Conceived on or about the peak of the Baby Boom, by the educated son of Hungarian farm workers and the popular daughter of a separated (though well-connected) mother after they’d practiced with my older sister, I found childhood remarkably fun and easy, apart from being afflicted with four eyes, pigeon toes, piano lessons, and the nickname “Joe-eee”; Ancaster, Ontario (including my 21-year home base at 32 Enmore Ave.) in the ’60s and ’70s was a close approximation of paradise – every modern convenience, no heavy traffic or manufacturing, and fields and forests a short bike ride away. And with three sisters, playtime was only a few seconds away from suppertime, until they’d matured enough to understand the benefits of unionization. My father hooked me on books (as well as magazines like Readers Digest, National Geographic and Popular Science), except, of course, those found in schoolrooms, churches, and other non-Dewey conservatories.
Tired of practicing button-pushing sheet music, at the age of thirteen I learned how to play by ear by making the popular song “Sunny” sound more like the radio. This, in turn, led to the position of big frog in a small high school band, and the polite refusal of a paid-for post-secondary education. Inspired by the thought of a career path which would allow me to sleep in before spending the rest of the day lazing around, while providing money for nothing and chicks for free, I opted instead for enrollment in the polymathy and macroethics courses offered by Isaac Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein (extended to the other science courses offered by used-textbook salesmen), and the night courses in rockstardom offered by the Musicians’ Union, on Brewers’ Retail-owned campuses across northern Ontario.
After coming to the conclusion, however, that using my talents to drive alchoholics to drink, and myself down the paved road to hell on earth, was not the most ethical way of earning a living (and was, moreover, about as likely to make me rich as investing time and money in lottery tickets), I turned my back on the pleasantries offered by mainstream society, emerging only to unleash a youthful effort, The End of Unemployment, on unsuspecting sci.econ readers, as well as any local “Jobs, Jobs, Jobs” stalwarts (and there were many) I happened across. When this resulted in a deafening silence (I’d stumbled over Upton Sinclair’s verity concerning wage slavery, but since it was one among many, I’d packed it up in my brain-attic quotebook and hurried off as if nothing had happened), I felt compelled to try to explain the dissonance by renewing my studies in psychology (I knew my economics was not at fault). But it was not until I’d climbed the stairs from the dark cognitive basement, through the dimly lit behaviourist ground floor, to the sunny balcony of evolutionary psychology, that I found the answer: subevolutionism, or, in laymen’s terms, emotional slavery.
Since human nature showed no sign of changing any time soon, I took an extended sabbatical, spending the time turning my Casio playing into instrumental mp3s (through much editing), backyard parking space into gardens (through much excavating and sifting), and used building materials into building supplies (through much pulling of nails), interspersed with figuring out how to recreate my childhood paradise on a global scale without the use of fossil fuels. This led to the recording of Minimize Irreversibility and Kittens, a good supply of lumber, the design of the Solar Food Production Rowhouse, the development of my philosophy, antiirreversibilityism, and the formalization of my tax rationale: progressive personal-exemption spacial and temporal taxes levied on the consumption (including the consumption of good money known as income) of unsustainable, unhealthy, or antisocial types or amounts of physical or mental goods or services, in order to guarantee the positive right to self-improvement worldwide through United Nations equalization payments, or, in laymen’s terms, from each according to his feast of wealth, to each according to his famine of health.
I was awakened from my pleasant slumbers by a stylish boot genially applied to my cerebral posterior, the amygdalae and their crows of a feather, in the form of a free twelve-week subscription to the whist and whizdom of Canada’s national provisioner of high quality right-wing bathroom reading material. This in turn led to a predilection for the consumption of online news, and a crash course in the psychology of left- and rightheaded pundits. Recalling, however, my studies in Inuit transportation (dog teams work much better if there’s an attractive female in front) and Lucy Maud Montgomery (women are also capable of making the world a better place), I finally found my way to The Blue eCastle (though not, so far, to Valancy) at The Huffington Post.
To Be Continued…