Dear Mole: Laying Low

Dropping out of the societal Tarantella is so much easier than I would have thought. All one has to do is spend a few months refraining from public expression and voila! Just like that, I have achieved the near-total obscurity so few seem to believe possible in this age of insecure high-tech self-promotion.

Sometimes– rarely, mind you — I miss hearing from some of those once-familiar voices, but then I remember that communication is a two-way street and that I have nothing to contribute to such exchanges.

Conversely, Jesse and I seem to understand each other better every day now that I’ve adapted so fully to speechless interactions. We communicate through grunts, wheezes and nuzzles, and that’s sufficient.

I contemplated making this post a series of grunts, wheezes and nuzzles to be more illustrative of my current lifestyle, but I don’t think that would have made for a very sensible transmission.



The last time we talked like this, Bob Saget was still alive, and nobody cared. Now he’s dead and everyone is singing his praises. The moral? There are some fates worse than death and being Bob Saget might just be one of ’em.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie:



Dear Mole: Trailer Trash

Dear Mole,

Where were we again? Oh, right — I sold my car, they raised my rent, ain’t got no job, oh woe is Mudge!

Hey, if you’re going to publicize your troubles online like you’re writing a bad country and western song, you gotta own it, right?

Speaking of country and western songs, I must once again paraphrase the late Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr (who, in turn, was famously paraphrased by the late Neil Peart): plus ça change plus c’est la même chose.

That single-wide trailer up there is my new home. Jesse’s, too. My dad bought it for me and it’s situated in the mountains about 10 miles outside of Albuquerque. That white shit on the ground is snow because Cedar Crest, NM is 6,500 feet above sea level. The trailer park looks like a campground and my place is all the way at the end with a rock wall encircling the back yard that overlooks the Sandia and Manzano Mountains.

And I’ve just enough to spare to buy myself a shitty used car so’s I can journey into Albuquerque when I need to forage for groceries and, um…*cough*…supplies.

For the time being, I won’t be inviting Bubbles to move into a shed in the yard with his cats nor will I let Ricky sleep in his car in the driveway. Leahy and Randy are watching.

So I’ve nearly achieved my dream of becoming a mountain hermit. And this is but a scant mile away from my new mountain hermitage:

Fucking Burger Boy.

Entropy, Cohesion, Repeat ad infinitum,


DNA’s Downfall

DNA’s downfall may be that evolution has finally created a species whose intelligence is great enough to contest DNA’s prime directive, assumed to be – go forth and multiply. Until now, all life has succumbed to this directive. Slavishly so. Indeed, all are ill equipped to rally against it. To do so would be the antithesis of existence.

Yet here we are, humans, capable of analyzing DNA’s command. Mulling it over and challenging it.

With DNA’s singular raison d’etre comes a cadre of supporting clauses. To multiply one must survive. One must not perish due to myriad environmental conditions set on killing you. You must drink, eat and shelter in perpetuity. In addition, you must procreate. And in doing so, ensure that your offspring advance in age and ability to the point where they, themselves can then take on DNA’s decree. And it doesn’t stop there. Your extended family, tribe or country must be protected so that your specific variant of DNA can prosper and spread.

This is DNA’s unspoken demand. And it works like a charm. Or did. Until us.

In continuously, unconsciously elevating a species ability to survive, DNA has unwittingly created a being that can now question DNA’s own defacto intent. We humans can now contest DNA’s mandates and whether or not its builtin purpose continues to hold merit.

DNA would cringe to learn of this development.

A snippet from a proper philosopher:

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer. And if it is true, as Nietzsche claims, that a philosopher, to deserve our respect, must preach by example, you can appreciate the importance of that reply, for it will precede the definitive act. These are facts the heart can feel; yet they call for careful study before they become clear to the intellect.
I draw from the absurd three consequences, which are my revolt, my freedom, and my passion. By the mere activity of consciousness I transform into a rule of life what was an invitation to death — and I refuse suicide… Obeying the flame is both the easiest and the hardest thing to do. However, it is good for man to judge himself occasionally. He is alone in being able to do so.

The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays – Albert Camus

Romania is mining WordPress

Looks like someone in Romania has decided to mine content here.

Each of ~60 posts were hit exactly once today. Don’t know what their intentions are, so it will be interesting to note what the future holds for such mining activity. FYI, the top-level domain for Romania is .ro.

We had a spate of content thieves from India about a year or more ago. They’ve subsequently vanished. Can’t imagine what the Romanians will do with the claptrap they found here… Good luck monetizing that, foolish nimrods.

Pirates of the Southern Cross

Let’s try that again…

Here’s another captivating scene/story from D. Roe Shocky’s hundreds of posts.
I’m boost-posting this as I’m a fan, think others should be fans too and the fact that I’m still brain-slammed by Rust, Angular and Lambdas.

Go check out more of his work.

Warmup Pages

Nerissa was hungry; a state not unfamiliar to her. Hunger in perpetuity. It was a lifestyle choice—came with the whole space pirate thing. She wanted to eat, sure, but she was hungry for more than food.

Everyone knows space is mostly empty, knows it logically, but most everyone doesn’t know know it like Nerissa does. It’s not just empty; it’s totally and completely bone-crushingly emp-fucking-ty. It was as if after God made the Earth She decided it was way too much work and gave up on the whole rest of the universe. Leave it empty, go get high for a hundred billion years and maybe try again. Or maybe don’t.

Nerissa’s little black ship, the Lasciate Ogne Speranza, hung cold and motionless in the darkness of the nebula like picked-over carrion. Twenty-sixth century piracy relied on the treasure coming to you, not the other way around. It was a…

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