A while back, one morning, when I heard that Kevin Rose (of Digg and the late, not terribly lamented Pownce) had a new Twitter-parasite site called WeFollow, I lost my shit ("You might follow, you tiny-dreamed weasel farts!" said I to myself, or something of the sort.) and bought a domain, threw up a Wordpress site, wrote a screed and did a couple of photoshops, all before lunch. If I was that productive all the time, I'd be... well, I wouldn't have the time for insane vanity mini-projects like that, I guess.

Still: here it is, the lastest addition to the burgeoning Wonderchicken Industries™ Network. Share and enjoy.

Another guy, this Canadian guy, this guy who'd lived in Japan for a few years and eventually gone back to Canada, someone I'd identified with even though I don't rightly know if I ever will actually go back to Canada, had said

At least it's not hockey. What a stupid sport. (Although these are my true feelings, to say this publicly in Canada is close to something like sacrilege, and I'm not exaggerating.)

So I got my shit all up in a righteous internet uproar and said (and reproduce here because I'd like to remember I said it, self-indulgent and shouty as it is):

I spent a decade or two of my post-pubescent life, times when I was actually in Canada at least part-time and it seemed to matter, telling people how much I fucking didn't care about hockey, because, you know, that's what a certain kind of guy does. But I'd sit and watch the goddamn game and drink a hell of a lot of booze and take whatever drugs were to hand and make inappropriate and often successful sexual advances at the desperately bored women who were hanging around unwilling having their own fun while the idiot rinktard puckheads got their stick on.

But I'll tell you this: I fucking love hockey now, in retrospect, but only in the abstract because I love the idea of stupid toothless meatpuppets beating the living shit out of each other on the ice for the amusement of the Home Audience. I used to poo-poo all the Sport, oh dear, Maynard my Special Friend it's so commmmon and tedious, I in latter days used to and still do wave a dismissive hand-back at the reality TV and the unreality TV and the fake pretending to be real pretending to be fake winking at the real, I did, I do, but you know what? these days I love it all. I love it all in equal measure to how much I despise it because I am absolutely sure that things, where 'things' is meant to be Our Collective Cultural Heritage A-squander, where 'things' is meant to be the inexorable ramscoop of the idiocracy screaming V2ey nose-down into the fake peatbog made of plastic turf and celebrity poop, it's OK that it's all turning to Entertainment and Distraction at a rate of (k)nots, and I get a Roma-rsonist frisson from tossing my cigarette butts and lighting support blazes out on the periphery hoping ring-a-rosy all burn down without me having to make a stand.

So, yeah. Hockey is stupid, duh, but you know what: the problem with hockey is that it's not nearly as goddamn stupid as it used to be or should be, when the gladiators dropped glove and knocked pearly white teeths out onto the ice in a spray of blood. It's gotten smarter since then, instrumentally more reasonable, disappointingly less savage, and that's a cheat and a con and it's more modern and marketed and less satisfying.

Fucking weedy reedy thinskinned worthless goddamn civilization we've built.

You'd think I'd be happy about that.

Let me tell you a little story that may not seem to have much to do with this, but does, somehow, in a way that's not entirely clear to me. Maybe in the telling, I can work it out a bit.

It was the mid-70s, I think, another glorious short clean summer in Northern BC, one of the ones that stay with me in my memory, and my aunt, uncle and two cousins were visiting us.

We had taken our river boat ten or fifteen kilometers up the lake, up to one of the rocky beaches under the ridge of Mount Pope, inshore from Battleship Island. We set up our outpost on a long expanse of thumb-size pebbles rattling under a broad unclouded vault of sky, stands of jackpine and spruce at our backs clustered beardlike around yellow stone cliff outcroppings. Clear deep dark green water, hot dogs cooked on whittled birch sticks over a fire pit. It was the kind of day that makes you feel glad to be alive, especially when you're 8 or 10 years old and all is right with the world.

I remember at one point my cousins and I were ranging up the shingly beach, just exploring, when we came across the biggest snake I'd ever seen. It was glistening and black and in the water, and it took off like a shot as soon as it saw us, undulating frantically as it headed along the rocky verge, trying to escape.

We were curious, or at least I was, and we started throwing driftwood and rocks in its path, trying to get it to turn around, or slow down, so we could get a better look. I'm not sure, of course, what my cousins were thinking, but I don't think they had any more malicious intent than I did. We were curious. The missiles we hurled at the poor beast got progressively larger and we got more excited, and the inevitable happened. One of the rocks or sticks landed square on the snake, and killed it. It uncoiled and floated, light belly up.

As we'd been hollering and chasing the snake, my uncle, presumable alerted by our excitement, had come up behind us just as the fatal stone did its work. All he saw was hooting boys killing an innocent creature.

He wasn't furious, he was disgusted, disappointed. I still remember, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the look on his face. I don't think anyone had ever looked at me like that before.

Several people have sent me links to news items about the execution of the Bali bombers in the past few weeks, and each time, I've had to tell them that I just didn't know what to feel about it, much less what to think.

I find as I grow older that every year I am certain about less and less.

I've said to some folks who asked that although I do not believe that more killing is a good response to killing, if I were handed the gun, or set down in front of the switch behind the one-way glass, or just put into a room with the bastards, I wouldn't hesitate to exact vengeance for the death of my friend. Pull the trigger, press the button, beat them with my fists. I've said to my friends that I am an ape masquerading as a man.

I don't know if that's true or not, I really don't. It sounds good, I suppose, and I've always been about the dramatic pronouncement over the measured interpretation.

Is the world a poorer place without my friend Rick Gleason living in it? Yes, it is, and the same is no doubt true for the friends and family members of each and every of the other 201 people killed in the bombings. Is the world a better place without their killers living in it? I think it probably is.

We tell ourselves a lot of stories about 'the sanctity of human life'. We seem to mean the lives of those we know and love when we talk about it, and that's not surprising or wrong. We find it hard to care about strangers, and harder to care about strangers whose tribe is different, and even harder to care about those strangers who would do us harm if they could, or leave us to die without compunction. People get all misty about their Jesus and his injunctions to love one's enemies and turn cheeks.

But we don't really believe that human life, in the abstract, is sacred, even if we're willing to go the extra mile and define what we mean by sacred, do we? Not really. We make war, we ignore the roots of violent crime and turn away, we spend millions on blood-fiesta movies and video games and tell ourselves that it's about catharsis. The best we can reasonably claim to believe is that some human life is sacred.

We're not bad people, of course, most of us. Actual, personal violence we find shocking, unacceptable, abhorrent. We are traumatized by the headless corpse behind the steering wheel sitting in the puddle of blood and piss in the twisted plastic and metal of the Friday night wreck. We're dutifully frightened by the TV news items about violent crime that are intended to keep us dutifully frightened and at home watching the sponsor's messages. But we do love our serial killers and the movies about them, we love our torture porn, we love our Schwarzeneggerian one-liners before the shotgun skullpop, even while we guard our vulnerable citizens against violence domestic and corporal and sexual and even emotional. We righteously and rightfully do our best to end the social conditions that allow such things to happen. And we support our troops. You know, if we have any. We compartmentalize.

I don't think most of us are all that clear on these things, and I suppose I'm no better than anyone else.

See, if we admit that by executing those bastards, and we accept that violence has its place in our attempts to make the world better, we have accepted that violence has its place. This has consequences.

And if we're not trying to make the world better, then we're just acting out another episode of the woeful old Jehovahriffic vengeance.

I'm not against vengeance, though I'd rather be a man than an ape. I have to admit that there are times when I want to bare my yellowed fangs and rip out a throat and feel the hot pulse of blood wash across my cheek.

Thirty years later, having returned to the memory many times over the years, I don't think I wanted to kill that snake. But I'm not certain that that was actually the truth at the time.

I grew up, for the years that counted at least, in Fort Saint James, British Columbia. During those years -- the early 70's to the early 80's -- it was the End of The Road. Vanderhoof was the asshole of the world and we were forty miles up it, we said, recycling that old standby. The paved highway ended in the Fort, and to go further north meant logging roads and endless washboard and pothole gravel, dusty in summer, solid ice in winter, and slicker than snot the rest of the time. There were a couple of reservations further up there, and a few scattered fishing lodges and mines and logging camps. Wilderness, though, for the most part. Endless dense forest carpetting mountains, nap worn smooth in spots by crystal-clear cold lakes and rivers. Germanson Landing. Takla Landing. Leo Creek. Deese Lake. I'd like to say I hunted bear in these places wearing nothing but a breechclout and bowie knife, but with parents who were grappling with living on the frontier after moving from southern Ontario and a little shellshocked by family tragedy, the names of these tiny, isolated places were almost as exotic to me as Tokyo or Timbuktu. We didn't stray too far.

But our own tiny town of 2500 or so was frontier enough for anyone, and, in what feels all these decades later like a deliberate, considered balance to the more bookish side of my nature, but was probably just imposed on me by the environment, I spent a lot of my time outdoors. In the summer especially, I'd spend 5 or 6 hours a day just behind our house swimming in the cold runoff-fed waters of Stuart Lake, or buckling on my first-gen Sony Walkman and riding my bicycle further and further out along the limited network of paved roads that snaked out along it, or to the south towards Vanderhoof, or the 10 or 15 kilometers north to the saw mills, after which the asphalt just stopped. Looking for something.

The trees never ended. The trees were everywhere. There were some things, growing up, that seemed limitless in their supply, overabundant, somehow both comforting and a little obnoxious in their insistence on being a part of every experience you could have: the trees, the water, and the snow. Nobody, or at least no young people that I knew, ever entertained for a moment the possibility that these things weren't eternal, perpetual, guaranteed. We were ants on a golf course, surrounded by plenty, living the good life, and occasionally cursing the sprinklers.

For my part, I was one of those young people -- and by no means was I in the majority -- who couldn't wait to get out, and once out, stayed. But I was also in a minority of the escapees, I think, in that I loved the place, even before I left. I'd read enough science fiction as a preteen to know that the dystopian extrapolations of scorched and dusty futures were based on the lives that people in more populous and less resource-blessed places were living already. I wasn't all that keen to hunker down or bunker up.

I was afraid in a weirdly longing way of the nukes we assumed would soon be sailing along gravity's rainbow, even if I was confident that up there in the North we'd be relatively unscathed by the coming armageddon. But I loved the sulphurous mineral rich town water that stained porcelain orange. I loved the thunderstorms that rolled in from the west over the 60 kilometre expanse of the lake, the bloodsplash summer forest fire sunsets, the northern lights you could almost hear, the way the hip-deep powdery snow creaked and puffed when the temperature got down to 40 below zero and your eyelashes began to freeze together. I loved the dusty evergreen smell of the trees and the rocks when we climbed up Mount Pope under flawless blue skies, I loved skindiving out to the drop-off in the lake, where the water, clear as air, grew dark and frightening, and my lungs felt ready to burst as I tried again and again to see what was down there, every minute irrationally terrified remembering the stories of giant sturgeon that had been pulled from those depths in decades past. I loved riding out on the lake in boats, and even riding on the river, even though that's where my younger brother had died, in that fast dark water, when I was 6 years old. I loved blizzards and whiteouts, and waking up in the morning to see drifts of fresh snow that reached the roof of our house in beautiful mathematical arcs. I loved standing in our cold kitchen in my robe in the winter mornings before school while my mom made me breakfast, over the floor grate as the furnace blew hot air up my legs. I loved when the spring came and the roads and streets shed their dirty ice shells, and I could once again hop on my bicycle and prowl the streets, nose in the air smelling that good spring smell, hoping that maybe I'd see the girl I was in love with, but almost never seeing her. I loved the brief melancholy autumn smell of wet leaves in the freezing rain.

I didn't fit in very well in many ways, though I tried, and once I began to drink -- the official sport of Northern BC -- it became much easier, and much as there were many people I loved and still love in that place, in some ways it was the place itself that made the greatest mark on me. I am and always will be someone who loves things green and blue and clean, and a smalltown boy who hauls out his big-city credentials and plays the global nomad urban expat sophisticate with a little reluctance.

I've been an expatriate most of the last 20 years and I'll probably never live there again, but it will always be a huge part of who I am.

The reason our little town has existed and more or less thrived in the last century or so, though it was the first capital of British Columbia back in the fur trading goldrush days of the 19th century, has been the forestry industry. It's a beautiful place, and tourists do come, but the lumber mills have always, at least in the last few lifetimes, provided something like 80% of the jobs, and powered an even larger component of the overall economy. It has been the same story for most of the small towns in the region. I worked in the mills too, bitching and moaning and drinking away the bruises, during my summer vacations from UBC, back in the 80's. Taught me the value of hard work, and how much I don't really care for it.

All that's coming to an end. The trees are dying, and with them, the towns. It's the pine beetle, you see. Just tiny little bugs. Nothing so dramatic as bombs or storms or ice caps melting away.

People like to debate the phenomenon of global climate change as if it were an academic issue. People who don't live in the path of the huang-sa dust storms that sweep in out of China to blanket Korea every spring, and get worse with each passing year, people who aren't in Central British Columbia watching 85% of the pine trees die off, and with the trees, the futures of their children. People whose health or livelihood isn't directly affected.

But then again, those British Columbians aren't entirely blameless, unlike the poor Koreans (and me) who are sucking down heavy metal-laden dust that we had no part in creating. While noting that the pine beetles are a natural part of the ecosystem, Canadian ecosuperhero (at least for my generation) David Suzuki blames forest fire suppression, clearcutting (and subsequent replanting), global warming. The first two can be laid directly at the feet of the folks who live there, whether they like to admit it or not.

The global warming part is textbook: to put it simply, as I understand it, warmer winters means reduced insect die off in the coldest part of the year, which means more of the little buggers the following season, and warmer temperatures the rest of the year means they spread further.

Forest fire suppression breaks the necessary cycle of old growth die off and renewal.

Clearcutting means huge areas are effectively denuded, and replanting with a single species of tree means a lack of biodiversity in the new forest, green as it may appear.

The bugs have rushed in as a result, and whole region is in very big trouble.

In the 6 years leading up to 2007 130,000 square kilometres of pine forest have been destroyed by the beetles. To put that number in perspective, that's the area of the country of England, or about one and a half times the area of South Korea. It's an armageddon all right, but not the kind that gave me nightmares when I was a teenager.

The irony to all this is that the massive die off of pines (and the infestation is moving to spruce, apparently) means, according to some researchers, that the forests of BC will no longer act as a carbon sink for the earth's atmosphere, but by 2020 will become a carbon source, making the problems even worse. It wouldn't be excesssive to describe this as a calamity. An area the size of a small country will be filled with standing kindling, which means forest fires will rage on a scale never before seen -- imagine, again, the entire country of England aflame for a sense of the scale involved.

Imagine that.

And companies that practiced unsustainable clearcutting, and the successive governments that allowed it? A special circle of hell will hopefully be reserved for those bastards. You know, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Have a look at this, to get an idea what those greedy f--kers have done to my home, and to our collective heritage over the past few decades. First, what the forests around my hometown (it's at the tip of Stuart Lake, there, center left) looked like in 1973, not long after my family moved there. Unbroken green, punctuated only by the blue of the northern lakes, and some farmland around Vanderhoof, down there at the lower left.

Now have a look at the same area in 1999. See the clearcuts? See what 'stewardship of the resource' has meant? See the spots, like some kind of mange, some horrific skin disease? Good job, you scum. You've burned your own house down around your ears. Thanks, American owners of Canadian forestry companies! You've screwed us again.

I have nothing against forestry. I have nothing against logging. It has been the lifeblood of the community that made me who I am, and supported people I know and love (and some I don't care for so much, I admit.)

What I can't and couldn't ever ignore, yeah, even while I was sweeping up the damp rich sawdust for fifteen bucks an hour, is the ways in which it has been pursued. And now, finally, the bats are coming home to roost, and it will be decades before the province and the industry recovers. Next time, maybe, they'll do it right. If there is enough fossil fuel left to do it, and any communities left to work there.

So what's happening on the ground? Two years ago, when I last visited Canada, I drove a rented car from Vancouver the 1100km north to Fort Saint James. There were stretches of a hundred kilometres and more where every tree that lined the highway on either side, once stately and evergreen and immutable, was the dull reddish brown of standing deadwood. It was a terrible thing to see. My mother, who was mayor of Fort Saint James for 14 years and still lives there, painted a pretty gloomy picture when we last talked. Of the 4 lumber mills that have provided most of the economic steam to run the community for decades, two are out of business, and one, run by the native community, is limping along with about 50 employees. Young families are leaving in droves. Real estate prices are plummeting, and houses are standing empty. Last year was one of the best ever for tourism, and that will hopefully never change, but other towns in less beautiful areas are in the process of drying up and blowing away.

Trees take decades to grow in Northern British Columbia. The good times are not going to come back any time soon.

I don't pay much attention to goings-on in Canada. I don't know how much attention is being paid to this. I suppose people are too worried about the coming real estate bust in the cities. I suppose the economic boom and environmental nightmare of the oil sands in Alberta offers some distraction. I don't know. But what I am sure about is that my hometown is dying.

I have mixed feelings.

The forests will come back. The forestry industry and government will, we can only hope, learn some lessons. People will relocate -- Canada is a nation of migrants -- and towns will shrink and maybe disappear. It's probably just wishful thinking, but it would be nice to think that things will shift toward a real attitude of sustainability and stewardship.

No matter how it all plays out, a lot of people will be hurt in the process. It takes a lot of good to outweigh the pain that the end of a way of life brings.

It's happening all over the world. They say change is good. They say a lot of stuff.

Update: The news is that a local (-ish) company has taken over the largest mill in Fort Saint James, the one that closed a year ago. They are aware and resigned to the fact that they will lose money for a good while, but they are focused on the long-term. This is fantastic news for the town -- it means hundreds of jobs, and means the town will not dry up and blow away. Other towns may not be so lucky, but I am gratified that my hometown at least seems to be looking at a stay of execution.

Here's a pretty word cloud, in celebration:

First, do no harm. Or as little as possible.
Second, do not suffer fools or Bad People. They will rob you of your life.
Third, make choices with an eye to minimize future regret. In other words, imagine you were on your deathbed looking back - live your life to make that old bastard as peaceful as possible about dying.
Fourth, learn and wander. We may or may not be hairless monkeys, but there is wisdom out there. It may be an evil world, but there is beauty. Find it.

There is no meaning -- in anything -- but what our minds create. To search for meaning is to make the same mistake as those who search for happiness : both meaning and happiness are mental constructs superimposed by your mind on top of the actual conditions of your life. Seeking them in externals will drive you mad if you're smart, or guarantee you failure if you're persistent.

I wrote that in response to an AskMe question, almost 5 years ago, and had completely forgotten it until tonight, when I noticed that it had been favorited out of the blue, all these years later. The question was "Do you know what you want out of life? How do you know? How did you figure it out?"

I've been angry and silent lately, at least in terms of my own writing. I've been doing all sorts of other stuff online, sure. Built and run my own busy community over here, a bunch of other stuff. But I've decided tonight that I need to start stringing those words together again, laugh and glare ironically and textually dance on the graves and all, and tamp that anger down, or at least direct it productively, before I become the kind of old bastard I've always hated. I have no choice about getting old, but I do have a choice about what kind of old man I become.

Ain't makin' no promises, mind you. But maybe it's time to write some stuff again, and widen that circle out, again, a little.

'Cause what the world needs now is another active blogger. Like I need a hole in my head.

My brother's head was wobbling a bit on our shared shoulder as I glanced over, but he felt my eyes on him and snapped back into his customary 200-watt anchorman idiot grin and winked. "It's not like we didn't expect this, eh?" I couldn't argue. We'd had a pretty good run.

Raising his face to the sky, still grinning, he bellowed "Father! Why has thou forsaken us, dude?" My conjoined brother, the son of god. Smart-ass to the last.

Since then, sadly, the per-episode count of nipples'n'bottoms has dropped precipitously, perhaps because Australian grannies spit the proverbial dummy, and they want to play nice. Or it was just a cynical attention-grab ploy. So it goes. The series hasn't lived up to the promise of the pilot, but it's something to play up in the corner of my monitor while I'm metafiltering or fiddling with design stuff. Lets me vicariously be that guy that I'd already tired of actually being by the time I was 30, but who I still miss, sometimes, a bit.

Anyway, all that's preliminary to a plot thread from a couple of episodes ago that left me scratching my head a little, wondering if either I was out of touch with what's actually happening to the language in America, or if the writers are.

See, Duchovny, playing boozehound and improbably-lucky-with-the-ladies author Hank Moody, is impelled into spasms of disgust and despair at the decline of Culture (the backstory being that he is blocked, thus drunk, and whoring himself out to a corporate blog for cash) when one of his recent conquests actually says 'LOL' out loud. In, if I recall correctly, barefaced unironic response to some bon mot he comes out with in the sack.

Do people actually say LOL now? Out loud? (And by people, I mean, you know, adults.) Do kids even do it? Am I that old?

See, the thing is, I'm almost willing to believe it, because listening to the quite entertaining Totally Rad Show podcast the other day, Alex, whose giddy wordplay I usually enjoy, came out with '[Name of somebody] FTW!'

FTW means 'for the win', for those of you even crustier and more clued-out than I.

But he didn't actually say 'for the win!', he said 'FTW!' 'For the win' has three syllables, even after a dozen beers. 'FTW' has five. The combination of vowels and consonants are bumpier and harder to say. It just doesn't make any goddamn sense.

WHAT DID YOU SAY MY CATS ARE NOT FREEBALLING GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN YOU KIDS WHO TOOK MY MEDICINE OH MY ACHING BUNIONS

I don't know. I guess I'll just go and have a nice glass of Metamucil or something.

[Update: I'd just like to say that after watching the first season that that Californication show is pretty much crap, with only sporadic flashes of brilliance. I've got to guess it's either written by committee or by dartboard, because it veers from well-written to laughably bad, seemingly at random. Too bad.]

The first skirmish had ended in success. His war on god was underway.

[Sometimes entire paragraphs just appear in my brain, right before I fall asleep. It happens a lot. I'm going to try and start remembering them. So, this.]

I grew up in the 70s, came of age in the early 80s. I was convinced that nuclear war was near-inevitable. I had no doubt that doddering dimwitted Ronald Reagan (read 'his handlers') and whichever doddering Soviet supremo was currently being propped up and jerkily animated with electric current (read 'his handlers') were going to blow the crap out the world. I dreamed about it. I can remember a grand total of one wet dream from my pubescent years; I can remember literally dozens of atomic holocaust dreams.

I remember Helen Caldicott and her Canadian-made If You Love This Planet. They showed it to us in high school. I remember the TV movies Threads and The Day After. Two and half decades after seeing Threads, I still remember the camera lingering on the puddle of urine at the woman's feet as the mushroom clouds rose. I watched The Road Warrior when it was first released. I remember reading A Canticle for Leibowitz. I sucked up all the '50s bomb-shelter paranoiac sci-fi juvenilia I could get my mother to buy for me at the bookstores on our shopping trips to the nearest city. I read what little I could find about the growth of the Cold War arsenals. It was... a hobby of mine.

Not that I was the archetypal Weird Kid or anything, muttering head-down through greasy locks about the 'end of the world'. I had normal hobbies, too: comics and computers, swimming and biking, booze and friends' fast cars. Girls. I showered regularly. But I did dream a lot about the end of the world.

And they weren't all nightmares by any means. See, I grew up in a tiny town more than 1000 kilometers north of Vancouver. I was completely confident that when the bombs fell, we'd be safe and secure. When I was in Grade 5, my gifted-group teacher had had a meteorologist boyfriend who'd lent me (and the other smart kid they'd cut from the herd to study what and how we liked) his weather maps. I'd learned about the prevailing wind currents of north-central British Columbia. We'd be all good when the balloon went up. The nearest mushroom cloud might sprout and rain its deadly ash 500km away, at worst, accidental mistargetings notwithstanding, and leave us basically unscathed

We had moose and squirrel salmon, we had farms and ranches, we had endless forest. Fruit might get a little scarce, but hell, I didn't much like fruit anyway. My house had a deep well, and the lakes and rivers were sweet and clear. Nuclear winter? No worries. We lived through -45°C spells every damn year. We'd get by. Let the mad bastards down south kill each other off en masse. We'd be the inheritors of the earth, us hardy northern canucks, ululating our diesel-powered ways down out of the arboreal wastes, antlers strapped to the hoods of our Barracudas and pickup trucks, to rebuild things in our own Royal Reserve-powered image. Proud Canadians. There'd finally be some kind of payoff for living 40 miles up the asshole of the earth for so many years.

Armageddon didn't seem like such a bad thing. Not the best result in a lot of ways, sure, but Ouroboros the world-turd was spinning at the bottom of the bowl, anyway. Time for cleansing holy nuclear fire! It'd be a shame, all those innocent people getting torched, but we kept reading how overpopulation was going to kill the planet even if the nukes didn't.

So talk these days of a coming economic armageddon with Ground Zero in America's bubble have actually put me in a nostalgic mood. Headlines like China threatens 'nuclear option' of dollar sales take me right back to 1982. Media tidbits like Jim Cramer's recent howling monkey-boy histrionic meltdown -- 'It's Armageddon out there!" have fascinated me in the kind of way that (metaphorical) nuke-porn did back in the day.

It's far from certain, of course, that the blow up is going to happen, or even that things will fall apart. But I've been watching the whole thing for years now, after decades of conditioned ignorance about economics, and the New Great Depression feels as likely to me as nuclear tennis did back in the early '80s.

Then again, that didn't end up happening, did it? There's some comfort in that, I guess.

A comment from the perspicacious Malor in a recent Metafilter thread (among many others about the subprime mortgage mess, the yen carry trade, the liquidity dry-up, and all the rest) lays out genesis of the worst case scenario pretty well, I think. Is it a Minsky Moment? Yeah, probably.

Malor said:

We should have gone into a horrific recession after the stock market bubble popped in 2000. The size of that bubble was far bigger than the one in 1929, so the consequences should have been even more severe... something on the order of severity of the Great Depression, although I think a 1970s-style stagflation writ large was the likeliest outcome.

What happened instead is that the Fed panicked and hit the liquidity button, flooding the system with incredibly cheap money. New money chases inflation, and causes more of it, so it went into housing, and then people started leveraging themselves up into massive debt to buy more of it.

Bubbles have been called the fiscal equivalent of a nuclear weapon; the only way to avoid the fallout is by not having one in the first place. The stock market bubble was a huge deal, though probably survivable.

But the Fed, which set off the original bubble with easy money, tried to fix the fallout with more of the same medicine that got us sick in the first place. To stop the fallout from one atomic bomb, they set off two fusion weapons instead.... and we didn't even dodge the fallout from the first bomb, we just delayed it. The explosion of the other two bombs just sent the fallout into orbit, but it's still up there, and we're still gonna eat every rad.

At the very least, we're going to have a full generation of very hard times, tougher than anything in living memory. I think we will be exceptionally fortunate if the United States continues to exist as the same legal entity.

In terms of likely outcome, my operating theory is that we'll go into a short-term deflationary crunch, but the Fed will open the floodgates and send us into an inflationary death spiral. Not just nasty horrible stagflation for two decades like we would have had from the Y2K pop, but an actual hyperinflationary death spiral for the dollar.

With fiat currency, I just don't think a true deflationary collapse is possible... although with the unbelievably massive leverage in the derivative positions, I suppose it could happen. Money could be destroyed from debt default faster than the Fed can lend new dollars into circulation.

There's one name you should remember in the coming crisis: Greenspan. This is all his doing. His refusal to ever allow a recession, ever, led us directly into this mess. He never met a problem he couldn't cover up with liquid paper.

I think Malor might be overstating the case when he talks about a generation of hard times. On the other hand, if China pulls the economic trigger, he might be understating it.

Anyway, the winds taste the same to me because as the tension builds I'm once again far from the places where the corpses will litter the ground if and when the hammer falls. Two and half decades ago I was in the far north of Canada, confident that we'd be able to sustain ourselves while the rest of the world went to hell. Now I'm in Korea, and if economic armageddon happens, once again I'm not directly in the line of fire. Once again, if it all goes to hell, I'll feel sorry for all the people (even the stupid ones who went for their two year no-money-down teaser-rate no-declare ARM mortgages for a McMansion they knew they couldn't afford) who lose it all. The rich will make it through, as they always do, this time with Bushy legislation and offshore accounts rather than hardened bunkers and hidey holes.

Well, I like to say I'll feel sorry about the end of days. I said to myself when I was 17 that I'd be sorry about all those crispy corpses down in CanadAmerica South. But not entirely sincere the sentiment, I have to admit, then or now. The truth is, of course, in some ways, on some days: I think I'd feel like pumping my fist, taking a deep breath, and shouting 'That's what you get for shortsighted greed and systematic stupidity, you bastards!' Or more succinctly, 'cause my wind is not what it once was, 'Suck it, dummies!'

I'm a bad man that way. Or part of me is and was, at least.

Bad things are going to happen to the Korean economy, certainly, if and when America's economy goes tits-up and takes the rest of the world with it. But if I lived in North America, if I was mortgaged to the hilt, if I was living from paycheck to paycheck, I'd be a lot more worried about it than I am here in Korea with my life savings in won and no debt.

Maybe we ought to buy some gold, though.

So I am back where I was when I was young -- a cleansing fire might just be what's needed to clean out the corruption and cauterize the wounds. Part of me almost looks forward to it. I'm not sure if I really believe that, or if it's just the romantic teen I was surfacing again for a last misanthropic gasp before he goes down into that dark cold water for the last time.

Either way: armageddon schadenfreude. It's not just a good name for a postmodern superhero.

[Update: more background material and some excellent explanations of the IMPENDING DOOOOOOOM in this MeFi thread.]

The main idea was to surface as much of the old content as possible to the front page, since I've been writing so infrequently lately -- there's some pretty good stuff back there, littered through the chaff. It's evolutionary rather than a complete reboot, and it's still boring, easy old blue and grey, and OMG WEB 2.0 GRADIENTS LOL, but it'll doooooo.

Archive pages are still sporting the old (and kind of broken) styles, but I'm hard at work eventually going to end up updating those too, and eventually some variation on the front page styling will migrate throughout the site.

The new Movable Type 4 templating, with its includes including includes which in turn include other stuff has pretty much broken my brain -- I'm not sure what they've done is entirely sensible from a usability point of view. Certainly it makes sense from the coder perspective -- best practices, all that modularization and refactoring -- but it's a freaking nightmare to develop your own templates. Still, though, just ripping the guts out of my old templates and wrapping the new design around them just worked, so that's good.

Anyway, I hope you like the new design. It looks right in all the browsers I've tested on WIndows -- IE, Firefox, Opera, and Safari -- but if you find any glaring problems, please drop a comment and let me know!

Update: I just noticed that the 6th Anniversary of the site (well, it was on Blogger for the first year or so, but still) was 10 days ago. Holy crap! That's about 11 minutes in Chicken Years!

A semi-major style reset is coming soonish, so I'm not going to spend too much time cleaning things up. As wee Derek's dad used to say in his amusingly authentic Scots brogue: it'll dooooo, lad.

I've decided to use XAMPP, an easy-to-install Apache distribution containing MySQL, PHP and Perl, which just works, basically, on Windows, no tweaking necessary (I'm still on XP2 SP2, despite being an early adopter of all Microsoft's previous OS's, which is a whole different story.) By exporting the data from this site using the old MT 3.3 export tool, importing it to a local copy of MT running on my machine here at home, I can develop and tweak everything a lot more quickly, and there's no risk of borking the actual site while I work out the kinks with the new design and the new template structure in MT4, which I'm excited (yes, I'm a geek) to fiddle with.

There are a couple of tutorials out there for getting MT working locally, but none of them actually worked for me by following their instructions, so after hours of fiddling, now that I've got it working, I thought I'd share The Secrets. Well secret if the ways of webservers are as arcane to you as they are to me.

The first few steps are easy.

1) Download XAMPP and install it. I installed it to c:\xampp\ to avoid funkiness with long filenames with spaces in them. [Update: word on the streets is that MT will crap itself if you try use to use a path with spaces in it, so c:\Program Files\ is probably a bad idea. Best to stick to c:\xampp\, unless, like me, you're a little compulsive about a clean root directory.]

Choose "No" (you can change this later) when asked to install as a service and "No" when asked to start the Control Panel.

2) Download the PERL 5.8.8-2.2.4 Add-on and install it. (This was the step that was missing from all the other tutorials I saw, and cost me hours of hair-pulling).

Double click the desktop icon and hit the appropriate buttons to start Apache and MySQL. Go to http://localhost in your favorite browser to see if everything's working. It should be fine. If you see the friendly orange XAMPP home page, you've got a working local web server.

2) Download the latest release of Movable Type and unzip it somewhere temporary.

3) Make a folder called 'mt' (no quotes) in your c:\xampp\cgi-bin\ folder (if you installed to the same location as I did (I'll assume henceforward that you did)).

4) Copy all of the Movable Type files (except the folder called 'mt-static') to that new location (ie c:\xampp\cgi-bin\mt\). Copy the 'mt-static' folder to c:\xampp\htdocs\ instead.

5) Edit the mt-config-original.cgi with Notepad or your favorite text editor. Mine looks like this:

mt-config.cgi

CGIPath    http://localhost/cgi-bin/mt/

StaticWebPath    http://localhost/mt-static

##### MYSQL #####

ObjectDriver DBI::mysql

Database mt

DBUser root

DBPassword

DBHost localhost

I've deleted the alternate database lines after what you see here. You can do the same, or comment out the lines with '#'. Save the file as mt-config.cgi (omitting the 'original' part).

6) Edit all of the rest of the .cgi files (other than the one you just edited) that are sitting in your c:\xampp\cgi-bin\mt\ folder. These are mt.cgi, mt-add-notify.cgi, mt-atom.cgi, mt-check.cgi and so on.

The first lines of each file will read

#!/usr/bin/perl -w

#!C:/xampp/perl/bin/perl -w

7) Go to http://localhost/cgi-bin/mt-check.cgi in your browser. If all is well, it'll run some tests, and come back to tell you all is well to proceed.

8) Go to http://localhost/cgi-bin/mt.cgi and fill in the forms with a username and password and so on. Note: if the forms are unstyled, you'll need to check that your path in mt-config.cgi is pointing correctly to your mt-static folder.

9) A few seconds later, you should be up and running in MT4 on your local machine. Yay!

Also, if anyone still wants an invite to Pownce, drop a comment on this post. I think I've got 8 or 10 still to give away. I haven't quite figured out what to use it for yet, but your mileage, as they say, might vary. Sure is neat-lookin', at least.

Share and enjoy.

VOTE WONDERCHICKEN! (You know, eventually.)

I am a donut.

But I swear by the Vengeful Bearded Deity of The Midwest, I will emerge from the media birth canal triumphant, only mildly crumpled and sweaty, and wiping god-goo from my forehead, stride manfully forward into the cleansing light of the television cameras.

Of course, there've been changes in the weblogging demographics, too, changes that Sixapart decided to chase with Typepad, the Livejournal aquisition, and Vox, possibly to the detriment of MT. The great majority of weblogs these days, I think it would be uncontroversial to say, are run by people who aren't particularly web-savvy, who don't care about the technology substrate, who don't write code and don't want to, and who are (and this continues to surprise me, because middling as my skills are, I'm in love with design) effectively blind to design. They're writing their hearts out, or posting pictures of their kitties, or socializing, or trying to build readership and get famous, or just make a buck.

This is in contrast to the first wave of webloggers, who started playing with this stuff from, say, '98 to around 2001. The tail end of that wave was when I hopped on. Back then, a lot of people were rolling their own content management systems, or (most of them) using Blogger or MT, basically. The relative complexity of MT was no great barrier to a lot of these folks, many of whom were techno-capable (or at least design-oriented) already. That's changed.

Which is all as it should be, to some extent, perhaps. Since back near the beginnings of the Blog Era, I've argued that it's all about the words. I'm starting to think that that's less true that I once thought, and wasn't even as true as I thought it was back when I thought it.

Use your words, stav.

So tools like Blogger continue to present a low barrier to entry, joined by LJ and Typepad and Vox and the very cool Tumblr and hosted Wordpress and all the rest, and down in the moshpit, social stuff like MySpace and Facebook. Wordpress appears, at least from where I stand, to have emerged triumphant in the host-your-own space, judging only from the enormous number of plugins and themes and tools available out there for it, and the number of high-profile old and new-school personal-website-maintainers that have adopted it.

I've tried to like it, but I can't get my head around the way it cobbles together pages, and I keep coming back to MT.

But I've felt in the past few years of the MT Diaspora that I was one of the lonely few, those last couple of people at the party who just won't go the hell home. I spent a great deal of time learning MT's ins and outs, learning to love the power of it, and getting pretty handy with it, if I do say so myself. Every time I thought about a new web project (most of which haven't seen the light of day, of course) that needed some form of structured content, I could always work out a way that MT would handle it. I still love the app, but I started to feel the way that people who never could make the jump from Wordperfect felt way back when, maybe, when it started to become less a de facto standard than a quirky outlier.

I watched Sixapart make all manner of bad and incomprehensible decisions (from the outsider's perspective, of course). It's unclear whether the mis-step and ensuing kerfuffle of the new and poorly thought-out licensing policy they introduced a couple of years back was the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning, but things started to seem to go sideways for MT around that time. And even though it turned out that a lot of the pushback and outrage amongst bloggers came as a result of poor corporate communication about the decision rather than the actual licensing changes, it was too late. The water was muddied. Successive revamps of the Movable Type section of the Sixapart site seemed like it was deliberately designed to show off the content-management aspects of MT in the worst possible light, and had to be offputting to anyone thinking of trying the application for the first time. Things became harder to find, the plugin directory was one-dimensionally hard-categorized, tag code examples (if you could find them) dried up and began disappearing entirely, it all seemed complicated and confusing, when the site that showcased the tool should have been showing it off in the best light.

Despite Anil Dash showing up everywhere MT was mentioned, it seemed, sometimes, and being consistently helpful and reasonable (Hi, Anil!), it has seemed for a couple of years that he was the only person left who actually gave a damn about the old-school MT community. I'm sure that impression was far from the truth of the matter, but it was discouraging, despite Anil's best efforts.

Until recently. Sixapart seems, to me, to be doing almost everything right with the new open-sourcing of a basic version of MT. They're running the beta wide-open, there's a nice big download button on the front page of the new movabletype.org website (as opposed to hiding the free version so deep in the last few revs of the .com site that I couldn't find the damn thing sometimes), they've put put up a new MTTags.com site with a whole bunch of reference materials (two tips there -- 1) don't link back to the execrable old movabletype.com reference materials 'for more information' please and 2) put a link to the MTTags site in a visible place on the movabletype.org site -- I had to search through old posts to find the URL!).

As far as the new application itself goes, well, it's evolutionary. I'm not overly thrilled or particularly disappointed, but I am happy to see that they're rethinking some things. The widgets still seem like a half-baked afterthought to me, and the theme management is still opaque to me (which doesn't matter, because I like to do my own css), but there are some good and interesting ideas there. I'll continue to use it, of course, unless they break it horribly. But all indications are that they're listening this time, and taking as much care as they can to make sure we know that.

The most important thing to me, though, is that MT 4.0 is going to have an open-source version, one with no licensing restrictions. I'll be able to use MT guilt-free to build sites for people, and if they want to buy a license later, that's up to them, regardless of what they use the site for. That makes me happy, because I still think that of all the tools in the same class that I've tried, MT is the one that works for me, and that I feel most comfortable building sites on.

Is it too little, too late? I don't know. I'm sure there are a lot of other people who've hung on, hoping for an MT Renaissance. And I hope that the kind of community that once existed around the tool, all plugins and widgets and themes mutual aid society, like the one that has grown up around Wordpress, will grow again. We'll see.