Everything actually is you, but in order to feel that, you need to integrate what you've needlessly rejected and separated yourself from. And we can conceive of that as Christ.
I think everyone could potentially get behind that. Even atheists.
Monday, October 5, 2026
Christianity
Everything actually is you, but in order to feel that, you need to integrate what you've needlessly rejected and separated yourself from. And we can conceive of that as Christ.
I think everyone could potentially get behind that. Even atheists.
Saturday, October 3, 2026
Steal This Bait!
Back in the golden era of Chowhound, when it was cranking with great tips, and thousands of experts stood ready to generously answer any question, I would occasionally take a moment to feel satisfaction. This monster was the ultimate answer machine, more useful than any food info trove previously imagined.
But those moments were short-lived, because I had friends who knew how good Chowhound was, and how much work it took, and how little juice I had left over, who'd email me to ask "Hey, Jim, I'm going to Prague. Where's good?"
It drove me nuts. I'd spent 10,000 hours, all my savings, and the majority of my hairline building a machine to answer such questions far better than I could. But they figured, being friends of mine, they could do even better by scoring a tip from the man himself. You know: the good stuff!
I might have never been to Prague. And if I had, it was likely years ago. And I certainly don't have comprehensive knowledge of the place. Plus, I'm exhausted! Exhausted from building a divination engine standing ready to answer your question nearly as well as it could possibly be answered, all for free! But it's like none of that ever happened. The machine was hand-waved into irrelevance.
I'd explain how it didn't really work that way; that one inherently limited dude couldn't possibly compete with the aggregated knowledge of a million insanely devoted chowhounds. But they’d hear only dismissal. Mr. Food Celeb has no time for you.
The truth, of course, was that it felt like too much damned work to consult the divination engine. It had removed the need to buy and read guidebooks, or to shlep around endlessly. But checking a web site was still too much effort. Baby chicks agitatedly await mama bird's sweet, sweet vomit.
Remember the scene in the Jetsons where Jane pushes a button, launching a fleet of vacuuming, dusting, and cleaning robots, and then mops her brow in exhaustion from all the housework? Props to Hanna-Barbera.
Nowadays I get messages from acquaintances who've caught a Slog posting or two, or teasers on social media, and imagine I might have some insight re: sanely surviving the whole human-life-on-earth thing. They want to get together and "talk." I know what will follow: "Explain framing!" "Tell me useful stories!" You know, exactly what I've been knocking myself out to do here all this time.
I tell them that I've spent a lifetime pondering and eighteen years struggling to articulate my observations as clearly — and as entertainingly! — as possible. But they imagine that I merely dash this stuff off ("Fun blog, buddy!"), which is insane. No, I write dozens or hundreds of drafts each time until the writing is as clear and sharp as possible.
Just as Chowhound was a passionate kiss for food lovers, this is the very best I can do at making accessible the very best I can do. If you can't parse the effort, it's because I've applied still greater effort to make it effortless. Because that's how proper kisses work.
I've labored to develop whatever I have to offer into a form that's eons better than my raw output as some hapless blabbing dude. And, as with Chowhound, the thing I built must be worth something, or they wouldn't be approaching me!
But approach me they do, unhappy with my demurral.
But those moments were short-lived, because I had friends who knew how good Chowhound was, and how much work it took, and how little juice I had left over, who'd email me to ask "Hey, Jim, I'm going to Prague. Where's good?"
It drove me nuts. I'd spent 10,000 hours, all my savings, and the majority of my hairline building a machine to answer such questions far better than I could. But they figured, being friends of mine, they could do even better by scoring a tip from the man himself. You know: the good stuff!
I might have never been to Prague. And if I had, it was likely years ago. And I certainly don't have comprehensive knowledge of the place. Plus, I'm exhausted! Exhausted from building a divination engine standing ready to answer your question nearly as well as it could possibly be answered, all for free! But it's like none of that ever happened. The machine was hand-waved into irrelevance.
"Fun web site, buddy. Now tell me where to find pizza. I'm a VIP."I'd go round and round with them, but their response was always the same: "Sure, sure, I get it, Jim, but just give me one tip. One fabulous tip! Like only you can do!"
I'd explain how it didn't really work that way; that one inherently limited dude couldn't possibly compete with the aggregated knowledge of a million insanely devoted chowhounds. But they’d hear only dismissal. Mr. Food Celeb has no time for you.
The truth, of course, was that it felt like too much damned work to consult the divination engine. It had removed the need to buy and read guidebooks, or to shlep around endlessly. But checking a web site was still too much effort. Baby chicks agitatedly await mama bird's sweet, sweet vomit.
Remember the scene in the Jetsons where Jane pushes a button, launching a fleet of vacuuming, dusting, and cleaning robots, and then mops her brow in exhaustion from all the housework? Props to Hanna-Barbera.
Nowadays I get messages from acquaintances who've caught a Slog posting or two, or teasers on social media, and imagine I might have some insight re: sanely surviving the whole human-life-on-earth thing. They want to get together and "talk." I know what will follow: "Explain framing!" "Tell me useful stories!" You know, exactly what I've been knocking myself out to do here all this time.
I tell them that I've spent a lifetime pondering and eighteen years struggling to articulate my observations as clearly — and as entertainingly! — as possible. But they imagine that I merely dash this stuff off ("Fun blog, buddy!"), which is insane. No, I write dozens or hundreds of drafts each time until the writing is as clear and sharp as possible.
Just as Chowhound was a passionate kiss for food lovers, this is the very best I can do at making accessible the very best I can do. If you can't parse the effort, it's because I've applied still greater effort to make it effortless. Because that's how proper kisses work.
I've labored to develop whatever I have to offer into a form that's eons better than my raw output as some hapless blabbing dude. And, as with Chowhound, the thing I built must be worth something, or they wouldn't be approaching me!
But approach me they do, unhappy with my demurral.
C'mon, Jim. Just shortcut me to the good stuff.Again, reading takes effort. But if they dove in, for even an hour or two, they'd likely catch the drift and be on their way to surpassing my own insight. In fact, that's the point! I'm not here to show off what I figured out. Like with Chowhound, my hope is for people to steal the bait, leaving me irrelevant! But the raw, simple sincerity of that proposition seems to make people chase a hidden greater win.
Friday, October 2, 2026
Declining Haughty Gamesmanship in Favor of Butterscotch
In my previous posting, "The Rip-Off", I described how I won — along every conceivable parameter, really — while making the most loser-ish real estate move possible. I claimed that this changed everything. But I just remembered that I learned this move ages ago.
A dysfunctional girlfriend who constantly complained about everyone in her life being out to destroy her accidentally sent me an email intended for her best friend, in which, to my non-surprise, she described me as out to destroy her (when, in fact, I'd spent years working strenuously to fill her with the same vitality and love as I was lavishing on my young web site). Coming after a long series of hair-raising indignities, my patience was exhausted and I severed contact.
Some time later, I mentioned on Chowhound how sad I was that butterscotch had become an endangered flavor, and a package arrived shortly afterwards containing butterscotch candies. I don't remember if there was a note or return address, but it was obvious who'd sent them.
The normal thing to do would have been to snidely throw them in the trash. "Good riddance!" That's the movie scene, right?
But that seemed like a waste of perfectly good butterscotch, so I kept the candy, I ate the candy, and I enjoyed the hell out of the candy noncontextually. It was pretty easy, really. You can choose this outcome, though you’ll never see it in movies. It's a reframing thing.
The moment of realizing my freedom to reject the conventional movie script was similar to another time I recognized that I'm not compelled to play out cinematic clichés at fraught junctures.
I'm free to frame as I'd like. The candy was delicious. My apartment is great. I suppose this sounds selfish, like I always go for high-testosterone wins regardless of circumstance. But nothing like that. If I can win without creating losers, and the movie script says I'd lose by "giving ground", I'll gleefully give all the ground in the world...and take my win. Consideration for others ought to be reserved for generosity, not haughty gamesmanship — and certainly not haughty gamesmanship that leaves me needlessly worse off. Why not just eat the damn candy?
A dysfunctional girlfriend who constantly complained about everyone in her life being out to destroy her accidentally sent me an email intended for her best friend, in which, to my non-surprise, she described me as out to destroy her (when, in fact, I'd spent years working strenuously to fill her with the same vitality and love as I was lavishing on my young web site). Coming after a long series of hair-raising indignities, my patience was exhausted and I severed contact.
Some time later, I mentioned on Chowhound how sad I was that butterscotch had become an endangered flavor, and a package arrived shortly afterwards containing butterscotch candies. I don't remember if there was a note or return address, but it was obvious who'd sent them.
The normal thing to do would have been to snidely throw them in the trash. "Good riddance!" That's the movie scene, right?
But that seemed like a waste of perfectly good butterscotch, so I kept the candy, I ate the candy, and I enjoyed the hell out of the candy noncontextually. It was pretty easy, really. You can choose this outcome, though you’ll never see it in movies. It's a reframing thing.
The moment of realizing my freedom to reject the conventional movie script was similar to another time I recognized that I'm not compelled to play out cinematic clichés at fraught junctures.
I'm free to frame as I'd like. The candy was delicious. My apartment is great. I suppose this sounds selfish, like I always go for high-testosterone wins regardless of circumstance. But nothing like that. If I can win without creating losers, and the movie script says I'd lose by "giving ground", I'll gleefully give all the ground in the world...and take my win. Consideration for others ought to be reserved for generosity, not haughty gamesmanship — and certainly not haughty gamesmanship that leaves me needlessly worse off. Why not just eat the damn candy?
Thursday, October 1, 2026
The Rip-Off
I'd planned to spend my first months in Portugal renting a room from two of my dearest, oldest friends, but they turned out to be late-stage alcoholics who flipped between two modes:
1. "We hate that you're here and hope you drop dead", and 2. "Why are you so skittish around us? What's wrong with you? We're your friends and we love you!"
I found every excuse to get away: travel, chowhounding (familiarizing myself with every restaurant south of Lisbon and north of Alentejo), park visits and cafe hangs, but I discovered (this is actually useful information!) that you cannot fill up all 168 hours of a week like that. So I spent 6-8 hours a day sitting in my car. There was a tree I liked, so I parked in front of it. Good times!
I had to accelerate efforts to find my own place, so I auditioned a series of realtors, each worse than the last. As ditzy as they may be in USA, here it's worse. They're like used car salesmen. There's no code of conduct local realtors even pretend to uphold. I settled on a French guy, a moody chainsmoker who, once I'd signed on, didn't conceal his contempt. His cracked phone screen showed how desperately he needed his commission. At every gross place he showed me, he'd stare at me, willing me via psi-powers. Please buy. Please. You want this.
My living situation had become unlivable, so Frenchie found me a rental which turned out to be adjacent to a marble cutter, who started at 7am, the whole house shaking and fine stone dust pluming, triggering asthma that hadn't recurred in decades. This is how you force a client to buy ASAP. Clever Frenchie!
In my haggard state, I managed to mess up my ankle and could barely walk. And just around then began a series of food-borne illnesses (I'd developed an inability to fight off campylobacter) which eventually stripped 45 pounds off of me, leaving me dehydrated to the point where my kidneys filled with tiny stones.
Half-dead — and inclined to use my remaining energy to drown the realtor — we walked quite unexpectedly into a soulful, super-nice, perfect apartment. But it was 70,000€ too expensive, and the owner shrewdly noticed that I was geared up about it and refused to budge. For weeks. I actually begged at one point, but no dice. My realtor was so galled that he actually counseled me—against his own interest!— to keep looking. Everyone in my life begged me to tell the owner to go to Hell. There are other apartments, after all!
Nope. I bought it.
The owner couldn't stop grinning at the closing as I limped around coughing and making bathroom detours. But I bought, moved in, and swiftly began recovering, and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. I now live in a soulful, utterly comfortable apartment which, after three years, has appreciated above its sale price. A win by any standard. Asthma's better, stomach is mostly sorted, and Señora Vanessa is making great progress on my ankles.
I don't know many people who'd have bought. They'd keep viewing properties with the contemptuous Frenchman, limping, coughing, and faint from a diet of white rice and toast. The price was WAY too high, the owner was WAY too much of a prick, and this was a scene you'd have been delighted to walk away from...even though it was a really great apartment.
But that last part was the only part that mattered for me.
I can't say it involved any high-mindedness. I didn't forgive anyone, or keep a "positive attitude". I merely followed my self-interest — like everyone does all the time! — in the presence of considerable gall. The ultimate example of not cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.
Now, having discovered the massive rewards of losing face (it's like a superpower!), I'm a changed person. In such scenarios, I deny myself nothing on principle. I'm not normally selfish, but this is my sole exception. I garland myself with the luxury of doing what's best for me even when the situation calls for haughty self-denial.
The best revenge is living well, though it may take forbearance to get through the initial degradation. It absolutely made sense to shower money at a seller who wouldn't stop grinning because he'd made a killing by killing me...because it was my best shot at living. He won, but I won more!
Here's a follow-up
1. "We hate that you're here and hope you drop dead", and 2. "Why are you so skittish around us? What's wrong with you? We're your friends and we love you!"
I found every excuse to get away: travel, chowhounding (familiarizing myself with every restaurant south of Lisbon and north of Alentejo), park visits and cafe hangs, but I discovered (this is actually useful information!) that you cannot fill up all 168 hours of a week like that. So I spent 6-8 hours a day sitting in my car. There was a tree I liked, so I parked in front of it. Good times!
I had to accelerate efforts to find my own place, so I auditioned a series of realtors, each worse than the last. As ditzy as they may be in USA, here it's worse. They're like used car salesmen. There's no code of conduct local realtors even pretend to uphold. I settled on a French guy, a moody chainsmoker who, once I'd signed on, didn't conceal his contempt. His cracked phone screen showed how desperately he needed his commission. At every gross place he showed me, he'd stare at me, willing me via psi-powers. Please buy. Please. You want this.
My living situation had become unlivable, so Frenchie found me a rental which turned out to be adjacent to a marble cutter, who started at 7am, the whole house shaking and fine stone dust pluming, triggering asthma that hadn't recurred in decades. This is how you force a client to buy ASAP. Clever Frenchie!
In my haggard state, I managed to mess up my ankle and could barely walk. And just around then began a series of food-borne illnesses (I'd developed an inability to fight off campylobacter) which eventually stripped 45 pounds off of me, leaving me dehydrated to the point where my kidneys filled with tiny stones.
Half-dead — and inclined to use my remaining energy to drown the realtor — we walked quite unexpectedly into a soulful, super-nice, perfect apartment. But it was 70,000€ too expensive, and the owner shrewdly noticed that I was geared up about it and refused to budge. For weeks. I actually begged at one point, but no dice. My realtor was so galled that he actually counseled me—against his own interest!— to keep looking. Everyone in my life begged me to tell the owner to go to Hell. There are other apartments, after all!
Nope. I bought it.
The owner couldn't stop grinning at the closing as I limped around coughing and making bathroom detours. But I bought, moved in, and swiftly began recovering, and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. I now live in a soulful, utterly comfortable apartment which, after three years, has appreciated above its sale price. A win by any standard. Asthma's better, stomach is mostly sorted, and Señora Vanessa is making great progress on my ankles.
I don't know many people who'd have bought. They'd keep viewing properties with the contemptuous Frenchman, limping, coughing, and faint from a diet of white rice and toast. The price was WAY too high, the owner was WAY too much of a prick, and this was a scene you'd have been delighted to walk away from...even though it was a really great apartment.
But that last part was the only part that mattered for me.
I can't say it involved any high-mindedness. I didn't forgive anyone, or keep a "positive attitude". I merely followed my self-interest — like everyone does all the time! — in the presence of considerable gall. The ultimate example of not cutting off one's nose to spite one's face.
Now, having discovered the massive rewards of losing face (it's like a superpower!), I'm a changed person. In such scenarios, I deny myself nothing on principle. I'm not normally selfish, but this is my sole exception. I garland myself with the luxury of doing what's best for me even when the situation calls for haughty self-denial.
The best revenge is living well, though it may take forbearance to get through the initial degradation. It absolutely made sense to shower money at a seller who wouldn't stop grinning because he'd made a killing by killing me...because it was my best shot at living. He won, but I won more!
Here's a follow-up
A Marginally Better Presbyterian
I was recently musing that a lot of people supported Trump because "he's a pugnacious shithead just like me."
Liberals would smirk at that. They'd nod their heads ruefully. So true!
But they support that sort of thing to their very core. After all, what screams Democratic Party more than a soft-focused video of a minority child entranced by a speech proclaiming in voiceover, "I want a president who looks like me!"
Yeah! That's the stuff! Beautiful!
Most people in this binary of binaries (well, Palestine/Israel is still marginally worse) have trouble parsing what, exactly, centrism even means. Here's a taste:
If a terrific Jewish presidential candidate were to run, I'd vote for them enthusiastically...but only because they were "terrific", not because they were Jewish. But if a Presbyterian candidate were only marginally better, I'd support that one even more enthusiastically. And I find it very hard to empathize with any other view. To me, you'd need to be so completely adrift in storybook bullshit and pure narcissism that you'd lost all sense.
Liberals would smirk at that. They'd nod their heads ruefully. So true!
But they support that sort of thing to their very core. After all, what screams Democratic Party more than a soft-focused video of a minority child entranced by a speech proclaiming in voiceover, "I want a president who looks like me!"
Yeah! That's the stuff! Beautiful!
Most people in this binary of binaries (well, Palestine/Israel is still marginally worse) have trouble parsing what, exactly, centrism even means. Here's a taste:
If a terrific Jewish presidential candidate were to run, I'd vote for them enthusiastically...but only because they were "terrific", not because they were Jewish. But if a Presbyterian candidate were only marginally better, I'd support that one even more enthusiastically. And I find it very hard to empathize with any other view. To me, you'd need to be so completely adrift in storybook bullshit and pure narcissism that you'd lost all sense.
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