Teetering on the Ontological.

Nemesis.

Universal truth. 

The world would be better of, you would be better off, the country would be better off, every agency you've ever worked for would be better off, if we would all take a moment in consider the ancient Greek concepts--the Universal Laws of Hubris and its inevitable companion Nemesis.

(BTW, Hubris is not to be confused with U-Bris, a failed DIY-home-circumcision kit I had as a client for a while.)

Ideas come and go.

We change how kids learn math and reading.

One generation decides that you must put kids to sleep on their bellies. The next avalanches in and decides kids should sleep on their backs. 

If you're of a certain age, a simple chicken egg has gone from absolute taboo to two-a-week to good for you and probably back again and again two of three times. 92-percent of my readers likely subsist on coffee and have likely engaged with the sorts of articles here:

These things come and go.

They are subject to trends, habits, and opinions. 

But some things, like Hubris and Nemesis are under sway of much more powerful forces. 

They are governed by Natural Law. The inevitability of the universe. As count-on-able as the tides, the sunrise, blowhard creative directors and bad airline food.

There are probably more academic, more Sophoclean definitions of Hubris. But given the state of education, attention and distraction today, I'll proffer this succinct vernacular one: Hubris is when you get too big for your britches. When you start believing your godliness. When you come to the (false) realization that your shit don't stink.

Likewise there are more technically accurate descriptions of Nemesis, the foe that always shows up. But I'll leave it, hopefully mnemonically, as this: Nemesis is your come-uppance. When you get what's coming to you. 

If you want a clearer, more entertaining depiction, you might want to watch an old Hollywood gangster movie, like "Little Caesar." The two-hundred and forty-six seconds here should     do it.

From Hubris to Nemesis in 4:06.

What brings all this on is an article I read in the Times on Monday from their long-time columnist, Frank Bruni. The Times' subject line says it all. And practically wrote this post for me.

Until this actually happens of course, it remains only an emanation devoutly to be wished. Nemesis--despite Bruni's optimism has yet to appear in the ballot box. The much-hoped-for "blue wave," might not appear, it might be abnegated by corruption, or some other lever of deceit might be applied. There are many--and they're multiplying. There's also the tumpian fascist specter of federal troops. Or the stalinist precept of "it's not who votes, it's who counts."

But none of that changes the fundamental cycle of how life has always been. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Everything that rises must converge. Or, most bluntly, rust never sleeps.

My mentor and friend, Steve Hayden, created Hayden's Mandala--a simple model that explains all of life. The surpassing art-director Marc Klein designed a site dedicated to Steve. You can find it, and so much more, here. (Thanks, Marc.)

Readership of this blog has, over the last six months or so, declined. I used to get about 80,000 readers a month, now I get little more than half of that.

I can attribute that to many things. 

I write a lot at a time when fewer people read. Or can.

I've been writing this blog for nearly twenty years and maybe people are bored. All I am, really, is a one-legged tap-dancer.

Maybe the great cosmic algorithm that rules all creatures great and small has changed and I'm left out in the cold.

Just as likely, I got too big for my britches and now payback is here.

That said, there's a way back from payback.

Do what you know how to do.

Again, as Hayden taught me: "The best revenge is a better ad." That is take your cuts. Keep your swing level. And as Wee Willie Keeler said, "Hit 'em where they ain't."

Or as was written in the great but unknown epic poem, "The Blackiad," the saga of a trout nicknamed Boston Blackie, by my grad school mentor Lipton Merriwell Sipps, PhD:

PS. Professor Sipps, mama ain't there.