Wednesday, January 23, 2008


I'm trying to postpone 30 for as long as I reasonably can (and if possible, to prevent it entirely), but the fact that things have come to this stage at all implies a considerable degree of negligence on my part up until this point—which doesn't inspire an awful lot of confidence in my ability to stave off the impending disaster in a state of red alert. My point being, I've had 29 years to address this problem, and whatever emergency measures I may be able to enact at this late stage will hardly be sufficient prophylactics against a cataclysm that I have systematically failed to forestall during the ample time that has been allotted to me for the task. I have only myself to blame.

Nonetheless, a summit has been called and drastic measures are being considered. The gravity of this situation is not lost on me. We have discussed at length the potential for a radical plan to reduce or eliminate any pleasurable or interesting stimuli from my life in order to make time pass as slowly as possible while our scientists explore further options for defending ourselves against this tridectuple onslaught. Agents have been dispatched to explore the existential validity of simply denying that the disaster has occurred (in the unthinkable event that it does), i.e., if I don't admit that I'm 30 and others are taken in by this deception, will we have any legitimate recourse to a claim that perceptive reality is more reliable than an uncertain but objective truth (such as that I am, in fact, 30)? We do not have much hope for this line of defense.

Meanwhile, our most reliable officers are working around the clock to determine whether the very concept of "30" might not be vulnerable to an assault on its objectivity. Do we have incontrovertible evidence that 29 always leads to 30, rather than to 28 or, let us say, 19? Certainly, this is the norm, but then so was authoritarianism, patriarchy, religious dogma. If we can openly question these once irreproachable ideals, can we not also cast some doubt upon the flimsy—and indeed profoundly unlikely—notion that all beings must turn 30 exactly a year after they have turned 29? I hope that this society is not so repressive as to object to an intelligent inquiry into the haphazard and heretofore unregulated computational methods it uses to establish the relevant longevity of its citizens.

While we martial our defenses and exhaust our other options, I can tell you nothing more than that we will not give up hope. We will not accept this imposition without a fight. We will not allow ourselves to be overcome simply because the odds are stacked against us.

We will not go gentle into that good night.

Saturday, January 19, 2008


There is a double-entendre going on with the title here. It's suppose to refer both to my current state and to the months that have passed since I last wrote. Anything. There's a temptation to leave it at that, honestly. But one does sense a need for an update.

In the last month, I turned an extremely unlikely age, had intercourse on one occasion, read three books in a science fiction trilogy, watched roughly 38 hours of football, learned of two deaths (including Bobby Fischer) and one conception, drank somewhere in the ballpark of 120 beers, revived one old friendship, failed to turn up for one exam, consumed 15+ adderall, drove 500 miles, had one prophetic dream, apologized at least five times, and ate the same meal almost every night.

My prose has not much improved, and neither has my honesty, though I would rate myself a little higher in 2008 for humility than in previous years. This is related to growing older and seeing oneself more in the scheme of things. Which is related to pride.

Introspection is at an all-time low.

I have discovered that I am not the following things: Management material, tan, irresistible, solvent, decisive, unflappable. Though, on a more positive note, it does seem evident that there are some things I'm good at.