Inside this cubicle the air is thick as honey, with asphyxiating flecks of the mundane bracing against the irrefutable promise of a golden weekend. Outside these pin-cushion partitions – and indeed inside as well – every tiny molecule in the universe is saying its goodbyes to its neighbors and preparing to splash into the unknown permutations of a distant someday. My fingers hammer at these tiny plastic letters, fully ignorant of what’s to come.
Or are they? The hallowed fingers of esteemed science – no doubt similar in size and shape to my own, only tasked with a far more specific purpose – have combed back the hair of the observable now and picked at the scalp-nits of projection. The fields of astronomy, physics, mathematics, and a cabinet full of –ologies have given us a map of what’s to come. A timeline of time’s last hurrah.
And the best part? If any of these predictions are wrong, every record of them will likely be destroyed before anyone finds out. That’s my kind of science.
Within 10,000 years, human genetic variation will no longer be regionalized. This won’t mean we’ll all look the same – the blonde gene will still speckle crowds and set up offensive jokes, but it will be distributed equally worldwide. This forecasted panmixia is far more optimistic than astrophysicist Brandon Carter’s Doomsday Argument, which places our present at roughly the halfway point of humankind’s civilized journey, and projects a 95% likelihood that we’ll be wholly extinct in 10,000 years.
If global warming hasn’t already soaked us into a Kevin Costner-esque hellscape by then, we may also be facing the melting of the East Antarctic Ice Sheet, which will raise the sea levels by 3 or 4 meters above wherever it will be once we lose the rest of the polar ice caps, which should happen long before then.
Long term forecast: buy a big-ass boat. Read more…
Today’s article is brought to you by the open road. For the first time in the last 584 days, I’m dropping these syllables into the milky impermanent water of MS Word whilst rocketing along the highway, the Dead’s “Terrapin Station” on the radio, the Rocky Mountains’ immature cousins rubbing shoulders with the British Columbian landscape. Like Jack Kerouac punching at a typewriter from the back of a truck. If he ever did that. I really don’t know.
But I do know that this entire scene, the blurred weeping willows and rusty towns with vaguely suggestive names like “Barriere” and “Bone Creek”, would be far more bad-ass if I was packing heat.
Nothing menacing and nothing murderous of course, simply a little one-shot pistol or something similarly concealable and sexy. Just to the let the world know that I can spill some blood if the situation were to call for it. Why should the only blood I see be my own words upon the printed page? Who’s to say Kerouac never carved some gore from the guts of another human? And where can I get ahold of one of those Apache revolvers?
Drawing from the tradition of the Swiss Army, Louis Dolne’s Apache revolver was a multi-purpose tool. Actually, each feature of this device serves the same purpose: to render someone either dead or bleeding. It’s a small, easily-concealed weapon, perfect for those occasions when you’re heading out on the town, and not quite sure how you’ll want to dispatch of any hooligans you may encounter. Will you crumple his jaw with the knuckle-buster brass knuckles? Shwing out the dual-edged knife and skewer his spleen? Maybe the pinfire revolver will deposit some lead on the mushy side of his temple-skin. Read more…
In 2007, The National – one of Canada’s nation-wide nightly news broadcasts – ran a competition to track down the Seven Wonders of Canada. I’ve written a few articles on the various incarnations of the ‘Seven Wonders’ concept, but this one truly irks me. Canadians voted – I didn’t, but many of my countrymen who actually cared did – then a panel of CBC ‘experts’ voted on which Wonders made the list.
I don’t know why they bothered to poll the nation, only to hand the list over to a trio of talking heads to make the pick. They selected Roberta L. Jamieson, the first woman to receive a law degree in Canada, Roy MacGregor, who covers hockey for the Globe & Mail, a national paper, and the guitar player from Trooper.
Totally not joking. The guys who sang “Raise A Little Hell”.
Why these people had a greater say than the citizens of this country, I have no idea. But they did, and the end result was that they selected only two of the top seven voted upon by Canadians. Among the other five chosen, three don’t even make sense. The canoe? Prairie skies? The friggin’ igloo? Read more…
So you want to be active in politics, but you just can’t bring yourself to care very much. It’s okay, there are ways around this. The most entertaining solution would be to find a hook, and start up a frivolous political party.
The world has had its share of frivolous parties, and Wikipedia has been kind enough to assemble a few for our perusal.
Voting for a frivolous political party can mean one of two things. Either you’re dissatisfied with the mainstream parties and you want to cast a decisive ‘none of the above’ vote to register your disdain, or else you don’t care who runs your city/province/state/country/galactic district, and you think it’d funny to vote for a political party with the word ‘Beer’ in its name.
Most of these frivolous parties exist for the former; no one truly expects that England’s Citizens for Undead Rights and Equality are going to devote legislative time to discussing whether or not zombies should be allowed to drive. They snagged 317 votes in the UK general election of 2010 – that’s 317 votes by people who didn’t want to give the Labour Party or the Tories their support.
The Hungarian Two-Tailed Dog Party ran for the mayoral race in Budapest in 2010, with a firm platform of delivering eternal life, world peace, a one-day work week, two sunsets every day (in varying colors), smaller gravitation, free beer and low taxes. They didn’t win, and Hungary’s tourism revenue has no doubt suffered for it. Read more…