Today is a big day, my dear readers. You’ve been with me through trials and tribulations aplenty over the last year and a bit: together we’ve taken on just about every major cultural institution that warrants my considerable attention, and I love you all dearly for it. Which is why I’m proud to inform you that today marks State of Affairs’ 200th official post. You may now commence celebration.
Hello my friends. I would apologize for my absence but doubtless you’ve become accustomed to it by now, so let’s forgo that nonsense and get right into it.
Hard as it might be to believe, I do spend some time away from my ubiquitous computer screen – sometimes, I even venture into the Great Outdoors (whose existence I’ve heard rumour of on the World Wide Web). Not often, but sometimes. Thankfully, I’ve recently secured myself a Lady Friend who is skilled in the ways of the woods (we’ll pause here so my unattached female readers can mourn my removal from the meat market), and she’s taken it upon herself to rouse me from my pseudo-intellectual torpor and drag me kicking and screaming from the comforts of modern technology into the vast, uncaring wilderness of Central Ontario.
Put plainly, she took me camping.
I have to tell you folks, I like this planet. No, I don’t hold a great deal of soft spots in my heart for the human plague that seems intent on eating it piece by piece until nothing remains but a brown rock floating in the cosmos, but Mama Earth is a pretty keen lady in my opinion. I’ve recently gotten back into being outdoorsy – I’m even going to try my hand at camping this year. I mean real camping; previously my experiences have had less to do with “camping” and more to do with “drinking in uncomfortable wooded locales”, so I’m going to do my best to expose myself to something more authentic this time around.
Yeah yeah, I know. Nuclear energy is way more complicated than Hollywood would have us believe. According to movies and the Department of Homeland Security, nuclear energy can be used to do just about anything, and your average ten year-old is fully capable of building one of those nifty Soviet-era suitcase nukes out of nothing more than a smidge of plutonium, a Meccano set and an Easy-Bake Oven.
Admit it. At one time or another, we’ve all thought we were pretty bad ass. Whether it was facing down that huge man at the bar who smelled of one too many lost rounds with Jack Daniels and looked like a leather handbag soaked in rage, or successfully completing Rush’s “YYZ” on Expert, or just telling off your boss in a hilarious tribute to Half-Baked, sooner or later everyone experiences a moment worth bragging about.
The internet is awesome, but sometimes it pisses me off. “But Alex”, you might be saying, “the internet is your bread and butter! How can you ever be angry at something that loves you so much? Why won’t you love me back? Was it something I said? I’ll make it up to you any way I can, I promise! I’ll nag less! I’ll stop sleeping around! Just come back, baby!”
One of the fundamental criticisms of my generation is that we don’t understand the value of money, and I suppose that’s probably a fair statement. All around me I see my contemporaries leaping gleefully onto each and every techno-gadget bandwagon that trundles by our metaphorical front doors; regardless of price, they must own the latest iWhatever, the high-end computer, the chic fashion.
But it’s not really their fault.