I've struck upon the ideal framing for aging:
Try to squeeze all the toothpaste out of the tube.
That's it. Don't complicate further. Just that.
All postings on aging, in reverse-chronological order
Monday, March 23, 2026
Sunday, March 22, 2026
Backing Up to Proceed
Many of the deepest and most persistent mysteries of the human world resolve with baffling ease if you simply back up an inch before proceeding.
- The term “soul” was invented by poseurs to identify the mysterious and unobservable part that’s not posing.
- Tai chi is the practice of embodying the natural flow one normally pretends not to be a part of.
- Spirituality is the process of learning to recognize and identify with the immutable subjectivity you are, rather than with the ever-changing persona you've been pretending (merely for kicks, at first) to portray.
- Here's why a loving, munificent god lets kids get cancer, and all the rest of the horrors: It's because we want it that way.
Saturday, March 21, 2026
Misgivings
I had misgivings about posting yesterday's essay about sharpening comprehension and intuition via winnowing.
An epidemic has arisen out of isolation and narcissism stoked via the unholy trinity of devices, social media, and COVID quarantine: we prioritize our gut impressions, our flip assumptions, and our baseless conjecture above all else.
An epidemic has arisen out of isolation and narcissism stoked via the unholy trinity of devices, social media, and COVID quarantine: we prioritize our gut impressions, our flip assumptions, and our baseless conjecture above all else.
So a superficial read of my posting might make people think I'm urging everyone to trust their visceral impulses even more.
But even having explained this, the brutish will read my essay and shout "EXACTLY!"
The world is not complex or subtle or surprising. You're fully on top of it, standing triumphantly astride the landscape, so stand confident, eschew subtlety, and go with your gut!No. None of that. There is a vast difference between 1. Cursory dismissal of subtlety and surprise while brutishly elevating your ditzy mental noise, and 2. Canny, sensitive pruning of irrelevant choices in order to escape a state of confusion.
But even having explained this, the brutish will read my essay and shout "EXACTLY!"
Wednesday, March 18, 2026
Confusion Isn’t Infinity, it’s Twelve (or Three)
I'm reposting this from May 2025. It's not just a whimsical reflection, or some sort of allegory. And it's not really about music. It's a key. Not useful for everyone, but those moved to sit with it will find value here.
All professional musicians go through ear training. This is where they develop the ability to play back melodies, or write them out in musical notation, using only their ears. It's daunting for newbies, and while you'd imagine it gets easier with practice—and it does—the real key is reframing:
There are not infinite notes. There are only twelve.
This is a huge—and hugely useful—realization. What's more, these twelve notes are your friends. We've all heard all the notes umpteen zillion times. They are few, and they are eminently familiar. Like old friends.
Twelve is much much less than infinity. To be adrift amid twelve is a whole other predicament. You're already much closer to your goal, without a minute of practice.
But wait. Unless you're tone deaf, you can easily tell a small musical jump from a large one. So you don't need to consider all twelve notes each time. Even a wild guess will land you within a half-step or so. So you're really considering more like three notes. Not infinity. Not twelve. Three!
Like magic, ear training is transformed from an advanced skill to a matter of choosing between three candidates.
A year after moving to a place like Portugal, one easily handles everyday encounters—ordering lunch, asking for directions, etc. I order with such casual aplomb that you might imagine I speak fluent Portuguese. But my problem is exceptions. If the waitress returns to ask—in rapid-fire Portuguese between bubblegum pops—"I'm totally sorry but the oven's on the fritz and we can't like do roast potatoes do you want a different side dish or whatever just lemme know what you want ok", I'm dead.
But the move is to recognize that you're not swimming in infinity. The waitress is not reminding you to change your car's oil. And she's not reporting Taylor Swift's latest song drop. Nor is she informing you that Komodo dragons mate asexually. The infinity in which you imagine yourself drowning is a false perception. There are probably more like twelve possibilities. Three, really, if you're reasonably focused, watch body language, and parse a few muttered, clipped, vernacular words.
Context is a Thing. It's nature's own constraining device, if you'll merely consider it.
If you muster the clarity to register that you're in a restaurant, and she's a waitress, and something happened in the kitchen—or en route thereto—to make her reverse course and come speak words at you, then even rudimentary language skills should take you the final mile, more or less. No more than a half-step away.
I still find this planet confusing, but it feels like a tidy pool of friendly options—severely winnowed by context, which is where I focus my attention. Even heavy confusion doesn't feel like an oppression of infinity. At most, it's 12. Or, realistically, 3.
All professional musicians go through ear training. This is where they develop the ability to play back melodies, or write them out in musical notation, using only their ears. It's daunting for newbies, and while you'd imagine it gets easier with practice—and it does—the real key is reframing:
There are not infinite notes. There are only twelve.
This is a huge—and hugely useful—realization. What's more, these twelve notes are your friends. We've all heard all the notes umpteen zillion times. They are few, and they are eminently familiar. Like old friends.
Twelve is much much less than infinity. To be adrift amid twelve is a whole other predicament. You're already much closer to your goal, without a minute of practice.
But wait. Unless you're tone deaf, you can easily tell a small musical jump from a large one. So you don't need to consider all twelve notes each time. Even a wild guess will land you within a half-step or so. So you're really considering more like three notes. Not infinity. Not twelve. Three!
Like magic, ear training is transformed from an advanced skill to a matter of choosing between three candidates.
INFINITY -> TWELVE -> THREE -> ONEThere are innumerable scenarios where we feel awash in infinite possibilities. That's what "confusion" is. That's what it is to be "overwhelmed" or "ignorant". Massive, daunting unknowability is a familiar human condition. And perhaps needless, if you shift perspective.
That's the geometrical progression to hone in on.
A year after moving to a place like Portugal, one easily handles everyday encounters—ordering lunch, asking for directions, etc. I order with such casual aplomb that you might imagine I speak fluent Portuguese. But my problem is exceptions. If the waitress returns to ask—in rapid-fire Portuguese between bubblegum pops—"I'm totally sorry but the oven's on the fritz and we can't like do roast potatoes do you want a different side dish or whatever just lemme know what you want ok", I'm dead.
But the move is to recognize that you're not swimming in infinity. The waitress is not reminding you to change your car's oil. And she's not reporting Taylor Swift's latest song drop. Nor is she informing you that Komodo dragons mate asexually. The infinity in which you imagine yourself drowning is a false perception. There are probably more like twelve possibilities. Three, really, if you're reasonably focused, watch body language, and parse a few muttered, clipped, vernacular words.
Context is a Thing. It's nature's own constraining device, if you'll merely consider it.
Like every life strategy, the dealkiller for most people is the notion of paying any attention at all. The waitress must be an entirely real person for you, with recognizable and empathetic drives and processes. You need to show up and be present in reality.The first move in any confusing situation is to fully register context, and let it calm and focus you. One can drastically trim down "infinity" to cull a manageable set of possibilities.
If you muster the clarity to register that you're in a restaurant, and she's a waitress, and something happened in the kitchen—or en route thereto—to make her reverse course and come speak words at you, then even rudimentary language skills should take you the final mile, more or less. No more than a half-step away.
I still find this planet confusing, but it feels like a tidy pool of friendly options—severely winnowed by context, which is where I focus my attention. Even heavy confusion doesn't feel like an oppression of infinity. At most, it's 12. Or, realistically, 3.
Monday, March 16, 2026
Celebrating Allies' Refusal to Aid
Reactions to Trump's call for help to secure Strait of Hormuz:
Being profoundly anti-Trump, and recognizing the attack on Iran as an effort to drown out Epstein revelations, performed in a way to make freedom-seeking Iranians cling to their regime and recharge the bitter anti-American hatred that fueled their revolution, these reactions from foreign countries give me a heady rush of pleasure. Even leaving aside the deserved comeuppance after a year of spitting in allies’ faces for no reason beyond juvenile posturing.
However, when Republicans consorted with foreign governments to foil Obama's foreign policy, I was enraged by their anti-Americanism. And I've got a character flaw: I can't do the clean-wipe brainwashing my fellow citizens, both left right, have mastered. I repel from hypocrisy. Not just in my withering view of Them Out There, but in Me In Here. I hold myself to the same standard. I've got a screw loose.
Allies are steadfastly refusing to help the United States out of a predicament, and the left feels the same delight I feel, but they're gushing over it. They're basking. As if there were no other possible side to the story.
I wish there were a way to resolve 1: my insistence that citizens—while always free to disagree—must never work against American foreign policy or delight in its thwarting with 2: my thirst for this Iranian "excursion" to be thwarted, and my delight over allies’ refusal to help.
There's no answer —no right behavior—because the morality is upstream from our present moment, so all we can do presently is struggle in tempestuous effluent. The moral decision-making is behind us. We've sealed our fate and forced our hand. So at this point I can only shout backwards:
Poor people don't need glory, they need food and safety. We've got those things, so glory's the sole objective. Trump represents one sort of cosplay glory, while the progressive left palpably thirsts for a demagogue of its own.
Will we ping-pong, or will we moderate? Americans were always known to course correct toward moderation, but we may have broken the bungee cord.
JAPAN Japan does not currently plan to dispatch naval vessels to escort ships in the Middle East, Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi said on Monday.AUSTRALIA Australia will not send naval ships to assist in reopening the Strait of Hormuz, a government minister said on Monday.BRITAIN Prime Minister Keir Starmer said on Monday he would not be "drawn into the wider Iran war" whilst reiterating he was working with allies to reopen the Strait.EUROPEAN UNION EU foreign ministers will on Monday discuss bolstering a small naval mission in the Middle East but they are not expected to discuss expanding its role to include the choked-off Strait, diplomats and officials say.GERMANY Defence Minister Boris Pistorius said on Monday that Germany would not participate with its military in securing the Strait. "What does Trump expect from a handful of European frigates that the powerful U.S. Navy cannot do? This is not our war, we have not started it," Pistorius said.ITALY Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani said on Monday that diplomacy was the right way to solve the crisis in the Strait, adding there were no naval missions Italy was involved in that could be extended to the area.GREECE A government spokesperson said on Monday that Greece would not engage in military operations in the Strait of Hormuz.
Being profoundly anti-Trump, and recognizing the attack on Iran as an effort to drown out Epstein revelations, performed in a way to make freedom-seeking Iranians cling to their regime and recharge the bitter anti-American hatred that fueled their revolution, these reactions from foreign countries give me a heady rush of pleasure. Even leaving aside the deserved comeuppance after a year of spitting in allies’ faces for no reason beyond juvenile posturing.
However, when Republicans consorted with foreign governments to foil Obama's foreign policy, I was enraged by their anti-Americanism. And I've got a character flaw: I can't do the clean-wipe brainwashing my fellow citizens, both left right, have mastered. I repel from hypocrisy. Not just in my withering view of Them Out There, but in Me In Here. I hold myself to the same standard. I've got a screw loose.
Allies are steadfastly refusing to help the United States out of a predicament, and the left feels the same delight I feel, but they're gushing over it. They're basking. As if there were no other possible side to the story.
I wish there were a way to resolve 1: my insistence that citizens—while always free to disagree—must never work against American foreign policy or delight in its thwarting with 2: my thirst for this Iranian "excursion" to be thwarted, and my delight over allies’ refusal to help.
There's no answer —no right behavior—because the morality is upstream from our present moment, so all we can do presently is struggle in tempestuous effluent. The moral decision-making is behind us. We've sealed our fate and forced our hand. So at this point I can only shout backwards:
Don't eagerly defy norms. Don't be extreme. Stay moderate. If you find a politician (be it a Trump or a Bernie) vowing to tear it all down and rebuild from scratch in a way that feels satisfying to your more visceral thirsts, lean away from that movement, regardless of any agreement with policy proposals or tribal signalings. Stop seeking personal satisfaction in politics. Build a government that's competent, mild, and boring, even if you don't agree with everything and don't want to have a beer with the person in charge and s/he doesn't look/talk/seem like you. Find some other mirror to peer into!We didn't (and won't) take that route because we're bored haughty aristocrats who have, alas, upgraded to luxury politics. Our stories must be tales of glory, leaving us feeling staked—or, even better, victimized.
Poor people don't need glory, they need food and safety. We've got those things, so glory's the sole objective. Trump represents one sort of cosplay glory, while the progressive left palpably thirsts for a demagogue of its own.
Will we ping-pong, or will we moderate? Americans were always known to course correct toward moderation, but we may have broken the bungee cord.
Tuesday, March 10, 2026
The Pain of Success
A restaurateur is doing great work at steep odds into a headwind with inadequate support in a poor economy with loads and loads of potential customers who simply don't get it. As her adrenal glands prove sickeningly inadequate long-term engines, she's beginning to panic. So I sent her this:
I understand that you feel like you're holding up the whole world. You're running a one-person operation, juggling more pieces than anyone could competently handle, so pieces keep dropping. You are tortured by the growing sense that you can't possibly keep this up for much longer. Let me share what I learned when I was forced to juggle more pieces than I could handle with my internal organs screeching deep survival signals that this is not viable.
I never grew comfortable with the balls I was forced to drop, which was why I never stopped trying not to drop them even though there was no choice. I never stopped aiming for perfection even while acknowledging its impossibility. And it never stopped feeling like torture. The survival signal blasted day and night.
Having spoken to a bunch of other people who've done one-man impossible things, I understand that this is How It Is. We all vary in our tolerance level to howling survival signals, but no one ever for a moment imagines it as long-term viable. Yet some persist. The ones who don't quit. The locos who keep going.
Failure becomes something to reduce and manage, not to eliminate, even while paradoxically shooting for perfection. To a perfectionist (and only perfectionists get this far) it's exquisite torture, and it's hard to do your best work under such conditions. Many would imagine it impossible, but that's why most people don't run great restaurants or do groundbreaking work. They dismiss even the possibility. And that's not unreasonable!
Greatness is rare. Groundbreaking is rare. When you spot it, there's always some tortured schmuck somewhere, fraught over inevitable failure. The quality of what they turn out stems not from superhuman competency. They've just learned to stabilize in chaos, and stick with circumstances that would make most people run screaming for the hills. They don't flinch.
They don't flinch.
This all might seem grandiose, so let me hastily point out that I'm also describing parenthood. At least, the good parents. And there actually are good ones! I've even met a few!
A parent can't control every detail, and must persist, in perpetuity, with very high standards inside an agonizing failure engine. The predicament is not so unfamiliar after all!
Of course, most people are horrible parents, "sticking with it" only in the most dialed-in sense, and with perfectionism long-abandoned if ever present. Nominally committed, they either draw very hard lines to forcibly try to stave off failure (think supermax prison management) or else shrug into lassez faire, figuring the children will find their way. The golden ability to hate failure...while accepting failure...while guarding against future failure...while knowing failure will happen anyway...and not flinching, is not common.
Great parents willingly stick with the impossible, declining the escape routes of supermax wardenhood or resigned wraithhood. Impossibly high standards somehow persist along with a grounded recognition that they're a distant and unattainable mirage. It's torture, but they focus not on the local climate, but on the doing. Unflinchingly.
If all this seems too horrific to consider, then don't have kids, don't open restaurants, and don't try to be a groundbreaker. At the other extreme, if you imagine you have what it takes to simply plow right through and make it all work, I hope I've splashed cold water over your cartoonishly false view. You're not so indomitable. No one is. There will be failure and there will be torture, but also perhaps a great result—for others, at least, as you hang your head in shame for the failure filling your visual field.
You can't accomplish while escaping adversity, and you can't endure adversity without unceasing survival warnings. Panic, even. The trick is to stop flinching. That's all. Keep doing what you're doing, but stop flinching.
So all this, really, was to reassure you that you're in good company and that all is well. Carry on!
I understand that you feel like you're holding up the whole world. You're running a one-person operation, juggling more pieces than anyone could competently handle, so pieces keep dropping. You are tortured by the growing sense that you can't possibly keep this up for much longer. Let me share what I learned when I was forced to juggle more pieces than I could handle with my internal organs screeching deep survival signals that this is not viable.
I never grew comfortable with the balls I was forced to drop, which was why I never stopped trying not to drop them even though there was no choice. I never stopped aiming for perfection even while acknowledging its impossibility. And it never stopped feeling like torture. The survival signal blasted day and night.
Having spoken to a bunch of other people who've done one-man impossible things, I understand that this is How It Is. We all vary in our tolerance level to howling survival signals, but no one ever for a moment imagines it as long-term viable. Yet some persist. The ones who don't quit. The locos who keep going.
Failure becomes something to reduce and manage, not to eliminate, even while paradoxically shooting for perfection. To a perfectionist (and only perfectionists get this far) it's exquisite torture, and it's hard to do your best work under such conditions. Many would imagine it impossible, but that's why most people don't run great restaurants or do groundbreaking work. They dismiss even the possibility. And that's not unreasonable!
Greatness is rare. Groundbreaking is rare. When you spot it, there's always some tortured schmuck somewhere, fraught over inevitable failure. The quality of what they turn out stems not from superhuman competency. They've just learned to stabilize in chaos, and stick with circumstances that would make most people run screaming for the hills. They don't flinch.
They don't flinch.
This all might seem grandiose, so let me hastily point out that I'm also describing parenthood. At least, the good parents. And there actually are good ones! I've even met a few!
A parent can't control every detail, and must persist, in perpetuity, with very high standards inside an agonizing failure engine. The predicament is not so unfamiliar after all!
Of course, most people are horrible parents, "sticking with it" only in the most dialed-in sense, and with perfectionism long-abandoned if ever present. Nominally committed, they either draw very hard lines to forcibly try to stave off failure (think supermax prison management) or else shrug into lassez faire, figuring the children will find their way. The golden ability to hate failure...while accepting failure...while guarding against future failure...while knowing failure will happen anyway...and not flinching, is not common.
Great parents willingly stick with the impossible, declining the escape routes of supermax wardenhood or resigned wraithhood. Impossibly high standards somehow persist along with a grounded recognition that they're a distant and unattainable mirage. It's torture, but they focus not on the local climate, but on the doing. Unflinchingly.
If all this seems too horrific to consider, then don't have kids, don't open restaurants, and don't try to be a groundbreaker. At the other extreme, if you imagine you have what it takes to simply plow right through and make it all work, I hope I've splashed cold water over your cartoonishly false view. You're not so indomitable. No one is. There will be failure and there will be torture, but also perhaps a great result—for others, at least, as you hang your head in shame for the failure filling your visual field.
You can't accomplish while escaping adversity, and you can't endure adversity without unceasing survival warnings. Panic, even. The trick is to stop flinching. That's all. Keep doing what you're doing, but stop flinching.
So all this, really, was to reassure you that you're in good company and that all is well. Carry on!
Monday, March 9, 2026
'Better'
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 performing jazz in bars, I was calibrated like a Swiss timepiece to precisely gauge 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 understand 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, eyes, ankles, feet, and shoulders 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.
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 performing jazz in bars, I was calibrated like a Swiss timepiece to precisely gauge 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 understand 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, eyes, ankles, feet, and shoulders 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.
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.
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