When I left CNET/Chowhound, I gave myself a couple months of yoga, meditation, and self-indulgent relaxation on a cozy porch in an idyllic village before taking out my trombone for the first time in many years and discovering that I couldn't make a sound on it.
I work like an ant, so I rolled up my sleeves and did my ant thing, playing long tones for a couple minutes every day, adding an extra minute per week. I drilled exercises. I started from scratch, rebuilding muscle structure and relearning fine points of control and endurance. When I could play for 15 minutes without bleeding, I started playing along with jazz records, slow at first, then building to medium up-tempo.
At a certain point, months in, I felt sufficiently recuperated to play in public, so I went to a local bar where a jazz trio played. I knew the guys, and had told them about my hotshot musician past, and they'd invited me to come play a tune when ready. And I felt ready.
Kindly, they called an easy medium-tempo blues. I began to play the melody, and a mere two notes in, I realized I had no business being there.
In one huge wallop, the realization landed that 1. my tone was thin and spindly, 2. my tuning was shaky, and 3. my tongue was spastically struggling to keep up with even the medium tempo. I played well enough to have convinced myself, in the shelter of my own home, that I could more or less play. But having spent 10,000 hours playing jazz in bars, I was calibrated like a Swiss timepiece, precisely gauging my lack of even minimal competence.
I could sense musicians' eyes rolling behind me, and could relate much more to their position than to my own. I wanted to be the groaning professional. That's *my* job!
It was sickening. Not in the cartoonishly tearful sense of "I'm not good enough!" or, the long sad story of abandoning my musical career to run a web site. It was sickening in the here-and-now, not in the propositional self-story-telling. I was like a cat stuck up a tree. I'd managed to get up, but had no idea how to get down. Ascents feel valiant, but, seeing where you've actually landed, you instantly see what a fool you've been.
"Better" isn't "good". It's sickening to discover how easily you can mistake the two.
My dad suffered from major depression for years, but managed to move across the country and find a like-minded colony of Republican hippy artists to create with. He had a diner breakfast table full of buddies to linger with over coffee in dry desert air, and he was productive with his sculpting.
Better! Though one day I returned from a shopping trip to his new house and discovered him sitting alone in the dark staring glassily at the wall. "It's such a relief to have overcome the depression," he cheerily announced at breakfast the next day for his approving chums. And he meant it.
"Better" isn't "good".
I have healed a long line of maladies over the past two years, many of them supposedly irreparable (fwiw here are some self-healing tricks). I haven't even considered whether I feel "good" or "bad" in a very long time, with my eye on the ball of fixing this or that, honing methods, adhering to med schedules, and warily watching for reoccurrences of grave problems in stomach, heart, pericardium, intestine, ankle, foot, and shoulder which would require a swift trip to the ER. It's been my full-time job, and I don't bemoan it. I am an ant.
But the other day, walking easily across town, I felt an uncommon sensation: a glow of good health. This, finally, might be time to reschedule my long-delayed trip to Taipei. I haven't had a speck of Chinese food in years! It seems absolutely feasible. I feel BETTER!
"I'm not going anywhere," I declared to a friend. This time I'm wiser. This time I won't get stuck in a tree.
But nah. Taipei, here I come. Because comfort zones are for pushing, and complacency, in the long run, is more perilous than peril. Cats that remain sensibly on level ground are less than full cats.
Monday, March 9, 2026
Thursday, February 26, 2026
Wednesday, February 25, 2026
Step-Down Definition: Obsessive
"Obsessive" is how numb normies characterize the deeply alive.
(Obsession can be a serious disorder, of course, but I'm talking about common parlance rather than psychiatric diagnosis)
More Step-Down Definitions
Regular Definitions
(Obsession can be a serious disorder, of course, but I'm talking about common parlance rather than psychiatric diagnosis)
More Step-Down Definitions
Regular Definitions
Tuesday, February 24, 2026
What if AI Arrived but the Humans Couldn’t Pass a Turing test?
Back in the day, I had stupid friends who used the Internet stupidly and pronounced it "stupid".
It's the exact same thing with AI. And in many cases, it's the same stupid people, being stupid in the same stupid way with this stupid, stupid AI.
It's the exact same thing with AI. And in many cases, it's the same stupid people, being stupid in the same stupid way with this stupid, stupid AI.
Sunday, February 22, 2026
Expatriating Within the Bounds of Reality
I'm echoing this posting, but expressing it better and more leanly, and adding an expansive footnote:
I've chatted with umpteen Americans who viewed some YouTube video where some preternaturally well couple hoisted goblets of wine toward the camera, inviting them to join them in The Portuguese Lifestyle™ and thought "Yes! I want that!"
"Why not me? Why can't I be the one hoisting my goblet from the golden embrace of Mother Portugal, smiling vibrantly for the envious rabble?'
Entire Facebook groups are devoted to "We're here!" photos of random American couples ebulliently emerging from customs in Lisbon Airport with loads of luggage. It's a big moment for all of us, naturally. They actually call Portugal their "Forever Home", like fairytale princes and princesses set to live happily ever after in a magic kingdom.
If I need to tell you that it will not go well for them, then this essay won't go well for you. But enough seek out my advice that I've honed my thoughts to a very sharp edge. Obviously, it extends well beyond Portugal. But here goes:
Portugal does not give a fuck about you. Portugal will never give a fuck about you. This is not a resort where you will be welcomed and congratulated. No. No one gives a fuck. No one.
At this point, if they're still listening and haven't thrown their coffee in my face and run off down the street to get away from the bad man, we can have a conversation.
If you treat Portugal as a fresh backdrop for you to be who you already are and do what you already do, without expectation of anointment, then ok. That works. If so, there are two approaches:
1. You can preen in front of the backdrop, extending wine goblet toward camera with a glorious smile, flaunting your golden awesomeness.
You'd better be that person to begin with, because you won't transform into that via the power of make-believe.
2. Or you can lightly enjoy the fresh backdrop, generally keeping up your normal activities, no big deal.
Me, I didn't come here to preen, nor to be transformed into a preener, nor expecting welcome, support, or congratulations. I write, I play music, I cook, I eat, I watch movies, I walk, I ponder. Just like back home, only with great food and weather, low expenses, non-existent crime, and low narcissism (if I avoid American expats). I like the sound of Portuguese and share their sense of humor. I'm not able to gab full spiel, but enough to seem like part of the backdrop, and not some dropped-in astronaut bobbing languorously in zero G. And that's about it. It's not a vacation wonderland, it's just where I live.
No activities director is tasked with stoking my glee. It's more akin to, well, to actual life. It's what you make of it. You've enjoyed a minor refresh, not a systematic reset. Humans don't reset, sorry.
There are other ways to modestly swap in a new backdrop. You might be raising a family, or trying to start an online business, or drinking yourself to death. Just don't expect to become some new you because you're standing in front of a new backdrop. If you are the type who can utter the words "it's like home, but with a new backdrop" without your face falling in aggrieved disappointment, then it might work. If you can say it with amiable perkiness, then you'll be just fine.
Happiness is a simple flip of perspective: Say "This is as good as it gets" without gnashing your teeth or throwing a tantrum or retreating under the covers. Say it with sighing relief and blithe surrender to the moment—which is always lovely if you don't tell yourself stories about it (e.g. deliberately ballasting your happiness via gratuitous lamentation of your late hamster, Freddy).
If you can do that and then swap in a nice new backdrop like Portugal, it's pure delight. If you're ok as you are and where you are, you can drop in a fun new backdrop without demanding that it slake your neurotic thirsts. Being real is always an option. And even in the year of our lord 2026, reality has its rewards.
I've chatted with umpteen Americans who viewed some YouTube video where some preternaturally well couple hoisted goblets of wine toward the camera, inviting them to join them in The Portuguese Lifestyle™ and thought "Yes! I want that!"
"Why not me? Why can't I be the one hoisting my goblet from the golden embrace of Mother Portugal, smiling vibrantly for the envious rabble?'
Entire Facebook groups are devoted to "We're here!" photos of random American couples ebulliently emerging from customs in Lisbon Airport with loads of luggage. It's a big moment for all of us, naturally. They actually call Portugal their "Forever Home", like fairytale princes and princesses set to live happily ever after in a magic kingdom.
If I need to tell you that it will not go well for them, then this essay won't go well for you. But enough seek out my advice that I've honed my thoughts to a very sharp edge. Obviously, it extends well beyond Portugal. But here goes:
Portugal does not give a fuck about you. Portugal will never give a fuck about you. This is not a resort where you will be welcomed and congratulated. No. No one gives a fuck. No one.
At this point, if they're still listening and haven't thrown their coffee in my face and run off down the street to get away from the bad man, we can have a conversation.
If you treat Portugal as a fresh backdrop for you to be who you already are and do what you already do, without expectation of anointment, then ok. That works. If so, there are two approaches:
1. You can preen in front of the backdrop, extending wine goblet toward camera with a glorious smile, flaunting your golden awesomeness.
You'd better be that person to begin with, because you won't transform into that via the power of make-believe.
2. Or you can lightly enjoy the fresh backdrop, generally keeping up your normal activities, no big deal.
Me, I didn't come here to preen, nor to be transformed into a preener, nor expecting welcome, support, or congratulations. I write, I play music, I cook, I eat, I watch movies, I walk, I ponder. Just like back home, only with great food and weather, low expenses, non-existent crime, and low narcissism (if I avoid American expats). I like the sound of Portuguese and share their sense of humor. I'm not able to gab full spiel, but enough to seem like part of the backdrop, and not some dropped-in astronaut bobbing languorously in zero G. And that's about it. It's not a vacation wonderland, it's just where I live.
No activities director is tasked with stoking my glee. It's more akin to, well, to actual life. It's what you make of it. You've enjoyed a minor refresh, not a systematic reset. Humans don't reset, sorry.
There are other ways to modestly swap in a new backdrop. You might be raising a family, or trying to start an online business, or drinking yourself to death. Just don't expect to become some new you because you're standing in front of a new backdrop. If you are the type who can utter the words "it's like home, but with a new backdrop" without your face falling in aggrieved disappointment, then it might work. If you can say it with amiable perkiness, then you'll be just fine.
Happiness is a simple flip of perspective: Say "This is as good as it gets" without gnashing your teeth or throwing a tantrum or retreating under the covers. Say it with sighing relief and blithe surrender to the moment—which is always lovely if you don't tell yourself stories about it (e.g. deliberately ballasting your happiness via gratuitous lamentation of your late hamster, Freddy).
If you can do that and then swap in a nice new backdrop like Portugal, it's pure delight. If you're ok as you are and where you are, you can drop in a fun new backdrop without demanding that it slake your neurotic thirsts. Being real is always an option. And even in the year of our lord 2026, reality has its rewards.
Monday, February 16, 2026
Limping Heroes
When I was younger, if I saw someone limping, or hunched over, or generally struggling to perform normal functions, I'd feel sympathy. But after a few years of battling an almost amusing cavalcade of maladies, my view is transformed. Now I see triumph.
Their public appearance represents triumphant reemergence, not sad deterioration. To me, they look like champions. Celebrities. The struggle to walk requires the resilient determination of a Michael Jordan twisty layup. Both represent achievement past limitation.
There's no one more celebrated than a "Cancer Survivor", but while it certainly beats the alternative, and getting through that pain, grief, and disruption is certainly an accomplishment, such a person mostly just endured. But a limping, wheezing, drooling, and/or mumbling person walking down the sidewalk is an actual hero. You see losing while I see winning. In fact, there is no greater example of winning in the human experience than someone walking who does not take walking for granted. That's way better than whatever you're doing, even if you're going triple-speed.
Dysfunction can be seen through two lenses: 1. failure to be normal, or 2. refusal to be defeated. The defeated are not seen. They're off the table, out of the spotlight. Anyone you can actually see— even sitting forlorn on a plastic chair with cloudy eyes and walker close at hand — has defied defeat. They're not trying and failing to be normal; they're triumphant heroes.
Not "Aren't You Special!" patronized heros.
Not "Hey, buddy, you just ate that cookie like a champ!" heroes.
Bona fide heroes.
I'm mostly not limping most days, and it's been a while since I've needed to shift, mid-step, from "many errands to perform" to "how can I possibly get home without falling down and making a scene?" But when I spot people bravely making that calculation (you don't notice, but now I do), it's like watching a gifted athlete make an amazing play. Whatever they did to get out that door in the first place—overcoming situations severely impeding that escape—is great. The fact that they are out in the sunlight with the rest of us, is wonderful.
Not sad-wonderful.
Not chin-trembling, curve-graded wonderful.
Not "I guess it's come to this..." wonderful.
It's wonderful like a great symphony or a fantastic plate of lasagna or Willie Mays' iconic 1954 World Series over-the-shoulder catch.
Full-on unqualified wonderful...full stop.
ChatGPT insightfully observes: "Anyone upright and ambulatory is already negotiating entropy. Some are just doing it on expert mode."
Their public appearance represents triumphant reemergence, not sad deterioration. To me, they look like champions. Celebrities. The struggle to walk requires the resilient determination of a Michael Jordan twisty layup. Both represent achievement past limitation.
There's no one more celebrated than a "Cancer Survivor", but while it certainly beats the alternative, and getting through that pain, grief, and disruption is certainly an accomplishment, such a person mostly just endured. But a limping, wheezing, drooling, and/or mumbling person walking down the sidewalk is an actual hero. You see losing while I see winning. In fact, there is no greater example of winning in the human experience than someone walking who does not take walking for granted. That's way better than whatever you're doing, even if you're going triple-speed.
Dysfunction can be seen through two lenses: 1. failure to be normal, or 2. refusal to be defeated. The defeated are not seen. They're off the table, out of the spotlight. Anyone you can actually see— even sitting forlorn on a plastic chair with cloudy eyes and walker close at hand — has defied defeat. They're not trying and failing to be normal; they're triumphant heroes.
Not "Aren't You Special!" patronized heros.
Not "Hey, buddy, you just ate that cookie like a champ!" heroes.
Bona fide heroes.
I'm mostly not limping most days, and it's been a while since I've needed to shift, mid-step, from "many errands to perform" to "how can I possibly get home without falling down and making a scene?" But when I spot people bravely making that calculation (you don't notice, but now I do), it's like watching a gifted athlete make an amazing play. Whatever they did to get out that door in the first place—overcoming situations severely impeding that escape—is great. The fact that they are out in the sunlight with the rest of us, is wonderful.
Not sad-wonderful.
Not chin-trembling, curve-graded wonderful.
Not "I guess it's come to this..." wonderful.
It's wonderful like a great symphony or a fantastic plate of lasagna or Willie Mays' iconic 1954 World Series over-the-shoulder catch.
Full-on unqualified wonderful...full stop.
ChatGPT insightfully observes: "Anyone upright and ambulatory is already negotiating entropy. Some are just doing it on expert mode."
Sunday, February 15, 2026
The Janitor
Hiya.
I'm the janitor,
just as you suspected.
Not from my uniform,
as I'm dressed unremarkably.
Nor some badge,
because I'm not in your org chart.
See, I know the building,
The whole thing,
Including the crawl space.
So, so much crawl space.
You remain occupied,
with bold dreams,
scarcely registering enclosure
with such boldness to pursue.
The audacity feels real,
The building mundane.
Little stuff.
No match for aspiration and triumph.
Me, I'm earthy.
Simple.
Far less than captivating.
And yet...impertinent.
Not that I'm rude.
Oh, no, never that.
But I lack deference
Toward my betters.
The higher floors are HIGHER floors
While I'm consigned to basement—
Yet am at ease everywhere,
Which seems weird.
I'm never seen sweeping,
Mopping or fixing.
Though my presence
can be oddly reassuring.
Who is this guy,
Simple and floating,
Rolling his eyes in mild amusement,
While you all contain multitudes?
I'm the janitor,
just as you suspected.
Not from my uniform,
as I'm dressed unremarkably.
Nor some badge,
because I'm not in your org chart.
See, I know the building,
The whole thing,
Including the crawl space.
So, so much crawl space.
You remain occupied,
with bold dreams,
scarcely registering enclosure
with such boldness to pursue.
The audacity feels real,
The building mundane.
Little stuff.
No match for aspiration and triumph.
Me, I'm earthy.
Simple.
Far less than captivating.
And yet...impertinent.
Not that I'm rude.
Oh, no, never that.
But I lack deference
Toward my betters.
The higher floors are HIGHER floors
While I'm consigned to basement—
Yet am at ease everywhere,
Which seems weird.
I'm never seen sweeping,
Mopping or fixing.
Though my presence
can be oddly reassuring.
Who is this guy,
Simple and floating,
Rolling his eyes in mild amusement,
While you all contain multitudes?
Thursday, February 12, 2026
The Puffy Parkas of Portugal
It's 72 degrees and the sun is shining for the first time in weeks (literally), yet all my neighbors are shuffling around in puffy parkas. And I kind of love it.
I'm in polo shirt and cords, and they're all gaping at the crazy foreigner, and I deeply enjoy the whole situation. Let me map it out:
The fact that spring starts here in mid-February is a nice fact to add to the spreadsheet of positive things about (southern) Portugal. And while the parka thing may not strike you as a significant decision factor, tiny stuff like this is what counts, not spreadsheet facts.
What can I say? I'm a devoted practitioner of nano-aesthetics.
I'm in polo shirt and cords, and they're all gaping at the crazy foreigner, and I deeply enjoy the whole situation. Let me map it out:
I'm finally warm, which is great.Humans are irrational, even more so than they realize. And since sanity is not an option, one must seek the sort of irrationality one finds adorable. It's not that they're still cold. It's that they can't quite let go of the suffering so quickly.
They're warm, too, so I'm in no position to gloat.
Yet they're in parkas, which tickles me.
Triple win!
The fact that spring starts here in mid-February is a nice fact to add to the spreadsheet of positive things about (southern) Portugal. And while the parka thing may not strike you as a significant decision factor, tiny stuff like this is what counts, not spreadsheet facts.
What can I say? I'm a devoted practitioner of nano-aesthetics.
Monday, February 9, 2026
Prediction
A prediction for the end of the decade, and I think it's dead-on.
When Democrats take power after the Republicans are trounced and repudiated (if that sounds unlikely, you haven't been watching polling and special elections), they must seek Republican support as they restore institutions, treaties, alliances, norms, etc.
It won't be hard to get, because most of them quietly value that stuff, anyway, and they'll have incentive to try to look reasonable.
Anything not restored in a bipartisan way will be cemented as a partisan juggling ball, and be wiped clear again whenever Republicans return to power. At which point everything will have broken irredeemably, and no American alliance or treaty will ever be taken seriously to the end of Time.
The problem is that the next Democratic administration—likely elected via a very clear mandate—will make the classic mistake of imagining permanent rule. And so progressives will scream their heads off if the administration invites even a whiff of Republican participation.
So we're basically screwed.
When Democrats take power after the Republicans are trounced and repudiated (if that sounds unlikely, you haven't been watching polling and special elections), they must seek Republican support as they restore institutions, treaties, alliances, norms, etc.
It won't be hard to get, because most of them quietly value that stuff, anyway, and they'll have incentive to try to look reasonable.
Anything not restored in a bipartisan way will be cemented as a partisan juggling ball, and be wiped clear again whenever Republicans return to power. At which point everything will have broken irredeemably, and no American alliance or treaty will ever be taken seriously to the end of Time.
The problem is that the next Democratic administration—likely elected via a very clear mandate—will make the classic mistake of imagining permanent rule. And so progressives will scream their heads off if the administration invites even a whiff of Republican participation.
So we're basically screwed.
Friday, February 6, 2026
Dark Matter
There is nothing in Big Bang theory to rule out the notion of artifacts lingering from before the Big Bang. Cosmologists are in the habit of using the term "everything" here, but that's out of semantic convention rather than scientific necessity.
It is possible, though extremely improbable, that dark matter is an artifact from pre-big bang. There is nothing to support this, but there's nothing (to my knowledge or a chatbot's) to disqualify it, either.
It's impossible to imagine how anything could escape the singularity and the bang. But at this point, whatever dark matter is will be extremely unimaginable, because it doesn't seem to fit at all into anything we know (we've been working hard at it for decades, with literally no advance). Whatever it turns out to be will be highly unlikely and probably tear some big chunk of our understanding.
So if it's not as I suggest (and it almost surely isn't), it will be something equally outrageous. And once you pass a certain point of improbability, strange things happen. I wrote a paper on this (PDF link).
When there are no logical alternatives, moons really might be made of green cheese (to paraphrase the old logician's phrase). Past a certain threshold, it's most logical to ask "cheddar or stilton?"
It is possible, though extremely improbable, that dark matter is an artifact from pre-big bang. There is nothing to support this, but there's nothing (to my knowledge or a chatbot's) to disqualify it, either.
It's impossible to imagine how anything could escape the singularity and the bang. But at this point, whatever dark matter is will be extremely unimaginable, because it doesn't seem to fit at all into anything we know (we've been working hard at it for decades, with literally no advance). Whatever it turns out to be will be highly unlikely and probably tear some big chunk of our understanding.
So if it's not as I suggest (and it almost surely isn't), it will be something equally outrageous. And once you pass a certain point of improbability, strange things happen. I wrote a paper on this (PDF link).
When there are no logical alternatives, moons really might be made of green cheese (to paraphrase the old logician's phrase). Past a certain threshold, it's most logical to ask "cheddar or stilton?"
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