acquisitions.  And some Dom Perignon to celebrate!  

So, open your wallets, friends, the sooner, the better.

And now, back to work, and back to creating unbridled joy.

Love

We are creatures born of love (or, at least, lust), and so it is odd, isn’t it, that there is so much hate in the world.  

You’d think that the residue of what made us would hang around longer and result in lots more kindness, compassion, and caring, but I guess it evaporates quickly, leaving people with a hole in their hearts that all too often fills up with cruelty, indifference, and malice.  Nature abhors a vacuum, which is strange because everything often sucks.

Somehow, it’s possible for teenaged boys to acquire handguns and bring them to a city-wide food festival.  Back in the day, to complain about someone cutting the line, you had to throw your falafel in their face; nowadays, you pop a cap in them and continue dining.

No nation is going to kill their way to peace; has that ever really worked?  For every head you cut off, two new ones grow; for every parent bombed to death, dozens of children rise to avenge.   The only way to stop the violence is to stop the violence; why isn’t that obvious?

Someone is profiting off the carnage, and I suppose, anyone who has mutual funds in their 401K is complicit in some way, as well.  But does being able to afford to travel during retirement justify the murder of innocent civilians with state-of-the-art AI drones?  Apparently, says the stock market, “yes.”

If only we all could remember that everyone, everywhere, is someone’s child, even that terrible, awful guy clipping his toenails in his seat on public transport.  It’s hard not to hate him, for sure, but what if that were you?  How would you feel about yourself?  Disgusted, dismayed, grossed out, (one would hope), but maybe, just maybe, if we could put ourselves in his shoes, then thankfully, we wouldn’t be able to reach our toes and would stop, just stop, even in the absence of hate.

And thus, there’d be more room for love.

Precious

 In her poem, “The Summer Day,” Mary Oliver asks, as everyone who’s ever been in the greeting card section of Wal-Mart knows, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

As I sit here on Midsummer’s Eve (which oddly enough, occurs in spring—remember that for your trivia contests), I’m perfectly happy to answer: enjoying a Swiss cheese on rye sandwich while watching a World Cup soccer game between two teams I don’t really care about.

Granted, that’s not ALL I will do with it, but for now, it’s sufficient.  Of course, before the season is out, I hope to realize my essential nature as identical with the fundamental ground of all being and with any luck, make a major contribution to solving the homelessness crisis, but in the meantime, mustard, mayonnaise, relish, tomato, lettuce, and Swiss does the trick.

You only live once—thank goodness—so you might think that one’s plans for this wild and precious instantiation ought to be about maximizing experience and accomplishment at every moment and there’s much to be said for that, of course, especially if you’re in the business of selling vitamin supplements or even college course, but there’s also plenty to spoken about in favor of a life that isn’t treated as nearly so precious.  

Consider one, by contrast, that’s just kind of everyday, one that’s more like the flatware and less like the silverware, one that you don’t have to worry so much about breaking, one that stands up to day-to-day use and can still do its job even if cracked and dented a bit.

What this looks like in practice is open to interpretation, but perhaps it opens the proverbial door to such possibilities as afternoon naps, beach book reads, the occasional bout of day-drinking, and maybe even watching sporting events that one doesn’t care particularly much about in the basement on a sunny day just before summer begins.

Nothing

I suppose you could do something, but why?  

The sun’s going to deplete its fuel in a couple billion years, become a red giant, and burn up the entire solar system, so what’s the point of yard work, really?

Besides that, (and much sooner), global thermonuclear war is looking pretty likely, so I can’t see why one ought to reorganize their sock drawer, even though it’s kind of a mess.

Plus, I’m going to be dead in a couple of decades, so does it really make sense to spend the limited time I have left taking bags of books and clothes to Goodwill?

Plenty of great art created by human beings has already been created; I’m certainly no Shakespeare, but even I were, I’d already have more than three dozen classic plays in my oeuvre; would another couple really make a difference?  Probably not.

It might be noted that there is an endless number of social or political causes that are worth fighting for, but as a pacifist, how can I do so?  Much better to remain peaceably ensconced in this here easy chair, right?

Some say that we are put on this earth to fulfill a purpose, but that suggests that there is something or someone who’s in the business of handing out said purposes.  That’s a job I’d consider doing, but then how would I know that that was my purpose since I was the one handing them out?  Who shaves the barber, you know what I mean?

Passing on one’s wisdom to future generations might be a thing, but given how royally screwed things have gotten during this lifetime, it’s probably better for everyone if I don’t even pretend to have anything of value to impart.  Let it end here.  Or over there behind the bushes as the case may be.

None of us ever asked to be born but if we had, Dolly Parton would likely have a lot more kids. 

Thanks, Mom!