Tuesday, November 24, 2015

An update on our ice box

Yesterday morning at 9 am sharp there was a knock at our door, and there stood the undertakers of Dunogremesh to haul away our ailing little fridge. Please feel free to join us in mourning our loss. Any donations can be made to either Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump.

Now we are in shock. Not at the loss of our white and pure icebox so much, our time of bereavement will pass. No, we are in shock that artfulness overcame adversity. Our lives have not been highly successful by way of social mobility, us personas. We are not prone to winning anything much at all, not lottery tickets, nor bingo, nor the good will of employers in our working years. Authority in any make and model had a disdain for our temperament, so to speak. It may not be a far stretch to say we were considering terrorism as a means of achieving some vindication in our senectitude.

But we decided to attempt diplomacy in one final throw of misadventure in a callous and unjust world before we deployed our vintage pressure cooker (it leaks a tad). The pen being said to be mightier than the pressure cooker we unleashed our bridled tongue in the form of eloquent chimera with "Beestis clepid chymeres, that han a part of ech beest, and suche ben not, no but oonly in opynyoun." It seems our personification hath thusly paid off. Those fools at Dunogremesh Property Management Corporation fell for diplomacy when they could have awaited our pressure cooker, cooking up a stew of cabbage and onions and rancid pork rinds next to their fresh air intake whilst we toked our medical marijuana. They could have filed inordinate writs against us for decimating their air quality, ruining the remaining years of our retirement and gaining the fruits of long years of our Canada Pension Plan premiums.

Yes they lost face, and now we revel with a somewhat new and robust refrigerator. It really is hard to be humble in times like this. One wee note sent forth from the dark and lowly crevices of Dunogremesh's vast domain moved mortals if not the gods themselves. We are the invincible, the champions of pen and ink. They caved in to literary philandering, those one percenters, the wizards of cooked accountancy and demonic rent collection strategy, with legal short pants bent on undermining the precepts of rent control. Eruditeness won out over impenitent profiteering.

It cost them a used fridge, it did. Twenty-five bucks they could have donated to a mercantile think tank. Our allusion to sophistication paid off. Their evil nature was wont to feel complicit in cultural befuddlement encompassing that shade of intrigue in parting with a few greenbacks. May the gods laugh and have mercy upon us all.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

A short history of our refrigerator

Our refrigerator is located in the scullery of suite 307 in Deathrock Apartments, in the vast realms of Dunogremesh, in the thriving metropolis of Winterpeg, on the sandy loam of former glacier Lake Agassiz, the flood plain of present Lake Winnipeg, on the banks of the mighty River Red where our Lord Musum presides. He installed his resplendency within the ziggurat of the newly established Canadian Museum for Human Rights and has apparently taken a dislike to our scullery's ice boxes, perchance because we do not come crawling with burnt offerings and lewd dance up the ramparts of his ziggurat to bestow blessings upon his magnanimity.

Anyhow, in the warm summer months of 2014, our old clunker of an ice box which weighed in at 323.7 pounds packed it in. Yes it died, and the kind undertakers of Dunogremesh who carried it off to be buried in sweet honour of forty three years of steadfast service were sore amused at the collection of dead mice which had mummified themselves in it's underpilings over the years as this ice box revelled in the tasks put before it, to cool and freeze the perishables of various tenants, while anchored as if a pyramid, its sharp feet buried in the linoleum and vinyl and floor boards with a grasp which defied even a crow bar.

Born unto us, in wake of this tragedy, was a sprightly little model, white and pure, which in it's glory years undoubtedly behaved itself quite outstandingly. But alas, that Lord Musum, he saw the happiness bestowed upon his subjects and he became jealous. He sent forth spirits, really naughty spirits, who revealed in the joys of disrupting the flowing of electrons, those little beasties who keep modern society in pulchritudinous harmony. They orchestrated a malady in our little white and pure ice box, so her noodle froze to minus 30 C while her tummy languished at the tepid warmth of plus 35 C. Clever magicians were sent forth from the vast auspices of Dunogremesh and they tempted those itty-bitty electrons with spells and bribery, and our little fridge's equanimity was restored to an somewhat even keel.

But woe unto us, Lord Musum is a very powerful lord, and he became furious at these magical jokers who attempted to thwart his magnanimity. He badgered and heckled our little white and pure ice box till she broke down sobbing and has given up all hope of ever being a good little fridge. His plan seems to be to entrap those magicians with their own spells, sending a chill of the ages along with a humongous Colorado low throughout the capacious Dunogremesh Empire, so the mighty River Red will overflow it's banks and submerge all the vast holdings which Dunogremesh has in it's domain with mud and slime.

We would be overjoyed if Dunogremesh would tempt fate and send forth it's magicians once more into the dark and lowly crevices of it's vast domain. After many attempts at coaxing our little white and pure ice box to regain her composure with frozen ice cream pails of ice tucked into her tummy, we may even be willing to perform some lewd dance and song on the ramparts of the ziggurat of our esteemed Lord Musum, if this is deemed as the only solution. We submit this charitably, let those magicians have one more go. We wait with baited breath, knowing full well the power of his resplendency, our Lord Musum. May the magicians of Dunogremesh reign supreme.

Submitted to the Dunogremesh Property Management Corporation, November 17, in the year of our Lorde 2015

Saturday, November 14, 2015

The unveiling of Gloria Rubenstein

The creaking wooden staircase which zigzags it's away up and up through the main vestibule, through the relics of mutilated fridges and rusted out ovens and abandoned cupboardery, overstrewn with old sneakers and ornamented by used undergarments in varying degrees of wear and fashionability, this staircase ascending to our heavenly abode, it is far from an undistracted climb for our distractable wife with dementia. Our Deathrock Apartments arises grimly amidst a side street of fashionable 19th century vintage homes, now much the worse for their wear. The front lawns are kept neatly flattened by the plenitude of young gang men who cut willy nilly through every available breach in the infrastructure on their missions of expediency. Cats and dogs vanish into the potholes of our narrow 'break my window' parking zone while the odd car careens by overhead. The kiddies found tadpoles halfway down the block.

Free enterprise certainly boasts it's proficiency in the spurned beats of this, our constabulary. The other night as we returned from an outing, low and behold our local entrepreneurs had borrowed the scaffolding from a nearby construction site and were busily painting our Deathrock Apartment building. Twenty foot high pics exalting the virtues of our local ladies of the day and night with readily available phone numbers in bold form. There was excellent artistic talent in the ranks of these merchandisers as most of the portraits were quite recognizable, or perhaps the savvy involved some local virtuosi paying off a debt or two. Next morning our building looked quite resplendent with it's new revitalization. Our next door neighbour who is studying law is rather pleased with the response so far, says it pays much better than having three kids, even after the protection. And the billionaire brothers who own our Deathrock Apartments will no doubt be rather pleased that their building got all spiffed up not costing them a dime.

We were sitting in the parking lot of our homely depot while we hashed out our plans for a brand new heat gun to do justice to the hoards of lowly beddy bye bugs who ceaselessly circle the perimeter of our heavily caulked baseboards and weather stripped fortress on the top floor to find that one little opening where to they can call forth their comrades to meander aimlessly exploring the shiny tin cans on the bed feet which thwart their efforts at finding cozy warmth under our blankets. “Gloria Rubenstein” she said, she did, my wife, “Did you know my name was Gloria Rubenstein?” That took us for a loop, it did. Had no idea on her lineage, here we'd thought for the last thirty years she was French and Cree. Dementia brings out the truth on so many relevant subjects. Kept our mind busy musing as we toured the aisles in search of our weaponry.

Sat that heat gun down on the table in it's shiny cardboard box when we arrived home. “Is that thing loaded?” asked our Gloria Rubenstein. One doesn't always have an answer at ready so we just smiled from ear to ear. “Oh” says she, so we guess we're learning dementia speak. Sat her bare naked in the middle of the floor we did, that night. Roasted a whole mountain of the little buggers, we did. Did you know some of them go 'pop' when you roast them? Our Gloria Rubenstein was sore amazed. As we tucked her in nighty night night in her securely fortified bed we ventured to beseech on the origins of one Gloria Rubenstein. She bequested unto us her virtues, “Oh that's me, Gloria Rubenstein, in the nice picture by our front door outside.” Taken somewhat aback we asked “But that's not your phone number, is it?” She just smiled from ear to ear and fell sound asleep.

Seasons will come and seasons will go. The artistry will fade, the phone numbers will be defaced, but the ephemeral unveiling of Gloria Rubenstein will bring a smile from ear to ear in our memories.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

How to indulge in an entrepreneurial chicanery

Place a bunch of fist size rocks in a circle. Sit inside the circle with a tin cup.

The concept
A foole and his monie be soone at debate, which after with sorrow repents him too late. Thomas Tusser

Social justice, in a world of credit appraisement as the sole means of one's establishment in the hierarchy of material man, seems lacking for those who rest their morals on the virtues of fairie dust. It is a stroke of good fortune that human nature is wont to feel good in benevolent undertakings so long as there remains a shade of intrigue in parting with a few coins. The feelings of being had are much diminished when that rationalizing brain is skewed by the possibility that a fling at altruism was keen on cultural au courant.

For those au courant challenged folk, a we bit of inveigling may allude to the possession of sophistication, that much needed ingredient in the the deployment of chicanery. A circle of rocks is no fools' play. It avows purpose, brilliance, introspection, all those much needed values to entice the altruistic at heart. Chicanery is any man's game, we may all play for free. To win or lose at it is but fairie dust.

Do you have a degree in stone sitting, where is your business proposal, your environmental impact statement? Have you considered the workplace safety issues involved here? Are you just making fun of the mankind's most profound efforts at chicanery? You will likely be arrested for terrorizing little old ladies with your arsenal of missiles. You with that tin cup proffering solace to the charitable, consider your impact on the impressionable young ones.

The notion of "chicanery" is typical of human dearth, which has found its way into romantic fools' hearts via farcical influences. The notion of "chicanery" introduces a false notion of duality between "chicaneror" and "chicanerousness", whereas the essence of trickery is the realization of the "non-duality" of observer and observed. "Pure chicanerousness" does not exist; all chicanery is mediated by intellectual and cognitive activity. The specific teachings and practices of a specific tradition may even determine what "chicanerousness" someone has, which means that this "chicanery" is not the proof of the teaching, but a result of the teaching. A pure chicanery without deceit, reached by "cleaning the doors of perception", would be an overwhelming chaos of trickery without coherence.

The privatization of chicanery – that is, the increasing tendency to locate chicanerousness in the psychological realm of personal experiences – serves to exclude it from political issues as social justice. Chicanery thus becomes seen as a personal matter of cultivating inner states of tranquility and equanimity, which, rather than seeking to transform the world, serves to accommodate the individual to the status quo through the alleviation of anxiety and stress.

Practical implications
The investment of remunerations can be cause of some consternation. The neophyte entrepreneur may well invest in a flute or simple recorder and learn one or two pleasant tunes to augment their revenue. An outfit of eccentric duds may be beneficial, although if you have a hankering to sit in a circle of stones this may not be necessary. The pleasant approach to salutation is viewed as the most productive scheme by sufferable diehards, chiding augmented by profanity seen as less forthcoming. A big smile and a helpful hand may oft get you a free quarter pounder from the establishment next door. For the distraught and resentful types this may not be elementary and a good course in etiquette may be an advantageous investment here.

When you arrive home at night to your warm and cozy bed under the eight lane overpass or in the local forest, you may consternate over your opulence. Oft, the best protection against theft and muggery is to simply spend it all on perishables, consuming them quickly or even sharing with scavengers. If you luck out and find an impregnable hoarding spot, you may amass your revenue to the point of establishing yourself in a townhouse or just a cozy flat depending on your social appeal. It is best to find a charitable bank teller who will convert your copper and silver into greenbacks of appropriate denominations as landlords have a tendency to shy away from bags of loose change. Once so established, you my find life a tad more tolerable, having a dry blanket on those drizzly wet days.

Philosophical insights
If we negate the false notion of duality between "chicaneror" and "chicanerousness", with the realization of the non-duality of observer and observed, we can move on with our livelihood knowledgeable in the fact that one is all and all is one. We can be one with our circle of stones and any trickery involved. Chicanery incarnates us and we incarnate chicanery. Avowing to a sense of disorientation and confusion in the face of an apparently meaningless or absurd world, we can transform our world into a medley of challenging, day by day societal impacts, wilfully existing while entertaining our essence. We can be jarred out of our habits, the meaninglessness and absurdity creating a behaviour pattern that is not consistent with that which is considered normal. We can rest assured at night knowing there is no meaning in the world beyond what meaning we give it. Our authentic existence has been created and we can live in accordance with the dust of our edification.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Sapience or evolvability?

This piece of authorship looks to be rather tedious as we approach it, so if'n yer in the midst of a crisis go on and find yer resolution, this will be ignored by so many, one more won't matter. For background it would be helpful to enlighten yer mind with the complete works of one George Mobus PhD, but for now his piece on “How did Mammals and Birds Survive the End-Cretaceous Event?” at http://questioneverything.typepad.com/question_everything/2013/02/how-did-mammals-and-birds-survive-the-end-cretaceous-event.html will do if'n yer having a hankering.

Put into terms that a normal hoser can decipher, why us humans are here as mammals and not dinosaurs has to do with junk DNA. Seems like evolution has been evolving to make evolving more evolutionary. At risk of oversimplifying, birds and mammals had more junk DNA in their gnome and mutations using this junk is easier than mutating fixed coding genes with less built in 'junk,' so they were quicker to adapt to the End-Cretaceous Event with it's nuclear winter. Seems like us humans have more junk DNA than most other creatures ever had.

Now we're on a roll here, us humans, 7.2 billion and growing. DNA is about 500 atomic mass units per base pair. One human has about three billion base pairs per cell and about 100 trillion cells. That means about 1026 base pairs of DNA or about 250 grams. According to a group of genetic scientists led by Dr Gerton Lunter of the University of Oxford’s Wellcome Trust Centre for Human Genetics, only 8.2 percent of human genome is likely to be doing something important. This means that 91.8% of the 250 grams or 229.5 grams is junk. That's 1652.4 billion grams (1.82145921 billion tons) of junk humans are toting around on earth. Talk about hoarding!

So what does this mean for the up and coming global events mankind is programming into mother nature's ways amidst shifting continents and volcanic episodes and asteroidal impacts? Has her a wee bit on edge, it does, this experimentation with splitting the atom and altering the biosphere and attempting to release most of the sequestered carbon in one wee century. Time to put some of that junk DNA to some use, she may be thinking, our mother nature. If global warming continues unabated, raising the Earth's temperature by 4.3C compared with its pre-industrial level the extinction risk rises to 8.5%. If we follow our current, business-as-usual trajectory, climate change threatens one in six species (16%).

Evolvability is a property of a species to generate variations that are, in a sense, potentially pre-adaptive. That is, they can increase the rate of mutations, especially in selective genes, that increases the possibilities of advantageous results. This math works best for large population sizes or populations that are growing rapidly. There have to be many more individuals being conceived so that the increased mutation rate doesn't swamp the fitness of the species. This is because, as most people know, mutations are more often deleterious than helpful. There has to be an ability to “waste” individuals that end up with destructive mutations.” Ibid

So, 7.2 billion, we can waste a few mother nature reasons. We have genetically predisposed about 90% of these humans to holding strong intransigent values. Makes no matter what those values may be, yer economists, yer tea party cohorts, yer religious extremists, yer platitudinous socialists, let them bring forth their bit of atomic weaponry, induce a wee bit of global tepefaction and just wipe this slate clean, the modern flood of Noah. There. Now we can play around with mutations. What can survive the radioactive fallout, the chaotic weather, the hoards of gun toting scavengers? Why simple, she says, mother nature, we've got in that junk DNA somewhere a predisposition for psychic abilities. A bit of apportation, a pinch of psychokinesis, a dash of telepathy, a wisp of teleportation, that should do the trick.

Unto us one will be born. She will have children. They will have children. A clan amongst the remaining remnants of earth's human dregs will proliferate. By magick shall they overcome the riggers of survival. Their powers will increase through the generations, those most able to dodge the bullets by vaporizing, avoiding the clouds of nuclear fallout by jumping to the sunny hills, mind reading the trickery of the maniacal starving, munching on a juicy apple plucked from afar, those with these magicks will survive, and reproduce.

Glory be to the normal hoser. We carry within us the junk of salvation. We are the champions, my friends, and we'll keep on fighting 'til the end. We are the champions. No time for losers 'cause we are the champions of the world. It'll be no bed of roses my friends, no pleasure cruise, a challenge before the whole human race. But we ain't gonna lose.



Apportation is the ability to teleport inanimate objects or beings from one location to another.

Psychokinesis is the process of using only the mind, with no physical intervention, to manipulate physical objects. When the manipulation involves moving an object by mental effort, it is referred to as telekinesis.

Telepathy is the purported transmission of information from one person to another without using any of our known sensory channels or physical interaction.

Teleportation is the transfer of matter or energy, including oneself, from one point to another without traversing the physical space between them.