Excuse My Political Incorrectness

"History is the running record of mankind trudging like a blind idiot through an endless pile of retrospectively unenlightened shit. Like Mike in Suits, if you will." A few mornings ago I woke up to an article from the National Post titled "Everything is offensive: Here are Canada's other politically incorrect place names" in which… Continue reading Excuse My Political Incorrectness

Instagram: we’ve been doing it all wrong

In this post tech-bubble ecosystem we are, for an overwhelmingly fat part, bottomless feeders. No, we are not eating nonstop, though we are certainly eating way more than our grandparents did. What we can't get enough of, however, is that intangible feed that stretches on into the endless abyss beyond the southernmost limit of your screen.… Continue reading Instagram: we’ve been doing it all wrong

The Story of Sugar

If you asked an economist if free trade was a good idea, he would probably say yes. He might even give you a look, to make you feel slightly embarrassed for asking such a dumb question. If you asked an economist why free trade was a good idea, he would probably say that it increases… Continue reading The Story of Sugar

three is better than one

Like popcorn kernels that get stuck between your molars, and bits of pith clogged persistently underneath one's fingernails, it's often the least significant things unnoticeable by others that you cannot endure about yourself. But when you have someone point out exactly what you already can't stand about yourself (but persistently put off correcting), you don't… Continue reading three is better than one

because pie is irrational

It's a thin line, really, between oblivion and being on the fence. Neither allows you to adequately make a decision, and neither engages you enough in the consequences of a potential decision, should you make one. So here's a great question: meringue or not meringue? While traditionally in France the tarte au citron is made… Continue reading because pie is irrational

Thunderstruck

She, in her pastel yellow denim, positioned herself in such a way that the diffused sunlight scattered from the disco ball hung at the window swam surrealistically across her back. Her hair, like Ms. Frizzle's, hid from my line of vision, her profile. I then proceeded to lift, from my cake caddie, the boxed lid,… Continue reading Thunderstruck