Coriolistic Anachronisms - A Vancouver Blog

Picasa, Chrome - Techie News and Big Brother

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 13:48:05 -0500

This is the 21st century. Not so long ago, that number was synonymous with science-fiction. The world was changing slowly enough that it would take a century for things to become fully weird and enhanced to the point of seeming magical.

Now our science-fiction horizon has shrunk to a few decades. And even as I write this, new discoveries are made and technologies released that make the present amazingly fleeting and regularly spark flashes of wonders and magic in real-time.

However, with a shorter fiction span, our capacity for amazement has also diminished. We are becoming dulled by all this extraordinary stuff we get bombarded with on a daily basis and things that maybe should leave us in awe barely register as cool and not bad.

In the techie news these days, two headlines have caught my attention. The first one is the release by Google of its beta web browser, Chrome. That Google should take such an avenue is hardly surprising. The web has become a superpower, taking an increasingly central place in our society; anybody smart - and the Google team obviously is - would decide that to better control such potential, one needs to diversify (check), innovate to capture the attention of a bored public (check), become better at what they do than anybody else (check), and offer not only tools, but the entire toolshed, complete with a roof, power supply and lighting. In comes Chrome. Check.

Claiming to be faster-than-any-other-browser-period, Google’s newcomer also features the company’s now legendary searching simplicity and more important yet, it takes a very large step towards independent web applications and the eventual - by unavoidable - complete bypass of operating systems (yeah, you can read Windows here, and not so between the lines) in favor of a fully sustainable web-based environment.

Chrome is only in its beta phase, of course. Lots remains to be said and done and bugs are very present, like a major incompatibility with Window Blinds which for now makes Chrome useless to me. But Firefox is feeling the heat and will issue a 3.1 release that aims at countering Chrome’s speed advantage. In any case, make no mistake about it: this is History in the making.

Then there’s Google’s (yes, them again) Picasa Web Albums latest innovation. You might have heard of face recognition technology; if you own a decent and recent point-and-shoot camera, the odds are you’re using it daily, knowingly or not. It detects human faces in a shot and allows the camera to focus and expose selectively. Picasa, being an online photo gallery system, obviously doesn’t have a need for focusing pictures. Instead, the design team has chosen to focus on labeling, which after all, is one of Google’s major strengths (think of Gmail’s very convenient labels).

So how does face recognition technology come into play within Picasa? Easy. Upon first use, the site scans your entire collection of photo albums, searching for faces and patterns. The process takes a few minutes, after which you are served probable matches, in groups of 5 to 15 or so pictures, of the same person. (Granted, I’m not the ideal test user because my Picasa albums feature predominantly... the same person.) Still. It bloody works. So all I had to do for most of these groups of pictures was assign a name tag to them, new or chosen from my contact list (uh-uh, Google’s tentacles already span many an application). That’s it. Fast and efficient. And from now on, Picasa will analyze the pictures I upload and scan them for faces, which if found, will trigger a rectangle overlay on the head and a prompt to tag, suggesting probable matches.

At that point, I have to take a deep breath. This is like being inside science-fiction itself. We’re not talking about a high-end covert application, here. This is for you and me. Millions of you and me. And it’s brought to you by Google.

Which reminds me: when Gmail first came out, its very essence yielded much controversy; the fact that every single message you ever wrote or received would be stored online and search-able by Google’s sophisticated algorithms caused much concern about privacy. Then the storm passed, mostly because people liked Gmail more than they disliked the vulnerability it implied. It’s a sign of times. Our notion of personal privacy has to be - and is - changing because whether we like it or not, in a world ruled by information and communications, there can be no such thing as complete privacy. We just have to live with it. And better ourselves so that the fear of seeing our secrets exposed diminishes. In a sense, Google and the like are for modern society what the church was in the past: a strong motivation not to sin, or else.

Now let’s get back to Picasa, and let me be the devil’s advocate for a moment. Millions of users. Billions of portraits analyzed, tagged and associated with email addresses and further contact info... Need I say more? What an incredible database for Big Brother to tap into. Because let’s face it, criminals own cameras too. You rob a 7-Eleven, the security cameras record your face. Police can’t come up with a match, only being able to search through criminal records, official ID’s and whatever other sources they have. BUT. What if they could search the Picasa database???

Sure, I know, they can’t. Oh but wait a minute. The privacy policies of such online services as Google promise to protect yours, unless required by law or to assist enforcement of said law. Oops. Big Brother 1. Visitors 0.

Still. What a cool toy for those of us who will be geeks before being afraid.

False alarm on False Creek

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 08:59:00 -0500

I thought it might have been the sunset of the century. I rushed out and ran to the C-shuttle stop only to find a notice of route deviation. So I went to the False Creek Ferries’ landing but it was Sunday and they were no longer crossing to the bottom of False Creek. I ran back up the hill and caught a bus on Davie. But once on board I realized we were going the wrong way, north almost to Burrard Inlet before turning east and eventually back south on Main. It’s because of the Nike Race, the driver told me, apologetic. There are road blocks everywhere. It’s been a hell of day.

When I shot off the bus at the train station a fantastic storm cloud was towering to the east, but I had no clear line of sight and none of the obstacles were worth showing. I pressed on towards the water, looking behind me as I walked fast. By the time I got to a spot where I could catch my breath and setup, the cloud had pretty much died and my sunset had misfired.

I took the time to shoot a few « I was there, any way » pictures and a pano, but I shot at too wide a focal length and my verticals are distorted. Later, in Photoshop, having stitched the 10 shots into a 239 mb file, it took me 2 attempts to apply the superb « denoise » action of FFDD6; it’s highly processor-intensive and on such a large file, it tests the very limits of my poor laptop’s endurance.

But all this is just a hazy blur. My mind is elsewhere. Soon, once again, as it has for over a year now and always will, time is going to contract itself like a snake recoiling before a bite, and then it will explode in all directions, hours turning into mere seconds and a week into an eternity. East is visiting West, the Big Apple meets the City of Glass, a terrace vs a balcony, so much fun in perspective it’s hard to breathe and accept this will not be it. Yet.

...

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 23:45:00 -0500

Not much to say. It’s hard to complain when widespread devastation is lurking in other people’s lives. And yet. I can’t live their life for them. But I must live mine in the most honorable and giving way I can.

The fact that I am shooting mostly sunsets, looking westward at the fleeting light and feeling darkness creep up behind me, is just a geographical coincidence. In effect, the opposite always happens. Light invariably comes in from the east and it’s westward that the night falls for me. If only I can manage to illustrate that light, I’ll be fulfilled. In photography and in real life.

Gustav - Part 2

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 17:27:00 -0500

I should have known better. As soon as it had cleared Jamaica, Gustav roared to life and has now become a strong Category 4, just about to make landfall in Cuba with wind gusts of 160 kts, or 288 km/h! Cubans are going to suffer dearly through that one, and then there’s Louisiana. Some things never change.

First erratic reports from Little Cayman are much worse than I’d hoped. It seems the dive boats broke their storm moorings and ended up on the beach, all docks have been washed away, there’s serious structural damage, power probably down. I don’t know what to say. Except that this is a good part of why I left.

My heart is with you all, down there.

...

Here is the data: storm track, visible satellite, infrared satellite and advisory. Notice the incredibly well shaped eye.

2008 Hurricane Season - Meet Gustav

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 11:41:00 -0500

It’s that time of the year, yet again. My heart goes out to all those who live in the tropics. And as Tropical Storm Gustav gathers strength and heads west across the Caribbean, many hearts in the Cayman Islands will remember Ivan and sink a little, and many, many more in New Orleans will think of Katrina and drown.

Gustav isn’t a monster, thank God. It’s currently cruising along westward at about 4 kts with a pressure of 983 mb and winds gusting at 75 kts. Expected to reach hurricane stage soon after arriving over Jamaica, Gustav should unleash sustained winds of 80 kts on Grand Cayman - which is smack on its current projected path - some time tomorrow night. Little Cayman probably will be all right as the storm will be passing by to the south, just like Ivan had done so.

Later on, and keeping in mind that long range forecasts yield a wider error margin, it should make landfall on the Continental US a touch west of New Orleans, as a category 2 hurricane with 100 kts sustained winds. Nothing like Katrina but enough to stir up trouble and reopen fragile, barely healed wounds.

Here are the current track, the infrared satellite and NOAA’s Environmental Visualization at 14:15Z Aug. 29, as well as Significant Event imagery. Fingers crossed.

[Aug. 29 update: Well, as of noon Cayman time, Gustav still hasn’t matured into a hurricane but has slipped to the north and is just about to run right over the Sister Islands. Now that it has cleared Jamaica, its path over open water will allow the storm to strengthen rapidly and the wind and seas should pick up. That’ll ruin diving for a while... I hope those coconuts have been cut down from the trees in front of the Hungry Iguana! Hopefully the seas won’t pick up to the point where they relocate docks. Good luck guys.]

Amazing macro work

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 10:17:00 -0500

In this very dark hour, I have chosen not to dwell on the difficulty of the moment - because in the end I am still the luckiest guy on Earth - but rather to concentrate on things that inspire me. Well, I just found one.

I have never been too impressed by macro photography and usually find bugs creepy. I know a cat who eats them. But there are people who photograph them, with various degrees of success. The following has made me rethink everything I thought I knew about macro photography and reevaluate the definition of « impossible ». In order not to steal the guy’s images, I’m linking below to 4 pages of his gallery with frantic enthusiasm and I hope you will take the time to browse, either through my selections or his.

If I ever caught a glimpse of photographic genius, this is one. I can only dream of some day managing to get results that would be a tenth as amazing as these. From what I gather, he shoots at dawn in the fall and uses bellows and either an enlarger lens or a standard 50mm lens that he doesn’t even reverse. I hear that people also get good results with the Canon MP-E 65mm Macro lens, but that’s out of my league. And then, where does one buy a few ounces of genius?

Here’s the work of Martin Amm from Germany. Kudos.

All of us sleepers must awaken

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 11:38:40 -0500

My favourite blog recently talked about the Evil Corn Giant and corn-fed beef. It got me thinking about the Meatrix, which I hadn’t watched in a while. So I decided to post the link again, because the Meatrix is all around us. Of course, it’s much funnier if you are an unconditional fan of the first (and only) movie of the original trilogy.

Waterloo on a trail

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 01:22:06 -0500

I pride myself on being fit. I steadily run my 10.5K twice a week. I work out. I eat well. I usually nurture dreams of grandeur and think no reasonable challenge is a match for my stamina. I’m my own hero. Duh! And today, at the apogee of my illusions, I hit a brick wall on a trail. Or rather, the trail hit me with everything it had and left me to struggle my way back through the deep puddle of my arrogance like a crippled invalid.

My three and a half - most cherished - readers might recall that I went last week-end on a recon’ of Lynn Headwaters Regional Park. Assessing it from the bottom end, much like ones road tests a sports car by sitting in the left seat at the dealer’s and running a loving, greedy hand on the leather interior, I had decided the area had strong potential for trail running. I stood by the park’s map for a long while and since I’d done the run from Lynn across the mountain to Deep Cove in the past, I opted for the opposite direction. I would aim towards Grouse. A glimpse of genius made me elect to run downhill, from Grouse to Headwaters, since it was my first attempt. It saved my butt. The opposite decision, given the circumstances, might have cost me a very embarrassing lot more. I shit you not.

So I get up this morning, in top shape, around 8:00 am. The weather has turned out to be cloudier than expected and I take my time leaving home since the heat won’t be so much of an issue. I make myself a tall coffee and, having had a cereal bowl during the night - I had a craving - completely forget to have breakfast. Absentmindedly contemplating my bi-weekly run around Stanley Park on which I carry no food nor water, and because today’s trail is slightly (!) longer at 14 km, I decide to bring a banana, an energy gel and my camelback water pouch, which I will fill up at the chalet before getting under way. And I completely forget to drink any water.

When I arrive at the top of Grouse on the Red Skyride around 11:15 am, the place is already packed. An uninterrupted line of week-end braves irrupts from the Grind - why they choose to do it on a Saturday at noon, staring at someone’s bottom up close all the way up, is beyond me. I feel great thinking that I’m headed the opposite way, into the wilderness. I eat my banana to celebrate and fill up the camelback from the faucet of the washrooms, and because of the location of my water source, only drink a few sips of water from the tap itself, and then I head for the trailhead after tightening my shoe laces.

When I start my stopwatch at the bottom of the actual Grouse Mountain, it’s 11:37 am. I walk uphill for 5 minutes to warm up further and then break into an easy run. The last time I had done this stretch after climbing the Grind, years ago, there was snow on the path and running was difficult. But today I feel strong and the road is clean. I’ve brought the G3 camera in a belt pouch and intend to take snapshots of the run. I have a plan. A map. A small folding pocket knife. A cell phone that will have temporary reception. Money, ID, bus pass. A gel. Water. I’ve left an itinerary and ETA with Marie.

I usually don’t try to run up the steepest section of a trail run I’ve never done before. Back in the Beloeil days, I could run all the way to the Pain de Sucre, but I had done the trail so many times I knew exactly how and when to pace. Today, I’ll run the flat parts, the safe descending ones and reasonable uphills. I’ll walk the rest. The map has revealed a very rugged trail. First, I must work my way over and around the succession of small peaks lined up behind Grouse. There’s Dam Mountain, Little and main Goat, and Crown in front of which I will cut south. The trail is narrow and very uneven, definitely not a good running trail. Muddy patches soon appear, reminder that even at the end of August, the snow isn’t long gone. I was so eager to leave the crowd behind that I only remember a half hour into the run to send my departure text message. It’s noon.

My pompous plan and best estimate is that it should take me about 45 minutes to get to Crown Pass, another 15 to 30 minutes to negotiate the steep rock slide down the pass, and I’d be left with maybe an hour or an hour and a half of running down Hanes Valley and south along Lynn Creek. I’ve estimated Time on Trail to 2 to 4 hours. I’m secretly hoping for 2:30.

The first bad surprise happens as I reach the slope leading down to the pass; I had hoped for a gentle incline but a more careful study of the map confirms a spectacular drop. It turns out to be so steep that not only is it not runnable, but there are metal chains running down the muddy rocky path and I spend way more time negotiating my way to the pass then I wanted.

At Crown Pass, I get a glance of Howe Sound but the best view is towards the east down the valley I’m headed into. I keep snapping a pictures of my progress. It’s 12:30. The knees are doing great, so is the overall shape. I realize I haven’t had any water yet and suck a few sips through the plastic tube. It tastes bad despite the careful wash I gave the camelback last night.

The rock slide too soon becomes a major obstacle to my run. Its boulders are unsteady and the path leads practically straight down, not a very smart way to draw such a vertical trail. I give up on running and try to keep a steady rhythm down while avoiding loose rocks and without sending them rolling down the slope, which I’ve always considered messy and dangerous. I’m having to take deep steps down and the thighs are working very hard. I pass a few people going up and exchange ritual mountain courtesies. I pity them, the hard part is still above them. A man tells me to watch out for the lower third of the slope where, he says, a recent landslide has brought a fresh cover of stones over un-melted snow, making the larger boulders unstable.

Towards the bottom, I pass a helipad and stop briefly to take an upward picture. I’m glad to be through the slide and the rocks. The ground has flattened out a little and becomes runnable again. I’m getting tired but figure the worse is over. I should now be able to run till the end. It’s 1:00 pm. My energy level feels low so I reach for the gel and swallow it down with some water while running carefully.

The trail now follows Hanes Creek from above and the sound of water is everywhere. Many smaller streams come down from the left slope and I have to slow to a halt in order to cross them. The map mentionned that they would not be passable after heavy rains; thank god it hasn’t rained much lately. I’m sweating heavily under the thick cover of trees despite only a very shy sun above the canopy. Time is slipping fast and this section is beginning to take longer than expected. I have to start reevaluating my timing. I should have found Norvan Falls already.

Then I get to a much larger river crossing and even though I can’t see a waterfall, I assume I’ve reached the point where I must cross the creek and angle south. The map, however, showed a bridge. I see none. The creek is flowing quite strongly and I lose precious time looking for a crossing. There’s a large tree trunk thrown across the gashing water and I attempt to cross there. That’s when I notice that my legs are very shaky. The simple task of balancing myself to the other side proves incredibly difficult and I slip off the tree, slightly hurting both my shoulder muscles in the short fall to big rocks below. The wood is wet and slippery. I decide to find another way to cross. 15 minutes later, I’m still on the western flank of the creek hesitating. This is not like me. I finally choose the narrowest and least exposed gap to jump over, knowing that I will land into a few inches of water and get my shoes wet, but that’s the best I an do.

It’s around 1:45 pm. I’ve been going for 2 hours. I think I still have half way to go. I climb the steep opposite bank and begin running again, wet and suddenly quite tired and shaken. After 10 minutes, I have to slow down to a walk, feeling empty. This is not looking good. My energy level should be much higher and the last part of the trail should be easy to run.

A large metal suspended bridge appears in front of me. I understand the previous crossing probably was Lynn Creek. I am now finally in the vicinity of Norvan Falls. But I feel so le tired that I don’t even look for them, snapping a single shot of the bridge. It’s now past two o’clock. A sign on the other side points towards the south. It reads: « Parking lot. 7 km. Allow 2:30 hrs. » I suddenly feel completely exhausted. My head is spinning, my breath short even on flat terrain and I’m getting nauseous. A fierce reality is taking shape: I will not be able to run down. I’m likely going to bust my ETA. I’ll be happy to make it out the trail period.

I start walking slowly, amazed by the speed at which my remaining power has suddenly drained. The insignificant weight of the mostly empty camelback is incredibly cumbersome and I have to take the camera belt off to relieve stomach cramps. Then my legs start cramping too.

The next hour and forty five will be, incredibly, a nightmare. I’ve completely given up on taking pictures. The only accurate way to describe my condition is a collapse. I’ve heard of marathon runners having this kind of completely debilitating episode and having to give up. Except I haven’t ran a marathon. My mind is working very slowly and the world around me goes by in a haze. I have absolutely no power of concentration and can’t focus on details. The thought crosses my confused brain that I must be completely dehydrated, but I have been sipping on my water at regular intervals. I must also be starved. I wonder about blood pressure. I’m not sure. I don’t really want to throw up because it would only empty my stomach even more and waste precious energy I must save to move forward.The am puzzled to be having such a hard time in such a friendly and green environment. Around me, no harsh sand dunes nor frozen Arctic ice. I’m surrounded by a lush and humid temperature rainforest.

I have to stop and sit regularly, unable to keep moving downhill on the path that is now large and easy. But sitting down doesn’t help and my breathing remains erratic, and what’s worse, my legs instantly want to cramp up badly. I’m not talking about the regular calf twitch I’ll eventually experience running on the Seawall. These are full-fledged cramps, starting high on the thighs and dashing all the way down to my ankles. The left side almost gets out of hands a couple of times and I only get it back under control my standing up and resuming my slow walk. I must be moving like an old man, unsteadily and hunched forward, hands on my hips as it seems to help with breathing. But I can’t really slow down because I must be on time for my arrival report. This is my fault and I won’t cause unnecessary worries if I can help it.

Many times, as people approach in the opposite direction, I prepare myself to ask them for energy food, but at the last second, pride prevails and I manage a few more steps towards the end of this trial. I can only remember feeling such extreme physical distress twice in my life. The first one was during my early days of high altitude mountain climbing when I was 14, in the Meije massif. The second was many years later, in the Costa Rican jungle. I had gone on a walk and misjudged the heat and humidity, and become highly dehydrated. I now recognize the symptoms. Extreme fatigue, dizziness, nausea, short breath. At least that’s what I’m thinking.

When I finally make it to the parking lot, I’m too weak to even rejoice. It’s taken four and a half hours. I run into a couple of guys I’d met at the top of the pass and beg them for a ride to civilization so that I can catch a cab. I have to intention of waiting for a bus and handling transfers and people. I can barely stand. They drop me off at a gas station in North Van and I ask the attendant to call me a cab, which he does immediately, pointing me to a chair. I must look comically horrible. There’s mud up to me knees and blood on one of my hands, from a sharp tree branch. I buy a Gatorade but barely manage to drink half of it. Thirst, surprisingly, has never kicked in.

The cab takes me back all the way home through light traffic. I open my door and can’t believe the shape I’m in, even though it’s already coming back very fast, probably from resting on the car ride. Je jure, once more, que l’on ne m’y prendra plus.

...

In retrospect, I made two serious mistakes. I didn’t have a healthy breakfast, and didn’t super-hydrate. My last liquid went back to the night before. Coffee doesn’t count. I had my last food back in the middle of the night. Later, a banana and a gel couldn’t compete. Why I didn’t think of all this, I just couldn’t say. I was probably lured into complacency by the easy rhythm of my regular runs.

A sign on the park map and board says « Be prepared! »

I was. But I wasn’t. And I met my Waterloo. Get it?

« Next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained. »
Source unkown
“The loss of the battle of Waterloo was the salvation of France.”
Thomas Jefferson

Pulsating

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 10:52:00 -0500

Darkness rains on troubled days, its drops slowly wetting each hour like as many poisoned pearls sliding down wet sticky hair, headed for the corners of a helpless mouth closed shut to swallow the unavoidable scream that lets air hiss in, along with the poison and a certitude that doubt remains for the time being and long after.

But then always the light bursts in, like Galadriel’s, and its unflinching rays begin a trembling dance, dissolving the madness and reaching for the deepest recesses, cleaning the shell from its hardened iron crust and eventually, when time has done its art, the only thing that remains, naked and exposed, is the essence of one, and two. Ready to fly again. And fall. Because everything is energy, and energy is waves. Rien ne se perd, rien ne se crée.

Consecration of butter

nospam@example.com (Vince) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 21:20:00 -0500

I recently stumbled upon a very interesting article reevaluating the importance of fat in our diet. It’s long and at times quite technical, but well worth reading. Like any other source of information, it should be cross-referenced and not necessarily taken for granted as is. But it makes a solid argument in favour - yes, you read well - in favour of cholesterol, and of eating butter.

Of course, as you might already know, I’m a little biased here. I love butter. And I am thrilled to read that some actually consider it to be a healthy cornerstone (ok, I might be exaggerating a bit) of many foreign diets, in cultures that have obviously avoided for the longest time, and despite a high consumption of animal fats and butter, the pitfalls of North American diet-related issues. This article and others around it are denouncing an agriculture industry-lead campaign against fat which in the end only reflects said industry’s need to get rid of it’s by-products (for instance pushing soy products as cure-alls when in fact it just has too much left-over from the soy-oil industry), a need that is met by inducing a trend of anti-fat diets that promote as « healthy » the very foods and habits that are weakening us as a modern specie.

The article says:

As a final example, let us consider the French. Anyone who has eaten his way across France has observed that the French diet is just loaded with saturated fats in the form of butter, eggs, cheese, cream, liver, meats and rich patés. Yet the French have a lower rate of coronary heart disease than many other western countries. In the United States, 315 of every 100,000 middle-aged men die of heart attacks each year; in France the rate is 145 per 100,000. In the Gascony region, where goose and duck liver form a staple of the diet, this rate is a remarkably low 80 per 100,000.25 This phenomenon has recently gained international attention as the French Paradox. (The French do suffer from many degenerative diseases, however. They eat large amounts of sugar and white flour and in recent years have succumbed to the timesaving temptations of processed foods.)

The French Paradox. I like that. I’ll reuse it. After all, this very blog received its name as a tribute to the apparent paradox of seeming out of place and time while in fact, both are just right. Wandering invariably yields wondering. But I digress. I find the comparison between North American and other regional dietary habits fascinating because it revolves about culture and ancestral practices opposed to media trends.

Margarine is such a North American media and cultural trend. It has banned butter off our tables and pretends to be a blessing if bought in low’s (low-fat, low-cholesterol, low-sodium, low-taste, low-price.) Here’s the article’s description of the hydrogenation process - and my Advisor should beam with satisfaction:

Hydrogenation: This is the process that turns polyunsaturates, normally liquid at room temperature, into fats that are solid at room temperature—margarine and shortening. To produce them, manufacturers begin with the cheapest oils—soy, corn, cottonseed or canola, already rancid from the extraction process—and mix them with tiny metal particles—usually nickel oxide. The oil with its nickel catalyst is then subjected to hydrogen gas in a high-pressure, high-temperature reactor. Next, soap-like emulsifiers and starch are squeezed into the mixture to give it a better consistency; the oil is yet again subjected to high temperatures when it is steam-cleaned. This removes its unpleasant odor. Margarine’s natural color, an unappetizing grey, is removed by bleach. Dyes and strong flavors must then be added to make it resemble butter. Finally, the mixture is compressed and packaged in blocks or tubs and sold as a health food.

The bottom line, sadly, as I have assumed for a long time and been explained more precisely recently by my Advisor, is that 90% of modern food is plain and simply... bad. We process everything and kill the good part of what we eat. That’s an unavoidable consequence of mass-production. So where do we stand? I don’t think that organic farming is productive and sustainable if a majority of the population was to wake up and smell the roses, so to speak, and decide to change their eating habits and go back to more natural whole foods. Maybe this is part of nature’s selection, survival of the fittest. Maybe with so many of us sharing such a small planet, only the ones who understand what they must eat can survive.

Maybe next time I’m out shopping at Wholefoods, Capers or some other expensive local healthy store, I should look around and think, not « Hello, all of you snobbish rich pricks who make me feel like I am wrong to buy my organics eggs for 10 times the price of regular ones » but rather « Hi, so, you too intend to survive past mankind’s present dietary madness and live old and happy? »

If we need to re-learn how to feed ourselves from scratch, how on Earth will we do it from the heart of our mega-cities? How on Earth will we be able to sustain a healthier diet of the mind and body and avoid society-induced cultural, political, physiological and ideological wide-spread cancer? And how on Earth do we get it to play along? The Earth.

Perhaps what we need is a butter-fly effect. So tomorrow morning, when shamelessly spreading bread on my butter, I will hope to be indirectly responsible for a shift in our worldwide dietary awareness, ten or twenty years from now. If nothing else, it will boost my ego. Then I’ll go run a trail behind Grouse Mountain. But that’s another story.

[PS Yes, that was the Liberty Bell. I’m not very good in US history. I heard about it for the first time in National Treasure. Duh.]