Properly Toasted

Just right. Nicely browned, slightly darker at the edges. Buttered, that’s me. Been eating those lovely little roasted coffee beans covered in chocolate. Keeps me zipping along. Add to that a half a bottle of wine, a couple cigarettes, and a bowl of weed, and I’m buzzing like a bumble bee, blundering through the grass to find my little hole, where I do whatever it is that bumble bees do in their little holes in the ground. I don’t want to know. I wonder what the bumble bee-equivalent of toast is.

Little Tricks

I once read about a famous guitar player who said that his style was mainly shaped by the little tricks he used to conceal his deficiencies as a player. I thought: wow, cool, at last, someone who admits it! We are all shaped by the effort to conceal our deficiencies. We are all lazy fuck-ups, and we are all trying as hard as we can to conceal it, and this dude, hey, he said it straight out. Kudos to you, man.
I wonder what would happen if we would all do that. Just admit that we are fuck-ups, and be done with it. The world would certainly be a more relaxed place. But, on the other hand, the effort of concealing our laziness and incompetence certainly drives us forward. In trying to appear as if we knew what the hell we are doing, we do in fact do more than we otherwise would.
Little tricks that keep the world going. Like appearing busy at work when the boss comes by, when you, in fact, have been ignoring the assignment lying on the table the last three hours. What have you been doing those last three hours? God only knows, you certainly don’t, but the fact is you’ve oiled the wheels just by pretending to do something. You may have actually done something more important in that time, without even noticing it. You’ve coasted along, you’re on the road to nowhere, and along the way you may have discovered wonderful and important things.
I am not kidding here. In compensating for your incompetence, you will discover the things you are really competent at. Perhaps you will only discover that you are really good at concealing your incompetence. You incompetent fuck. But most likely you will be doing something that really interests you, and that is the path to… something. It certainly isn’t the path to efficiency, or any of that shit. Efficiency is another word for unhappiness, take it from a very efficient person. My boss likes me for my efficiency, and when I take two seconds to think about it, that makes me wonder what I am doing wrong.
If it sounds like I am making a plea for laziness here, you have understood me perfectly. People say necessity is the mother of invention… bullshit. Laziness. That is what makes people inventive. Inventing little tricks to make it easier to live: that is the main characteristic of the human animal. Apart from mulishness, that is.

Tall Men

The Dutch are getting taller, we are told. Dutch men, that is. We don’t know how the Dutch women are faring in this respect. Typical statistics. Statistics are alway just a little slice of the cake, and therefore almost always misleading. No way to correlate them all, considering all the possible factors involved. Well, alright, maybe we could correlate them all, if we had them all, but the fact is we don’t. Do the tall Dutch men have proportionate cocks? Do they lose their hair earlier than men from the Ivory Coast? Do they suffer earlier heart attacks than the world average? Do they have a tendency to neurotic behavior? And, whether yes or no, what does this have to do with the Dutch women and their social conditioning, or women in general, or anything at all? Does anyone actually care?
That is why I cast a very sceptive eye on such studies. There is no way we could consider all the possible factors involved, unless we were living in a completely observed society. I am very thankful that we aren’t. Statistics are interesting, and fun, but in the end they don’t mean much, considering the limits imposed on ascertainment. And besides, as I once read on a little slip of paper you get in fortune cookies: 67% of all statistics are made up. Now consider the statistical chance of me getting that particular fortune cookie, and draw your own conclusions. On the other hand, we don’t know how many cookies were armed with that particular message… and so on.
Not to say that the statistics in question were made up. I just want to make clear how limited they, and all statistics, are. Extremely limited, and therefore quite likely misleading. In the end, as the Germans say: nachher so schlau wie vorher (as wise as before). This blog-post at Why Evolution is True led me to these thoughts.


So you’re in love and she isn’t anymore, and you lie alone in bed, trying not to think. She’s the best thing you ever had. Even as the thought occurs to you, you know how cliché that sounds… but there it is. She is creative, intelligent, passionate, capable of deep feeling, and honest. She doesn’t want to hurt you, she just can’t love you anymore, and is being honest. But you can’t help being hurt. You feel like a dog that’s just had it’s leg torn off, and stands there, utterly bewildered, blinking stupidly at the stump. Not yet even remotely comprehending how, or why. In a state of shock.
Unfortunately, you are not a dog. If you were, you might think: fucking bitch… she smells so good… oh well. You would go on with your life without worrying. But you are cursed with the ability to think, being a big-brained ape with nothing better to do. So you think of the promise you made. You never actually said „I promise“, but the promise was there, in your heart, clear and sweet like the air after a thunderstorm. She knew that, she saw it in your eyes, she felt it in your hands. She heard it and read it in the beautiful words you unfolded before her in a calm stream of love and certainty. That’s why she waited so long. Longer than she actually could… she counted on you, and you failed her. Circumstances prevented you, you say to yourself, and it’s true enough, but nevertheless you wonder what you could have done, what desperate measures might have led to salvation in spite of it all. You were already on the verge of doing something insane when she pulled the ripcord. You felt in your bones that things were getting ticklish. Circumstances! The word threatens to split your head.
It’s bitter. So damned bitter. You’d rather kill yourself than taste that taste; but it would be tantamount to cowardice not to face the facts. She’d pity you then, and hate you for betraying her belief that you are a good person, strong, a man worth loving… no matter whether she loves you anymore or not. That would be worse than anything you can think of, for even now you still want to please her. It is better, in that case, to drink some more wine. But even drink doesn’t help in the least, much to your chagrin. You drink more, and more, and even then… what’s the point in drinking, when it doesn’t stop the pain?
So, what recourse do you have? Face up to the horrid truth: you’ve lost her. The one that got away, like some damned fisherman’s tale.
She never did you wrong. If she had, you could at least indulge your mind in thoughts of morbid revenge, or in the belief that she isn’t good enough for you. Not even this avenue of emotional escape is open to you, and you begin to wonder if you can ever even stop loving her. You’d cry if you had any tears left. You contemplate the stump. Blinking. Stupid.
Listening to Don’t Bother Me from the Beatles.