FINAL UPDATE: 20 NOV 2018

Growth. Our culture seems obsessed with it. Financial growth; personal growth; spiritual growth. Whether it’s more social media followers or a shaggier Chia Pet — everyone seeks more.

And since we’re humans, it’s not enough that we crave growth — we actually feel compelled to complain when it happens. In fact, we complain about it so often that we gave it a name: growing pains. But when was the last time you heard someone mention “shrinking pains?” We humans are just as capable of shrinking as growing, but you rarely hear anyone boasting about it.

In the last decade, the closest I’ve come to experiencing anything that resembled a “growing pain” was when my supply of toilet paper and paper towels ran out simultaneously, and I replenished both in a single Costco visit. The influx of rolled paper products was too much for my tiny condo to absorb. I slipped many of the larger rolls into pillow cases and placed them beneath real pillows on the bed, like a set of faux bolsters. Smaller rolls were wedged into the ceiling, like bundled stacks of drug money — nestled between the pipes, studs, and wiring conduits via an access hole for the water shutoff valve.

After that experience, I vowed to never again undertake such unfettered growth. Which, admittedly, was a rather easy vow to keep, since shrinking is a topic with which I’m far more familiar. Whether it’s shrinking income, shrinking influence, shrinking readership, or even shrinking height. Seriously, how is it I’m 2 cm shorter than I was twenty years ago?

When my “ex” moved out last year, she took a truckload of cookbooks, clothing, kitchen gadgets, plants, knick-knacks, keepsakes and furniture with her. In stark comparison to the paper products bonanza of yore, I found myself with the opposite problem: far less stuff than places to put it.

In order to give the illusion that I didn’t live in an empty condo, I became the great disperser. I mastered the art of taking a pair of empty cardboard boxes and arranging them jauntily on a shelving unit — making it look as if such minimalism was an actual choice. Two lone candle sticks sit at opposite ends of a shelf, the space between them a shrine to the beauty of negative space. A single camera was placed on another shelf — the expanse around it inviting guests to scrutinize the device as if it were an object of art, rather than an object to make art.

Once I tackled the visible void, I concerned myself with the cavernous emptiness of that which was hidden — the numerous empty drawers, kitchen cabinets and closets that, when opened, revealed nothing beyond another yawning chasm of zilch.

So I took my modicum of stuff from its two or three carefully organized locations and spread it around the condo — some charging cables and batteries in this drawer, a backup hard drive and some thumb drives in that cupboard, and so on. A single extra roll of dental floss took possession of an entire medicine cabinet; a bathmat for the unused second shower commandeered an expansive drawer in the vanity beneath the sink; a bass guitar hangs from an otherwise barren bedroom closet clothes rod. I repeatedly combed through my belongings, until I succeeded in placing something into every nook and cranny of the condo — a new, spacious spot for everything!

The result? In spite of the fact there is demonstrably less stuff in my condo now than two years ago, I can no longer find anything. It used to be, when I needed something, I knew exactly which drawer to empty out and search through. Now, searching for something is like a scavenger hunt — sifting through clues from my memory while I ransack the condo, opening every door and drawer in a frantic search for my pliers.

Ultimately, other than the fact people are less likely to share them on a world-renowned blogging site, shrinking pains are no different than growing pains — they’re merely a side effect of change. Personally, I don’t fear growth, and I don’t fear shrinking — both are the inevitable result of living, loving, experimenting, and evolving. The one thing I do fear is remaining static. Because nothing tortures me quite like the horror of stagnation pains.

In my day, we didn’t have some fancy smart phone to tell us what day it was — we had calendars. Made out of paper! With dates printed on the pages. The greater the number of calendars one had scribbled upon and discarded, the more one was thought to be ‘mature.’

But a calendar implies maturity like a “best before” date implies that a package of Strawberry Pop Tarts was ever good to begin with. That’s because calendars lie. Just like statistics. Or anyone who has ever responded to their dental hygienist by stating, “Yes, I floss after every meal.”

In spite of having personally discarded so many calendars that the local land fill was renamed in my honor, I never felt all that mature. Even though it takes me 17 minutes to scroll down through one of those new-fangled pop-up date fields when entering my birth year in an online form — I’m still not ready to give up giggling as a pastime. Besides, I’m a grown man who plays with synthesizers for a living. It’s fun, yes. But high school kids can bag french fries for more money than I make. And if you don’t think income and maturity have anything to do with one another, you’re probably not tuned-in to dating euphemisms, in which “mature” is a code word for “rich.”

So I simply came to accept “man child” as further proof of my Girlfriend Theorem calculations, and got on with the business of giggling at the wheezing, bubbling, alien burping sounds that I program into my synthesizers.

But one day, with no warning and without premonition, it happened — that one singular instant when a steel girder whacks you on the side of the head, knocking you clear across the divide and into maturity.

For me, that girder arrived in the form of a pineapple.

I’d returned from a trip to the grocery store and had just unloaded two bags full of blueberries, oranges, avocados, tomatoes, bok choy, broccolini, and other assorted fruits and vegetables — one of which was the pineapple now yielding to the ferocity of my knife.

And it dawned on me. There wasn’t a single processed food item in those bags. When did this happen? When did going to the grocery store not mean coming home with a couple sacks filled with frozen pizza, Hot Pockets, Stouffer’s lasagna, a baguette, pasta, runny cheese, Cheetos, chocolate chip cookies and a pint of ice cream?

What the hell happened to me?

I got… what’s the word for it?… Old!

Now this isn’t exactly new news. The mirrors in my home have been telling me this for years, and mirrors (unlike calendars) don’t lie. But the mirrors only tell you that you’re old on the outside. Those two sacks of groceries? They told me I was old on the inside.

I wasn’t quite sure what to think of the fact I’d now crossed the threshold to maturity. So I did what any mature man would do. I slumped into the sofa, grabbed the remote control, and surfed around until I found an old episode of “Murder, She Wrote” on the television.

Some time during the fifth commercial break for pharmaceuticals (“Ask your doctor about JOYarex™”), I started to feel a bit depressed about this whole maturity bag. All those ads — showing all those happy seniors walking arm-in-arm on a deserted beach at sunset — offered a far more enticing vision of maturity than sitting alone on the couch watching television. “Hey Siri,” I said to an iPhone so outdated that only a geezer could own it, “remind me to ask my doctor about JOYarex.”

By the seventh commercial break for pharmaceuticals (“side effects of YOUTHenasia™ may include misinterpretation of your intentions”), I decided to hunt for the bright side of this maturity issue. And while I didn’t manage to find an entire bright side, I was able to locate a few tiny patches of filtered light. So I’ve decided to embrace whatever speckles of sunlight exist, and incorporate them into my new mature lifestyle. I figured it would be preferable to succumbing to the allure of a YOUTHenasia prescription and its worrisome side effects.

So here are a few maturity-related lifestyle changes I’ve decided to adopt in an effort to act my age:

First, I will now refer to anyone under the age of 40 as a “whippersnapper.” Never mind that I don’t have any idea what this means — it just sounds mature. So I figure tossing the term around like a football at a backyard bar-b-que is bound to secure me the respect and admiration someone of my maturity deserves.

Second, any future “girlfriend” will now be referred to as “my lover.” Why tiptoe around semantics when the smile on my face will make it clearly evident what’s really going on. Introducing a woman as “my lover” paints me as both mature and suave.

Third, from here on out, I will spitefully reject any new technology, trend or methodology. “What’s that a drone? If I need to photograph from a high angle, I’ll carry a ladder, the way nature intended!”

And finally, because youth always appreciates hearing about the hardships endured by their elders, every article I write will now begin with the words, “In my day…”

I’ve been going to the gym for nearly five years now. Most times, I’m the only one there — which is nice because no one will see me hyperventilate. I toil away, lost in a hazy sort of half-meditative state built specifically to shelter my conscious mind from the horrors of physical exertion. There is only silence, punctuated by the clanking of machinery, grunting, and (when things get a bit intense) a mumbled outburst of glossolalia from my inner-demons, who apparently dislike agony as much as I.

When there are others present, they’re usually the type who prefer the idea of working out more than the actual act. In spite of that whole introverted, introspective, misanthropic vibe of mine, I actually enjoy sharing the gym with these folks. Seeing them makes me feel like I’m some kind of super athlete. I’m not, of course, but when I workout, I workout to excess. Grumpy demons not withstanding, I’m there to do a job — and I get down to it. So when I see these people walk in, lounge around, lift a weight or two; check their cell phones; send some texts; take a few selfies; walk on a treadmill for two minutes and then preen endlessly in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, I ask myself: “Who do they think they’re kidding?” Going to the gym is not the same thing as working out. You don’t lose weight, tone muscle, build strength, or improve your cardiovascular system by some contact osmosis with gymnasium air. People who frequently brag about having just spent an hour at the gym are probably telling the truth — but what they haven’t told you is they spent that hour catching up on their Instagram feed. So when I share the gym with these folks, I get to feel smug. Which is fun. I don’t get to feel smug very often.

But once in a blue moon, a yoga girl shows up. I never know where they came from or why they chose to exercise in my building on that particular day. I only know that they pop in, make me feel totally inadequate, and then disappear — never to be seen again. I’m not talking about the sort of yoga girl who signs up for the occasional class so she has an excuse to buy some new Lululemon pants and indulge in a post-yoga blueberry peach cinnamon soy milk chocolate chip honey banana smoothie. I’m talking about real yoga girls — with their nitinol bones and chimp-humbling feats of strength. Real yoga girls are real athletes. So whenever one enters the gym, all my smugness evaporates and my workout routine becomes anything but.

Yesterday was one of those once-in-a-blue-moon days. The girl wasn’t exactly what I’d call ‘my type,’ but she did have a body that was seemingly carved from a block of solid velvet — reason enough to send my hormones scurrying about like a bunch of headless chickens.

Now in spite of my actions suggesting otherwise, I’m not an idiot. I know there’s exactly zero hope that any yoga girl will ever acknowledge my existence, and I have plenty of first-hand experience to support my hopelessness. But headless hormones are senseless hormones, so I did what I always do: I shifted my workout into overdrive in an effort to impress her with my own brand of stoic athleticism. Never mind that my workout routine is already designed to drive me to near extinction. More weight! More reps! More speed! More everything! It was perhaps the most gut-wrenching workout of my life, and I had every right to feel proud — had I not felt so ashamed of my fatuous motivations.

Eventually, the inevitable came knocking — as the inevitable always does — and I reached that point where the body cries uncle, and starts shutting itself down. The ears are the first to surrender — relinquishing their demand for blood and resulting in the sudden cessation of all sound. The eyes go soon after and the room grows dimmer than midnight under a new moon. My head spins and gravity begins to exert itself, as if trying to screw my body into the floor.

With unconsciousness looming, I weighed the optics of passing out in the middle of the gym vs. quitting and going back upstairs. Exhibiting my first bit of common sense in nearly an hour, I chose to slink out of the gym and into the hallway to catch the next elevator.

Surprisingly, she exited the gym 20 seconds after I did — coinciding with the elevator’s arrival. I held the door. She stepped in, pushed the button for her floor and flashed me a smile. The sheer novelty of her acknowledgement collided head on with my patented brand of social ineptness, and I realized I hadn’t a clue what to say. Which is why I then asked, “are you one of those people who actually likes to work out?”

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “I love it. I’ll work out 4 or 5 hours a day when I get a chance. There’s nothing I enjoy more than being in the gym. What about you?”

Either the girl was nearsighted or my physical prowess actually fooled a real yoga girl into believing I was a machine of a man. I could have lied. Maybe I should have lied. But lying just isn’t in my DNA. Besides, my heart was currently diverting blood away from the body’s more motivational organs and toward what it deemed to be my most pressing bodily function — remaining upright and conscious.

“I hate it.” I answered. “I’ve hated it for years. I hated it today. I’ll hate it tomorrow. I’ll hate it until I die.”

She looked stunned, but I wasn’t done. “Honestly,” I continued, “I think that whole endorphins thing is a myth; a fictitious drug conceived by the fitness industry and marketed to people who want to believe they can get high without sticking a needle in their arm and transacting business in a seedy urban back alley.”

Apparently real yoga girls don’t value honesty as highly as I do, because her smile disappeared and a stony silence filled the elevator, for what seemed like hours, until we arrived at her floor. “This is me,” she said, hurriedly slipping her solid velvet body through the tiny crack of a doorway not yet a quarter of the way open.

“Just as well,” I thought to myself. “She’s probably going to grab a spoonful of quinoa before heading out for a 10 mile jog around the seawall.” Knowing that my own post-workout plans involved a short shower and a long nap, I took comfort in the fact that she wasn’t exactly what I’d call ‘my type.’

I have two announcements to make. One is that today marks the end of the ULTRAsomething site; and two is that today marks the beginning of the ULTRAsomething site.

Each announcement warrants a bit of exposition.

The End

I’ll let you in on a little secret. I had every intention of shutting down this site on 14 Dec 2018, which will be the 10th anniversary of the first ULTRAsomething post.

When I started the “blog” (an anachronistic term at this point), I pledged to myself that I would write at least one post every calendar month. No matter if I was sick; or busy; or grumpy; or simply had nothing to say — I was going to be no less disciplined than the folks at the utility company, who never once failed to present me with my monthly electric bill.

Unfortunately, I neglected to set an expiry date for this little exercise. Looking back, I think I expected the site to last no more than a year or two. Surely, by that time, I would have sold the movie rights; Ryan Gosling would have won an Oscar for his portrayal of me; and I’d be pimping my latest collection of bound essays on the late-night talkshow circuit.

By year three, it was apparent this scenario might have been a wee bit optimistic. So I trudged on and continued to honor my pledge. It wasn’t always easy, and I had to get a bit creative on occasion — once going so far as to post an article on the final day of the month, which stated simply that I was posting an article just so I could say I posted an article. Think what you want about ULTRAsomething, but I’ve never been afraid to go ‘meta.’

I believe it was at this exact point, seven years in, when I finally faced facts: ULTRAsomething was an albatross, and I needed an exit strategy. So I decided to give myself three more years, and then pull the plug on the site’s 10th birthday. Ten years sounded like a masochistically impressive number — one that would hopefully convince someone to bother writing me an obituary one day.

The dream of ULTRAsomething’s cessation sustained and nourished me for a full three years. “31 more articles to go.” “30 more articles to go.” “29 more articles to go…”

Earlier this year, when the countdown reached “9,” I started to think more seriously about the finale. Should I simply surprise everyone with a “Sayounara Suckers!” post on December 14th? Or should I have a protracted farewell in which I express heartfelt thanks to my 17 faithful readers, and ride into the sunset on the back of a few ‘greatest hits’ and ‘fondest memories’ posts?

The more I planned for ULTRAsomething’s demise, the more I realized I couldn’t picture my life without it. Without ULTRAsomething, how would I artificially justify my existence? What would happen if I finally took a good photo, but no longer had a place to post it? What if I had a thought, which I knew would appeal to at least 6 of those 17 readers? How would I share it with them? What would be my new, post-ULTRAsomething identity? Would I even have an identity?

Fear and uncertainty were beginning to taint my feelings of jubilant anticipation. So I asked myself a difficult question: Is pulling the plug really the best solution?

I am at the corner of yesterday and tomorrow. I know where I came from; I know where I am; but where will I go? I have three choices. One, I can terminate the site as originally intended, allowing ULTRAsomething to die with dignity and a modicum of grace. Two, I can let it live as it has — watching it dodder and drool to a feeble and insignificant conclusion. Or three, I can have it murdered!

The Beginning

The lurid sensationalism of the murder option is simply too attractive to ignore. So here’s what’s happening: Rather than heroically pulling the plug on December 14th; and rather than gutlessly watching ULTRAsomething stagger and stumble towards oblivion; I am going to strip it naked, cover it in wildebeest blood, strap a parachute to its back, and drop it smack into the middle of the Olare Motorogi Conservancy in Maasai Mara.

In less metaphorical terms, this means I’m shedding myself of the old notion that articles must somehow tangentially relate to photography, music, or the creative process. Rather, the site is simply going to be the creative process. I’m going to write what I want, when I want, as often as I want. If I don’t wish to write an article one month, I won’t. If I wish to write three articles one month, I will. If I wish to write a detailed compendium on the history of the slide rule, you’ll get to read it. A collection of gluten-free cricket recipes? Why not? I might even get around to finishing my dissertation on the comparative charms of various 1970’s Italian cinema genre actresses (spoiler alert: Edwige Fenech comes out on top).

Freed from its self-imposed tyranny, ULTRAsomething will no longer pretend to be a niche site. Instead, it will pretend to be a frothy, general-interest, lifestyle and entertainment site. Which means it will compete head-to-head with other such sites — most of which seem to thrive on salacious celebrity gossip, fashion tips, and a miles-long stream of food photos and selfies. If you’re wondering how something as contrarian as ULTRAsomething can possibly survive when pitted against such banality in a battle for internet traffic, then you understand the metaphor — it can’t! And therein is the genius of my murder plan.

Practically speaking, I’m still me. So every topic, no matter how serious or consequential, will be approached with the usual flippantly sardonic irreverence. Which means the majority of my 17 readers might not actually notice much of a change — save for an even more pronounced absence of words like “f/stop” and “focal length.” But just to make certain this titanic shift in direction doesn’t go completely unnoticed, I’ve designed a new site logo to replace the one I’ve used since 2002.

I’m sure some of you have questions. So as the new ULTRAsomething’s first order of business, I’ve prepared a detailed, relevant and hopefully helpful FAQ.

FAQ

Q: Do any of these changes affect me at all?
A: Yes. Your life will become demonstrably better in every possible way, but you will inevitably fail to connect your newfound happiness to ULTRAsomething — misattributing it to your new promotion; your new lover; or your recent lottery winnings.

Q: I’m filthy rich and already own a Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita, Bugatti Veyron, and an Aston Martin Valkyrie. Rather than sullying my collection with something as pedestrian as a McLaren P1, I’d prefer to invest in ULTRAsomething, which I’m sure will give me far more enjoyment. How should I do this?
A: You can donate small sums of cash through the site’s DONATE link — easily the ‘best kept’ secret in the 10 year history of this site. Sums of six-figures or more may be wired directly from your bank to mine. Contact me.

Q: If I donate to ULTRAsomething, does that mean I have the right to request topics for articles?
A: Yes. But your requests will have absolutely no bearing on what I choose to write or publish.

Q: I couldn’t be bothered to actually read this article. Are you saying that ULTRAsomething will no longer be a photography blog?
A: ULTRAsomething was never a photography blog. It was always an exercise in existentialism, which I linked clumsily to photography as a way to trick people into reading it. ULTRAsomething will continue to be an exercise in existentialism, minus the blatant photographic pandering. However, there will still be plenty of photos integrated into the site, and perhaps even the occasional article about those photos. I consider the language of photography to be every bit as important to this site as the language of words. It’s just that those words don’t need to be about photography.

Q: I’m so glad you’ve decided not to pull the plug on ULTRAsomething come December 14th. Do you have any idea how much longer you’ll continue to publish it?
A: No. But if all goes according to plan, pronounced reader apathy should effectively kill it on or about that same date.

I’m so happy to live in the era of “prestige TV.” I doubt such shows as The Love Boat, Fantasy Island or The Six Million Dollar Man would have been nearly so effective at mitigating my mopiness. Really, how did people manage to survive divorce in the years before Netflix?

Unfortunately, after working feverishly this past year to add ‘international crime series authority’ to my already overly-specialized resume, the “prestige show” queue is running dry. Which means I might soon need to face up to the whole dating problem.

Truth is, it’s not like I haven’t been looking for a date. I have. It’s the finding part that I’m particularly bad at.

Initially, I didn’t think landing a date would be overly difficult. I eat well, exercise, don’t drink, and have a BMI lower than 98% of North American men in my age group. I have all my hair – even if a quarter of those hairs are grey. I respect my partner’s autonomy, value her needs, and I do a reasonable job arranging the smoke and mirrors to give the illusion of intelligence.

Yet here I am, over a year into the hunt, and my “find a date” success rate is humming along at a cool 0%. You’d think, with 7.6 billion people in the world, that my odds would be pretty good. So why am I now re-watching shows I’ve already seen? Sure, I enjoyed all 18 episodes of Jordskott, but do I really need to be watching it a second time?

So I decided to sit down, crunch some numbers, and figure out why 7.6 billion people isn’t a large enough pool from which to draw.

The first calculation was the easiest. There are two sexes. And in spite of the fact it outs me as “old fashioned,” I must admit I’m one of those men who likes my romantic entanglements to involve women. Exclusively women. So just like that, 51% of the world’s population disappears from my prospects pool simply because I’ve got a thing for twin X chromosomes. That leaves me with a pool of 3.72 billion.

Obviously, I’m not going to date kids, teenagers, 20-somethings, septuagenarians, octogenarians, nonagenarians or centenarians. First, that would be creepy. Second, that would be really creepy. Ultimately, only about 30% of those 3.72 billion women are likely to fall into a category I’d consider “age appropriate.”

Even worse, age-particular as I may be, I suspect many women would not define “age appropriate” quite as liberally as I — so in reality, that number likely diminishes to 15% of the female population. Which means my cornucopia of promise is down to only 558 million options.

Roughly half the women in the world are single, but in my “age appropriate group,” that number probably sits at 25%. Tops. So my future girlfriend must come from a pool of 140 million.

5% of the world speaks English as their first language. I’m guessing the number doubles if I include those for whom it’s a second language. Other than my aforementioned attributes, my wit is probably my best lure. And since that wit is wholly dependent on the English language, that means only about 10% of the fish will be biting in this particular sea — so I’m down to 14 million possible partners.

But that’s a worldwide number. Geographical separation means I’ll never have any opportunity to meet the vast majority of these women. And while this website does have a rather extensive international reach, site stats inform me that reach is almost exclusively male. So any future date will likely come from the 0.05% of that English speaking population that actually resides somewhere within the Greater Vancouver Area. 0.05% of 14 million leaves me with a pool of 7,000 women.

Now let’s be realistic. Coquitlam, Surrey, Delta, Richmond, Langley, North Vancouver and scores of other cities are all part of “the Greater Vancouver Region.” They’re also cities I haven’t been to in years. Heck, I doubt I’ve even been to 80% of the neighborhoods within Vancouver’s own city limits in the last decade. So just because there’s a pool of 7,000 potential partners in the Greater Vancouver Region doesn’t mean I’ll meet all 7,000 of them.

Let’s say I go out of my way to crash every party, attend every event, join every Meetup group, and never go to the same grocery store twice. Would I even come in contact with 5% of the total pool? Probably not. But I’m trying to be optimistic, so I’m going to say 5% is possible if I’m willing to quit my job, give up making music and dedicate myself to becoming the world’s most social introvert. That leaves me with a pool of 350 women.

But 350 is a raw total. I haven’t even started to account for the laws of chemistry and attraction. Quite frankly, I’m not likely to fall for just any English speaking, age appropriate female that I meet. Similar values, compatible interests, mutual respect, and that all important “spark” are necessary variables. So how should I weight these? I decided the answer lies with the poets, who for eons have told us that there’s just “one in a million” people to whom we will be attracted. The problem, of course, is that my pool size isn’t a million; it’s 350. Which means I’m 999,650 women short of the number I need to meet if I’m hoping for guaranteed success. This shortage leaves me with only a 1 in 2857 chance at romance.

Of course attraction works both ways. Just because there’s a 1 in 2857 shot that my one-in-a-million girl lies within my meetable pool of potential mates, that doesn’t imply she’ll necessarily consider me to be her one-in-a-million. A staggering number of single men are wading through this very same pool, competing for the same women. And frankly, given that my current income is squarely commensurate with my lifelong dedication to music, I’m not sure that either my stellar BMI ranking nor my smoke & mirrors intelligence will spark many flames. And let’s be honest — mathematically calculating the probability of romantic involvement is a surefire recipe for diminishing that probability. So when I apply some basic statistics formulas and combine the odds that my one-in-a-million is in a pool of only 350 with the odds that she’ll see me as her one-in-a-million, I reach the final number:

I have a 1 in 2.86 billion chance to find a girlfriend.

That’s a rather staggering number. Particularly when you consider that the odds of winning Canada’s 6/49 lottery are only 1 in 14 million, while the odds of winning the more lucrative Lotto Max draw are only 1 in 28 million — a likelihood that’s actually 1000 times more probable than me not having to watch Jordskott several dozen more times before I die.

So yesterday, rather than turning left into a cafe and plunking down $3 for an espresso and the hope of a serendipitous meeting, I turned right. Strolling into a small convenience store, I approached the counter, handed over that $3 to the cashier, and left gripping my very own lottery ticket. Sometimes, in life, you just gotta go with the better odds.

Several years ago, when this site was popular enough to garner the occasional mention in photo-related publications, I decided to set up a Google alert for my own name. Silly? Probably. Self-absorbed? Most decidedly. But it was an effortless way to keep an eye on my online image — just in case something I photographed or wrote went inexplicably viral.

While a few posts did unleash some minor epidemics, my natural contrarianism insured none of them graduated into a full-scale pandemic. Eventually, as my popularity waned, the Google alerts became less about me and more about other unfortunate dudes who just happened to share my name.

At this point, had I any sense, I would have cancelled the Google alert. But no. I didn’t. I couldn’t. There’s just something so disturbingly irresistible about getting alerted to news stories that look like they’re about you, but aren’t.

Your name is all over that thing. Someone’s quoting you; arresting you; interviewing you; eulogizing you. Only it’s not you. It’s downright creepy. It’s as if there are parallel universes in which you’re living parallel lives, but thanks to the butterfly effect, your paths have diverged so substantially that only your name links you across worlds.

Recently, for example, one of my namesakes was praised in his city’s local paper for inviting a young boy to sit beside him while he played organ in church — even allowing the child to press a prescribed key at certain times during the performance! It was a news story without even the slightest hint of newsworthiness — the sort of reporting that’s so fluffy it makes dryer lint jealous. And yet I was riveted! Bizarro me, it turns out, is a musician too! And he’s interested in sharing what he knows with others! Attaboy, organ me! Apparently, not every butterfly impacts every event equally.

A couple months ago, I read about another of my doppelnamens who got ticked off, and took a sledgehammer to 12 police cars in a parking lot. Not that I’m condoning this sort of thing, but I must admit to having felt a modicum of pride at getting to “stick it to the man” without actually compromising my own spotless criminal record or moral code. I did, however, find myself somewhat mystified by the fact that my namesake caused only $4900 worth of damage. $4900?! With a parking lot full of cars and a sledgehammer in hand? “The real me,” I thought, “would have easily hammered his way north of $10,000!”

More often than not though, news of my doppelnamens is purely pedestrian and utterly banal. I’ve retired. Or I’ve been appointed chair of some horrifically boring committee. Or I’ve died. I do find the obituaries particularly unsettling — especially when the doppelnamen is the same age as I am.

I’ll be the first to admit that such behavior might just be a teensy-weensy bit voyeuristic. But I figure it’s nowhere near as bad as those people who stalk old friends and lovers on Facebook. At least I’m only creeping on myself… well, sort of…

I wonder though — have my namesakes also enabled Google alerts? And if so, how many of them saw some photograph I’d taken, listened to some song I’d written, or read some twisted essay about folding time or celebrating National Biplane Lady Day, and then panic-called friends and family members to assure them it wasn’t he who was responsible!

Life in the 21st Century. A little to love; a little to loathe… but oh so entertaining.

Maybe you’re searching for a coven of witches to put a hex on that obnoxious coworker who habitually steals your lunch from the office fridge. Or perhaps you need the services of a professional cleaner to, um, tidy up that little disagreement that turned a bit uglier than anticipated. Or maybe it’s something simply as innocent as wanting to chill out in San Sebastián for a couple of weeks without damaging your own credit rating.

Where do you turn?

The dark web.

At least that’s what I’ve learned from streaming perhaps a few too many Scandinavian Noirs and other assorted European crime series.

So just how the heck do I get on the dark web? If all these television shows are to be believed (and why wouldn’t they be?), it seems everyone on earth knows the secret handshake except me.

I’m reasonably certain that step 1 is to get myself a decent VPN to obscure both my identity and my location. Most Canadians did just that back when it was possible to trick Netflix into streaming U.S. content north of the border. Alas, I was so awash in the aforementioned Scandinavian Noir crime thrillers that I had no interest in American content. So I’m already behind the curve.

I reckon too that I’ll need a browser that’s perhaps a bit more ‘specialized’ than Safari. Google Chrome maybe? And I’ll obviously want some Bitcoins or other cryptocurrency to pay for my nefarious purchases. Actually, come to think of it, Kodak has recently entered the cryptocurrency game. So maybe I’ll just buy a few kodacoins next time I visit the local camera store for another brick of Tri-X.

Beyond that? I’m not sure what to do.

Mind you, I’m not actually looking to put a hex on anybody — though I will reluctantly admit that my dating prospects are so abysmal that I‘ve recently moved “witches” from the ‘unacceptable companions’ list to the ‘acceptable’ list.

No, the reason I want to get on the dark web is that I’m fairly sure it’s where most of the ULTRAsomething readers are. It must be, ’cause there certainly aren’t many visiting this site on the “light web” any more. And since I’m nothing if not a servant to my readers, how can I obey without knowing which content they find most engaging? What photos do they like? What music? What articles? Are people praising me on the dark forums or bashing me? Sure, I’ve received my fair share of vitriol on the light web, and I couldn’t care less. But dark web vitriol? I mean, you know, they’ve got assassins!

So obviously, accessing the dark web is imperative. But until I gain the necessary knowledge to do so, I’m erring on the side of caution — guessing what sort of content its dark denizens prefer; and publishing only content of that sort. It’s a decision that might just save my life. And if it happens to increase my odds of bewitchment? Well, that’s what I’d call a ‘win-win.’

The world abhors disorder and embraces equilibrium. Yins need yangs. Dogs need cats. It’s the whole “for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction” thing. Or as I like to think of it, “there are people who suck and people who blow.”

Curiously, most folks consider these to be one and the same. In the common vernacular, saying “ULTRAsomething sucks” is perceived as having the same meaning as saying, “ULTRAsomething blows.” But here’s the thing — I only agree with one of those statements.

It’s curious that sucking and blowing have become synonyms, since one obviously involves inhalation and one exhalation. Physically, we all do both — equilibrium. But metaphorically, we tend to favour one over the other.

Personally, I much prefer people who blow to people who suck. People who suck consume more of the world’s energy, creativity, knowledge and compassion than they replenish. We all know people whose very existence drains us of our own vitality, and who reduce our stockpile of enthusiasm to levels barely adequate to sustain an evening of Netflix binging. Soul vampires.

We also all know people from whom new ideas flow easily; whose presence energizes the room or whose generosity is above reproach. Soul nourishers.

The reality, of course, is that we all suck a little and we all blow a little. But there are very few people who do this in equilibrium. Rather, equilibrium is achieved on a global macrocosmic level — where society, as a whole, manages to both suck and blow in proportion.

I definitely strive to be someone who blows. Granted, I don’t blow anywhere near as demonstratively as a Mother Teresa or a Ghandi. But then, to compensate for my moderate blow levels, I do try to subsist on the most minuscule quantities of suck.

And that’s why I’m perfectly fine with the notion that ULTRAsomething blows — after all, it has no real purpose other than to hopefully inspire others to blow. Its mission is to give a (very) little something to this world — to improve it in some microscopic way; to advance society by a nano-nudge.

So a tip of my hat and a hearty and heartfelt “thanks for noticing” to all those readers who, for all these years, have proclaimed that ULTRAsomething blows. And to all those who have suggested ULTRAsomething sucks? All I can say is “your ignorance is showing.”