*Sigh*

I have decided that because it's Christmas and all that, I probably won't be doing anything calculatedly hilarious and mean to annoying-girl's MySpace site. I think she may have lied about her age anyway--she looks way too young to be 20, and I don't want to break the hearts of mere children.

(The young call her the Soul Crusher, for she ruthlessly mocks their choice of music, awful grammar, and puctuation. )

The Good Old Days

This nice gentleman is glad the surgery to remove his third arm went so well.

Such a Pretty Dummy

Many people in Chihuahua, Mexico believe that the mannequin in a bridal shop window is actually the embalmed daughter of the former owner. The hubub started when the realistic dummy was first put into the window in 1930. I suppose people were used to seeing simple headless shop window dummies, perhaps? In any case, the owner finally had to make a statement through the local law that the dummy was just a dummy, and please stop these harassing calls accusing her of embalming her daughter. Curious, I looked up more pictures on "La Pascualita," and was vaguely disappointed. Then I saw this picture of her hand, and was a little weirded out.


I'm glad they don't make mannequins that realistic anymore.

Fine

Here it is, in all its glory. I'm still having a bit of a hard time not believing this is one of my clever friends playing a pretty hilarious joke on me. No? Feh, it's still hilarious.

I notice there have been some updates to her profile. How do you manage to go to middle school if you're allegedly born in 1985? Ohhhh... By having a fantastically delicate and miniscule brain?

Must...Be...Nice... Remember Christmas-time.

The misanthrope in me is being tempted to do something pretty funny, but kind of mean. But…more funny than mean. I swear. Well, okay…it would really only be funny to me and give me some satisfaction, which means I have no excuse for doing it.

Back story: Soon after I got my Comcast email address 3 years ago, I began getting the occasional email from vapid, semi-illiterate teens in Pennsylvania somewhere. I quickly figured out that some girl had been inadvertently giving out my email address, rather than her own. Oops. Not a mistake I’d probably make, but these things happen. I began replying to the emails, (gently) letting them know they have the wrong address, and they need to let “their Steph” know she has to figure out what her actual address is and stop giving out mine. Now, you’d think that if a friend told you she sent an email about her secret crush to a complete stranger because you provided her with the wrong address… that, mortified, you’d make sure your return address was set correctly, and that it didn’t happen again.

But noooo. Not only did various emails from friends, parents, and school groups increase, but she began signing up for retarded mailing lists about tanning, etc. (like, oh my gawd!)

I began to get frustrated, and reply a little more sharply to people, in hopes that they’d get the message across to this idiot. Some boy wrote multiple times about “how good last nite was,” “and how he couldn’t wait 2 look into ur eyyes again,” and when I was done laughing, I was ticked off. Why couldn’t an intelligent person with interesting friends make this mistake? (rhetorical question)

This time I poked through the headers of her attached previous email and found her actual email address. I wrote her a letter that was gentler, in retrospect, than I should have been. She responded, not with an apology, but with an “OMG! I need emails from paul can u send them to me or tell me what he said. Make me a list of emails I missd.”

Right. Now I’m your message service? I responded that I wasn’t going to be forwarding emails, and if she was interested in what people had to say, she would correct her address with them so SHE would get them, not me. Gradually, the influx of lost emails began to subside, and I trained my email to junk the mailing list messages so I don’t have to deal with them.

And then… the other day, I received an email from MySpace, letting me know that some schumck wanted to added as “one of my friends.” I was mildly confused, since, as far as I could remember, I has not signed up for anything with MySpace, which appears to be *the* place for weirdoes and teens to flirt with each other. No offense to anyone literate who has a MySpace site.

In any case, I went over to the main site and poked at the login just in case I has signed up way back when and forgotten. Nope. None of my standard passwords worked, so I clicked “I forgot my password” and they sent it, no questions asked, to…my Comcast email. More confusion for a moment as my brain slowly clicked into gear. I know I probably never signed up at MySpace, but I know for SURE that I never had “areyougay1” as my password for anything. (a light goes on in my head) oh, I see.

And this is where my temptation to do evil came in: I went to the “other” Steph’s ridiculous MySpace site, and of course, with her login and password, I can alter her site and profile. Ooo, the temptation! Here is a quote from her veritable literary work of a profile:

Okayy..well um I have a boyfriend named Dominic.We have been together for 1 month.I love him soooooo much!:)I am on a cheerleading team called the American Flyerz.Yeahh we are thee bestt teamm.We mostly get FIRST PLACE!..I have AIM and a Livejournal and obvisily a myspace.Um Yeah I love to tan.Im really dark.I love to jump on the trampoline.I can do like front flips and backflips.Well I love to listen to music and to watch T.V....Well i love my friends.There swweeeeet.Well i can be really stupid and a blonde at times.Im really outgoing and I love to have fun and just be with my friends..I really hate school.But yeah...I love to do my makeup and use lipgloss.Yeah well i love the Andy Milliknockis Show..Hahah its soooooo funny!!!!!!..Yeah well I have dark brown hair with red highlights and I have brown eyes.Yeah well um I love my hair.I jsut got it permentaly straighted and I have side bangs.Yeahhh welll...i wear Abercrombie and alll them kind of clothes.So yeahh.

I kid you not. I have not changed a letter. There is also a priceless photo of her and some friend pouting for the camera. She’s freaking 20 years old. Am I wrong to think one should be just slightly beyond this at 20?

Anyway, I am sitting on my hands like a good person, and not logging on and adding a bit about her being a bimbo or making fun of her grammatical inadequacies.

I am a good person. I am a good person. (Repeat until the urge to be mean goes away.)

My Special Best Friend

The other day I pulled up to a light and noticed a scruffy looking guy at the far corner of a building on the opposite side of the intersection. He was clearly in a heated discussion with whoever was around the corner, because he was gesticulating angrily and waving his finger. A couple times he whirled to go, and almost left the conversation entirely, but he turned back with a final word or two as the light changed.

As my car rolled by, I was curious as to what type of person he was debating, but when the corner came into view, all I saw was a large window he was stading in front of. "Is he arguing with someone inside?" I wondered stupidly.

...Until I pulled level and realized that in the plate glass was a full length reflection of the guy, as he picked the argument with himself back up where it had left off.

I hope he and his friend have someplace warm to sleep, and something to eat.

Jolly Old St. Nick

This gallery of children hating their visits with Father Christmas himself made me say things like, "Oh, poor baby! (tee heeehee.)" Am I awful that pictures of crying children make me giggle? Actually, I don't think I can be that bad. I got really mad and threw a remote once when a "funniest video" program showed a genuinely terrified 4 year old being chased around and around the car by a huge angry turkey. The parents thought it was so hilarious that they didn't bother opening the car door until the poor kid had almost shrieked himself hoarse. Stupid freaking "parents." It still makes me angry to think about it. That kid will need years of therapy.

In any case... these kids generally seem more pissed off than terrified, which makes it...uh, okay to laugh? Mall Santas must have to deal with so many uncooperative tots.

I'm not exactly Santa-crazy, but I think that J.R.R. Tolkien's book of Letters from Father Christmas that he wrote each year to his children is really sweet and magical.

Getting all Christmassy and Stuff

It is a rare thing indeed that I get this close to Christmas without the house being suffused in lights and wintery goodness and a carol playing in my heart.

Uh, but somehow I managed it this year. And I'm not even working retail.

It's not that I don't want the Christmas spirit--Lord knows it's my very favorite time of year. It's just been so busy and yahddah yaddah excuses...

I was expecting to see most of my family, and it turns out they won't be here after all, so I'm having to reset my "stuff I'm looking forward to" meter. However...last Christmas was really wonderful--family wasn't in town, so it was quiet and low-key, and we hung out with some friends that we love. I can look forward to that. For sure.

Incidentally,

it was surgery on the spot for my dad, who apparently was having multiple little heart attacks to demonstrate to the doctors that he needed an angioplasty NOW. He's doing well--came home a day after surgery, which is a bit spooky, but the doctors said he'll be just fine. He sounds as though he's in much better spirits. Wa-phew...

Role Reversal

It's funny just how much I worry about my parents now. When you're little they can do anything and know everything, and now that I'm an adult, I'm sometimes horrified at how helpless and uninformed they can be. I find myself being protective and anxious about them, the same way they probably were of me.

When I found out my dad's heart condition had worsened suddenlywhile on a business trip, I found myself worrying that Mom would meet him at the airport to drag him off to a prayer meeting rather than the hospital. Thankfully though, she seems to be handling it pretty realistically, and is even taking charge by calling Northwest and forcing them (though it was "against policy") to tell her if Dad safely boarded the plane from Chicago to come home and be treated. Go Mom. I need to remember that although her resources are not the ones I would use, she can be resourceful. She has to be, after having birthed 6 babies and adopted 2. Which..uh..again, is NOT something I would choose.

Dad, though resourceful, ignores pain, and tends to forget things, which drives me to distraction. Apparently, Mom will call tonight once they see his doctor and find out whether he has to have surgery on the spot or what-have-you. I hate the fact that they're half a country away.

Oh, and... New Music

Though it probably isn't new to many of you, I think this is a very keen idea. It's a "Musical Genome Project" called Pandora. One types in a starting point song or band, and it uses a list as long as your arm about the qualities of the song to determine what you might like next. You can customize as you go, and create numerous different playlists within a certain genre. It isn't always perfect, but it's mighty impressive, and I've stumbled onto some good new music already. I'm listening even as I type.

Those are NOT his eyes....

Anna has started a blog, and it's a lovely thing. I recommend reading the reviews as well--she has given the new Over The Rhine album 5 out of 5 stars, with which I utterly agree.

She also wrote about a children's birthday party with Dora the Explorer coming to visit. Little kids are so funny. It reminds me of the time I was helping out with a special story time at the bookstore--Curious George was going to be there...in, uh..person. Some of the kids were thrilled, but there was, as usual, the terrified group. One tiny little boy shrieked and hid behind his mother until he was brave enough to peek out and scrutinize the person in the awkward Curious George costume. His expression got more and more critical, and I heard him murmer disapprovingly, "Those are NOT his eyes. Those are not his eyes!" Eventually he gathered the courage to inch closer and cautiously address the character in a warning tone, "George...? I think there's someone in you."

Haa! Little kids... The other day I was making a little story for my three year old niece with some weirdly deformed little sponge dinasours she had. After a while, she came back over and asked, "'Scuse me, Auntie Ef? Can we have some dinosaur talk again?"

Head exploding cuteness.

Let Us Not, And Live!

One of today's installments of "must be seen web comics" is the enigmatic and often head-explodingly cute Patches by Kelly Vivanco. These are short, semi-daily affairs that usually encompass a single thought or exchange. It's quirky, and often makes me laugh out loud. Or at least snort softly to myself.

_______________________________________________________

Paul Taylor's Wapsi Square is not my usual type of comic, but I enjoy the art, and there are bits of mystery woven into the stories of otherwise everyday folks. You really ought to start at the beginning if you intend to read it. You'll find it starts with more stand-alone strips as charcters are introduced. The comic at this point is a continuous story in a series of arcs, so reading the current one will probably make exactly no sense if you haven't gotten the back story. The art has morphed quite a bit since the beginning; though I liked it at the start, I think it's really come into its own now.

The main character is Monica, a girl who who specializes in art/artifacts from Latin America at her local museum. Throw in a cheeky bunch of friends, and the Aztec god of alcohol(?), and voila! Wapsi Square!

Honey, I Sure Miss You

A lovely momentary daily escape can be found at James Kochalka's website, American Elf. This is one of the ones I page through every day. Each comic is a short journal - a little snippet of something that actually happened that day or the day before. The content ranges from a thoughtful little statement with some art to accompany, to rock and roll experiences, to sweet little moments with his son and wife. It's everything from earthy to hilarious.

I've been reading American Elf for a couple years now--since before James's son Eli was born, and I almost feel like I've seen Eli grow up.

Comics can be read daily for free, and archives can be accessed with a subscription.

Kochalka is not just an artist. He is also, incidentally, a SUPERSTAR. Really. I bet that is what his card says. There is some very fun music of his on the site, (Honey I Sure Miss You is a cover of a Daniel Johnston song he did) and I believe he also has some stuff on MP3.com. Hurrah for American Elves!

Follow

Follow is a comic by one of my favorite web artists, Hwei Lim. It's quite old, by web standards (2002) so not all the links on this page probably work.

The story is that of a boy searching fairy tale realms to find his lost friend. It has a sort of dark Through the Looking Glass meets The Snow Queen feel.

Sadly, the comic is not complete; however, the art is lovely enough to warrant reading through what's there. The main chracter of the story reminds me of the Little Prince.

To those who enjoy the art, search out Hwei Lim on the web. She has comics and galleries hidden (and often abandoned) many places.

Why I have to love Japan

Because everyone in town knows who you're talking about when you mention Gutsy Radish.

Wee Timerous Beastie

The evening was usual--the Boy and I in the study on our respective computers, doing what we do... until Boo came trotting proudly into the room with a live mouse in his jaws. Now I'm not the squeally type--in fact, my first reactions was, "Aw crap! Now we're going to have to get a whole new round of shots for the cats." My second reaction was to grab Boo and shake the mouse out of his mouth and sigh as it skittered into the corner and buried its head under a scrap of paper, the only available shelter. Poor thing. I tried to be ruthless. I really did. The Boy was adamant. "It'll just come back into the house and breed. Let the cats take care of it. It's nature's way." Well, nature's way is not always the best way. Say we're watching someone fall off a bridge: oh well, I mean--lungs filling up with water just=death. It's nature's way."

Shut up, you! I know most metaphors don't bear close examination.

In any case, by the time I was done being conflicted, Boo had pounced like lightning and was hurredly secreting the mouse back down the stairs. I chased him until the basement door, and then gave up. (Oh well, "nature's way" and all. I really don't want to see the end of this.)

The cats were both so excited and agitated. Pokey old Nihao was huffing and pouncing on every shadow. Probably because they present less of a challenge than a live, moving mouse would.

In any case, I forgot about it for a while, until I was in the bathroom, er...busy, and Boo wandered in. "Fine," I told him. "As long as you haven't brought your..."
Oh Crikey. He had. And he dropped it directly on top of a stack of towels, where it dazedly burrowed under one. Fervently praying it would stay put, I grabbed a box and scooped it up.

Robert Burns comes to mind: To a Mouse, On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November, 1785

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!...

And so on.

One of Burns's points is that he evies the mouse, only knowing the present and not dwelling on the past or fearing the future. Though I love the poem, I just can't agree. One of the things that makes me happy is thinking about times other than the present. Not to say the present isn't lovely, but being unable to remember or imagine the future--I think that's the absence of creativity, and a whole lot of other things. I would be a sad tomato indeed if I were unable to hope or recollect memories that are dear to me. If occasionally remembering bad things or fearing what's to come is the price I pay for that, so be it.

Woo. Tangent.

So don't tell the Boy, but I took the mouse-in-a-box to the bottom of the garden and gently set it there. If a certain mouse happens to chew its way to freedom and make its way to the (closer) neighbor's house, well that's just nature's way, isn't it?

Named after a German Budgie

The new computer (which, on our network we have dubbed Friendy II) is dreeeamy.

I did a long-ass browse through various internet comics today. A couple years ago, I felt like I was pretty up to speed on the cool-cat community of college age comic makers (alliteration, anyone?) and artists who are better than I'll ever be. I've been vaguely sad because some of the more beloved galleries and stories either wrapped up, or wasted away un-updated for years, and I consequently lost track of my favorite artists. I *knew* they had to be up to something, and now I'm beginning to stumble back onto them, linked from other sites, or mentioned here and there. Hurrah, kids! You're too good to stop arting!

More later, in which I will offer links to various folk of whom I am fond.

La-lala-lala... Interesting Drug.

(as in Morrissey song)

But in real life, this new drug is interesting as well. I was kindly informed by a sister, thus:

PANEXA

"Lots of detailed information, including IMPORTANT INFORMATION FOR SQUIRRELS."

We should all be sure to arm ourselves before going to the doctor.

And I Shall Name it Hal....

Indubitably, the thrilling news of the hour is the fact that I am finally getting a new computer. Not that I don't enjoy this lumpy, doddering laptop (fingers crossed--please don't crash!), oh no. I love it. Okay, really, I'm not being entirely sarcastic. Despite the fact that it pokes along at sub-snail speeds and has a coughing fit whenever I try to open multiple applications, it has served its noble purpose (see last post for hint as to what noble purpose could be.).

The keen part of the new computer is that is is a Boy brand computer. In other words, he's actually building it. It's actually WAY cheaper than buying a premade system. You don't have to waste money on things that are non-essential, and you can bulk up the things that make your machine a monster if you want, or plan to leave places for additions that will increase the monster-tude later.

If you could see me right now, you'd know I'm tapping my fingers together under my chin and chuckling in a sinister way.

Brats of the Information Revolution

I'm one. Guilty.

I sometimes get a little consternated as just how much I depend on technology. My first response to the Apolcalyse would most likely be to run and look up some wilderness survival crap online. Until I realized that the internet no longer existed. At which point, I would get hysterical, sit down and cry.

If the internet's down, or the Boy's on my computer for some reason, I get antsy. I'm used to having things pop into my head, and within a half hour, having a basic working knowledge of whatever it was I was curious about, thanks to the information revolution. Case in point: the Boy was fixing/installing/updating something on my computer tonight, and I was huffing and pacing, peering over his shoulder, until I realized that a BOOK I owned probably contained at least a start on what it was I needed to find out about. A BOOK. With paper pages.

While I certainly don't yearn for the days of the card catelogue, I do kind of miss HAVING to go to the library. I still love the library--that certain swishy silence punctuated by the occasional whisper or page turning--magic. Just being surrounded by all those books was somehow a healing experience.

The internet has bred in me the unignorable (?) tendancy to EXPECT to get answers within minutes on whatever it is I'm wondering about. As a result, do I wonder about more things? I think I must, in some ways. I can't imagine the cluttered warehouse my brain would be if I had to actually remember what it was that piqued my interest, wait until I had the time to go to the library, decide which books were most likely to help, and then leaf through thousands of pages that may or may not have what I'm looking for. Chaos! (or as a friend laughingly puts it: "Chouse!") I think I just plain spent much more time Not Knowing in those days---a state of being which I hate.

I think what would bother me the most, were I forced into a dreary dimension where books were the sole means of gathering information, is that I would only be able to draw on the thoughts of people who actually took the time and money to write and have a book published. This was particularly the case tonight, when I was researching a medical condition I was curious about. Besides the official medical info, I wanted opinions from people who had dealt with things, how their doctors responded, and what the best way to prepare for the appointment would be. I adore that this sort of thing that exists in the self-publishing mecca that is the internet.

Look--I have a blog!

Some things best forgotten

I've been reading Michael Ende's The Neverending Story, and unlike many childhood loves that turn out to be ridiculously dumb when read/viewed as an adult, I'm enjoying every minute of it. The book is translated from German, which gives some of the language a slightly strange feel now and again, but this adds beautifully to the feel of the story. As a child, I adored the film, and hadn't realized (in relative terms)just how true much of the dialogue was to the book.

I know it may be treason in some circles to say this, but I've realized as an adult that "The Dark Crystal" was something of a boring movie. I recalled certain scenes with delight after seeing it as a child--the moment when the cute fuzzy creature bursts out of its burrow, with hugely wide open jaws, the death of the "good guy leader" vs. "the bad guy leader" when the good fades away, and the bad just sort of crumbles to dust. I seem to remember something about creatures with very looong skinny legs that ran quickly. That's about it. I had wondered why I'd so throughly fogotten the rest of the film, and it turns out that I had remembered the only parts that were really interesting. The rest of it is a sort of yawn-worthy blur of slow moving, chanting muppets. Sorry, die-hard fans.

One thing I would like to see again is "The Last Unicorn." I have a feeling that though the animation may be a bit dated, it will turn out to be as magical as I remember it being. That's another book I ought to read. I was amused to find that there were several t-shirts available on Amazon. This one rocks. "The Last Unicorn" is a Rankin-Bass production, so that's in its favor. Rankin-Bass also did the animated version of "The Hobbit," which contains my definitve golum voice. The music from Rankin-Bass productions is always memorable.

Enough rambling. I'm going to update my Netflix que.

If Flattery Can Even Have a Sincere Form...

I'm such a coppity cat. Patrice did a little retrospective, and I'll be darned if I'm not going to do the same. In my everyday life there's so little of the "ten years ago" era left, but what's held on has held on well. Other than family, there are 2 people left in my life from then, and I expect them to be part of the story for much longer. One is a British Lit teacher from highschool who's still a dear friend, and the other is now a brother-in-law (also a good friend).

Ten years ago:
I was a freshman in college breathing a sigh of relief at having FINALLY escaped my mother/drill sergeant. My relationship with her has softened a good deal since then, though I sometimes still firmly believe she's nuts. At that point it was all about getting out from under The Thumb of the hyper-spiritual, legalistic BS that was flying around and contributing to the many baggages I'm trying to get rid of today. The college was small, and in the middle of nowhere, but it couldn't have been more heavenly. I had a (small) space that was MINE, with no fear of the gestapo reading my mail or journal, or rifling through my books and music for innocuous things to be shocked at, disapprove of, and destroy. Looking back, I'm sort of amazed that I didn't fly off the deep end and get addicted to crack while selling my body. I'm sort of amazed that none of the children from that family (so far) have done that.

Five years ago:
It was all about music. I had to go poke through a journal to see what was happening. I had musically hooked up with some boys with guitars and drums, and it was a rollicking good time. We were playing shows, recording like gangbusters in the basment, and generally doing a lot of laughing and goofing off. I believe it was also the year we started getting played on the radio around here, which was a completely surreal experience. I think this was sort of the peak of the "eating, sleeping and breathing music era." None of use were attached to anyone romantically, we had all finished college, and the songs practically wrote themselves. I sometimes get a little nostagic for that time. I had a tight-knit circle of friends. We were creative--would take our cameras out and wander around various places shooting photos. We went to lots of shows, we made lots of music, and watched lots of good film etc. I'm kind of sad about Now--not because I don't go to many shows etc., but because I don't really *want* to go to many. I prefer to be quiet at home with a Boy and a book. I wonder if secretly I was always a quiet homebody, and was just waiting for the right boy and a place that I could "own." The circle of friends still keeps in touch occasionally, though I do see some more regularly. Music is still something I adore. It doesn't explode around me like it did though. Maybe it will again someday, bt for now, it's more of a quiet, personal thing.

As good as five years ago was, it would not be right for me now, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Five years ago, a friend had suggested she introduce me to a friend of her husband's--some Boy she thought I might get along with. Five years ago we met, and I didn't particularly like him. And two years after that, we got married.

Currently: it's a sunny autumn day, and I'm in my dear little house, procrastinating instead of working, with a cat sprawled across the top of the monitor making cranky noises when she stretches. I'm going to go visit my sister and little niece this afternoon. I know the Boy will be home a few hours after that, and we'll grill some tuna steaks and watch an episode or two of Firefly. Then we'll lie in bed and read books until it's time to go to sleep.

"Currently" is good.

Clump of Souls

After frothing at the mouth and raving about the gloriously ridiculous Katamari Damacy, it's pointless to discuss why and how much I like the follow up PS2 game, "We (heart) Katamari." The title says it all. Yes. I heart it. With many hearts.

This incarnation of the bizarre Japanese roll-athon makes no bones about the fact that it's only back because so many people thought the first one was the bee's knees. "What is it they love about me?" the massive King of the Cosmos muses, "Could it be that my head is of such a cool shape? Could it be my tights? Could it be my chin? Yes. Clearly it is my magnificent chin that the fans swoon for." (paraphrased)

There are always going to be some annoying things, to be sure--on a few levels it's really difficult to get the katamari to a point that will satisfy the king and the fan who requested that particular roll-up. It's also still difficult for me to do the rocket roll move without pressing L3 and R3 doing flipping completely around. I have clumsy thumbs. Bad, bad thumbs.

For the most part though, I find myself playing with a big dumb grin on my face, as I did the first one. It's silly, and it's just plain fun.
____________________________________________________

Also qualifying for the "just plain fun" category is the not-so-high seas adventure of Puzzle Pirates. I take a certain wicked glee in the fact the no less than three friends have signed up and been soundly hooked in the past couple weeks. We finally met up (or our little digital avatars did) on a northern island, traded piratey swag, and chatted for a good while. It's nice to just pop on and say hi to a friend far away, and even nicer to collaboratively play a fun puzzle-type game with them.

What I need to be more conscious of is the severe nerd-i-tude emanating from public conversations about playing Puzzle Pirates. Offhand comments like, "Oh--I quit my distilling job and now I work at the apothecary. It's the best way to make POE without pillaging all the time," do little to enlighten any surrounding folk who may not be familiar with the game. In fact, talk about how your crew all up and moved to another island, but you're staying until the iron monger you placed and order with is done your sword... this may only serve to alienate people.

I do my best to be socially acceptable. Sometimes I suck though.

At the Risk of Smashing a Camera...

Three cheers for the brave souls who set long exposure times and fling their cameras up into the air. The results are pretty gorgeous.

-----------------------------

So the week o' wedding is over (for those of us not being married), and I must say that as chaotic and crazy-go-nuts as it could be, the end result was just plain... a good party.

It was outside among some massive trees on a little hill with a gazebo. The weather was gorgeous--breezy and cool, but still sunny. Ann told Ms. Bride, "I don't know what dance you did to get this weather, but whatever it was...it worked." There were some trees with tiny yellow leaves that fluttered down like petals during the processional. Beautiful.

It was also lovely to see and chat with people I hadn't seen...uh, or chatted with in years. It makes me resolve to be more intentional in my friendships. Good friends are dear things--I realize this more and more as I get older.

Hippity Happity Anniversary.

Post vacation reflections:

I may have eaten enough seafood while on vacation to last me the rest of my natural born days.

Sorry. No more driving more than 900 miles one way for vacation. After the tenth hour I get ants in my pants and want to kick out the car windows and leap onto passing semis like someone from a Gorillaz video.

One can never take too many fuzzy, distant pictures of a gator that happened to flop up near the back deck of the condo.

___________________

Now, back to the Gorillaz video - There were no semis in the video for "Feel Good, Inc." but this is the one I was thinking of. It reminds me of scenes from Last Exile. I find it highly entertaining and appropriate that, as a band composed of animated characters, Gorillaz would, in an interview, speak about the making of the video as if it were live action. .

“Apart from the obvious thing, which is my gyrating hips,” he (bassist Murdoc) explained, “The coolest thing about the video would be the hydraulics on this gig. Just for the windmill section alone cost about 3.5 million pounds. That's sterling. We had to buy a small island, make a mould of it and then scrape out all the insides. When that was done we filled the whole thing full of helium. Using the motor from the windmill we managed to get the thing to float, but it was an absolute bugger.”

Snort! Snicker!

Crikey!

We're here on Hilton Head Island, after an interminable drive (albeit through some very gorgeous mountainous landscapes). The condo we're staying in is lovely--a 2 bedroom affair with massive windows and a deck overlooking a bayou that seems to be filled with graceful white herons and, uh...alligators. The Boy and I have been discussing whether we're awful people for watching the ducks and wondering if they're going to be summarily consumed by an alligator from below.

Hilton Head is a weird place in some ways. It's just lovely, filled with beautiful beaches and great restaurants...but every shrub, every oleander, every blade of grass is cultivated and sculptured. We were joking earlier that a pelican couldn't poop here without a landscaper rushing over and rearranging it into something attractive.

So far we've been incredibly lazy, and have eaten a lot of good seafood. Eventually we'll do things like dolphin watching tours and a day cruise to Savannah to poke around look at the fun southern gothic architecture and Civil War era graveyards.

Today at the beach I was slightly startled to see a pod of dolphins lazily cresting just off shore. The Boy managed to get within 20 feet of one. After bobbing around until we were absolutely prune-like, we wandered up the beach, dripping, and got ice cream. The taste of ice cream at the same time as smelling the ocean gave me a flashback to the days when our family would travel to the Jersey shore during the summer back when I was in first grade. The ocean has a wonderful, fresh, salty smell.

There's a dead tree on the other side of the bayou that becomes lacy with huge white herons right before the sun sets. They're all jostling each other and flapping about right now.

Yesterday we went to Savannah to pick up a friend who's joined us, and we all ended up wandering down into the historical district along the waterfront and trundling down the cobblestone streets until we found a place that served killer cajun food. We headed home full of shrimp, cornbread, and beignets. *sigh* So lovely.

Arr, Me Hearrrties!

Avast! I may have used this title for a post already. I occasionally have little fits of pirateism that must be indulged.

Actually, I've had a long and drawn-out fit of pirateism for the last few months, thanks to Puzzle Pirates. It's a little multiplayer online game that offers one heck of a long free demo for download. One's character is a rather lego-looking little pirate who can go island hopping, chat with fellow players, and play addictive puzzle games along the lines of tetris and bejeweled in order to interact with their world in such things as sailing, swordfighting, drinking, bilging, etc. If pirates had little chipper, round faces, were squeaky clean, and would rather challenge you to a puzzle than draw and quarter you, this would be just like sailing the high seas!

I'm a dork because I get into the ridiculous stuff like deciding which island to apply for citizenship on, or saving up for a new, more piratey outfit, or furnishing my shack with fancy little goodies. The thing I like the most about it though, is the fact that it's a darn fun way to interact with friends who are far away. I recommend it, even to non-gamers. The puzzles are not hard to learn, and they're good fun. If anyone would like to try it out, let me know, and I'll share some pieces of eight, and extra swag with ye (er...you.) so you don't have to start at the bottom of the barrel. It's handy to have someone to show you around at first too.

If you already play Puzzle Pirates, my pirate is called Miett, and she's on the Midnight Ocean--send me a "tell" and we can get together and maybe go on a nice relaxing Sunday afternoon pillage...

Vacating

In a couple weeks, something rare and wonderful will be occurring, much like a blue moon, or a phoenix rising from the ashes...or a two headed turtle... or something. For the first time ever in our married lives, (honeymoon excluded) and pretty much the first time in the Boy's entire life, we will be going on a VACATION together. I'm all a-flurry!

We're going to Hilton Head Island, which is kind of funny, because it's a fancy dancy golf resport and we are neither fancy-dancy, nor do we golf. BUT it has pretty beaches, good food, and one can go swimming, play with dolphins etc, or have a boat dump you on one of the little nearby islands for the afternoon so you can poke through old graveyards or have a picnic. Also close by is Savannah, Georgia, which I have wanted to visit since I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. It's supposed to be a really intersting town, with lots of gorgeous southern gothic architecture, and fantastic old cemetaries.

All I can say, is that I hope the Boy gets a taste for vacations. Planning and looking forward to something is almost as happy a thing as going on the trip.

On the positive side...

It's odd that, although for the most part, I'm enjoying Psychonauts, I can only play for limited amounts of time. Now games like Dark Cloud 2, or Katamari Damacy, I negotiate by getting everything done in real life so I can play for large chunks of time... But Psychonauts is different, for some reason. I just end up turning the game off after an hour or so. Hmm.

I must admit, it has one of the most entertaining and wildly varying series of levels I've encountered. You pop into the subconscious of someone with a Napoleon complex, and find you're a miniature piece on a terrain model battle map, which, up close, is a sunny countryside divided into sections. It's fun to run about on. Slightly less fun, however, is dealing with the game in that area.

Another level is in the subconscious of a Spanish painter - The level is called Black Velvetopia, which should give a hint as to what things look like. There are no whites at all--everything looks like...well, a painting on black velvet. This was probably my favorite level. The boss fights were reasonable, and everything was just so darn...neat to look at. I suppose having to avoid a massive magenta bull that comes hurtling down the narrow street you're trying to traverse every 6 seconds or so could get old pretty quickly, but fortunately, I found it more entertaining than anything.

Ah well. Toro!

Cycle-Nots!

The only occasionaly bane of my existence is Psychonauts (for the PS2). I'm about 10 hours in, and have spent some time mucking around in some of the more enjoyable aspects of the game--bouncing really high on a big ball of psychic energy, exploring, and shooting stuff with my mind. Oh--I also sort of enjoy the "collecting stuff" aspect of the game, although I know many people would grind their teeth about this. A lot.

The setting(s) are entertaining: the game takes place at a (government sponsored) woodsy children's camp, where potential psychics are trained in the arts of levitation, focusing mental energy, and burning stuff with your mind. Oh, and you can prolly go canoeing too. The camp is extensive, and eventually, you can also run the about in people's minds as well, for completely different levels. While you're in there, you can clean up mental cobwebs, and clear out emotional baggage. And when I say emotional baggage, I actually mean it. Like, crying duffle bags, and sobbing purses. I wish it were this easy. I'd totally be a shrink, if all it took was popping into someone's subconscious to dust and organize crap.

The thing that really makes me flail and stomp is the boss fights. Some of them require you to do something so arbitrary and weird that you've wasted most of your lives before you figure out what the heck is expected of you. The thing that bothered me the most, though, was an encounter with a completely random and detached boss on a particular level. I was walking along, minding my own business, when I fell through the sidewalk into a fiery cave where I was forced to waste lives and health increasers on a boss who had absolutely NOTHING to do with the level or the game, and for whom beating held no reward to speak of. In fact, it felt almost as if the boss had snuck in from another game. Zelda, perhaps. When, in a flurry of cursing, I defeated the boss, my words were, (through clenched teeth) I *never* want to do that again."

1. Pause game
2. Save to make sure nothing happens to make me have to accidentally have to relive that.

Imagine my joy when abruptly, 10 minutes later, I fell through the sidewalk AGAIN, and had to fight the SAME boss I had just killed, again for no reward or benefit. I was thrilled. What is this? Busy work? For pete's sake, it's a video game! Isn't a time waster IN a time waster a little redundant?? Are they trying to draw out the game somehow?

Other than that sort of crap, the game has been fairly interesting. I'll give a final verdict later.

The Bee's Knees

Or in my case, "the bee's stinger in my knee." Technically a wasp. Ow. Darn those flying snippets of evil. Bees I don't have a problem with. They make hunny (rum-pumpum) and they actually die if they sting you, because they leave their stinger behind, along with what looks like a chunk of guts. I tend to imbue them with logic and such: "Well, I know that huge human is wearing that gawd-awful shirt, but is it really worth the price of death to sting them for it? I'll wait until someone gets a fly swatter. Then I'll attack."

Wasps sting with impunity. And because they *like* to, the little bastards. Actually, the particular sting to which I refer was more educational than anything. At the age of 5-ish, I stuck a stick into a large ground hornet colony and was "well rewarded" for my efforts. Supposedly, I am semi-immune to wasp stings because of it. The sting hurt like the dickens for about 5 minutes, and then almost completely went away, leaving a large but unswollen red mark. And that's how it stayed, with the exception of some itching over the next couple days.

Long, dumb story made longer and dumber.

I realized the other day just how much I like life recently. Incredibly, I am not on medication. I'm just rather content and happy. Which...is really sort of strange. Not that I've never been content or happy before--or indeed, both at the same time. Oh yes, I've managed it--but it's just that this seems to be a pretty permanent state.
I suppose it could have to do with the contrast of the first five months of this year to the last three months. The last three months have just been...good. I'm gaining back a sense of self, a little dignity (but not too much), I'm purging myself of unrealistic expectations and unnecessary guilt, and have worked at putting completely out of my mind the things that make my bloodpressure rise. Surprisingly, it's pretty much worked. And now, apparently, I've also just written a trite and slightly annoying self-help book (see above paragraph, which is long and boring.).

Superdickery at its finest.

Many of you have probably seen the website that is now called superdickery.com. However, I still can't resist posting this particular jewel of wonderous lustre.

For those of you who haven't had the distinct pleasure, the above site is composed of real, unaltered scans from old superhero comics.
Essentially, the idea is that the founder of the site was paging through some old Superman comics, and he realized, "Hey. Superman is a real dick."

Lo and behold, after perusing most of the images on the site, I cannot disagree.

Superman is not just a dick, he's a hilariously selfish bastard. At least the Superman from 20+ years ago was. And so was his riduclous sidekick, Jimmy Olsen, who seems to be alternately trying to sell Superman out or turning into various ape-like creatures and attempting to communicate by using a typewriter...

In fact Lois Lane appears to be the only innocent in this whole deal. She's the one who accidentally takes the potion that ages her 50 years, or is forced to ride around scrunched uncomfortably inside a sweaty, bullet proof bubble. ("It's for your protection, Baby!" calls Superman, and snickers as he waltzes freely down the street next to her. Not an exact quote, but you know what I mean.)

Not Christopher Reeves, though. He was more superman than Superman.

RIP.

RIP, Mr. Robert Moog*

We'll miss ye. I hope they play some awesome synthesizer and theremin at his funeral.

*Moog (pronunced like "rogue" with an M)

Porcuhog babies

Only those with the strongest disposition and utmost confidence that their head will not explode from the utter cuteness should scoll down...



The above are hedgehog babies found on the blog of Liew Cheon Fong, a Malaysian tech-blogger. Those of you who read Boingboing may have seen this photo, as he was linked from there today for posting this very photo. Go LcF!

God Bless the Indian Summer

Listening to Pedro the Lion in the background.

I'm posting a link to the first comic of the series I mentioned a few weeks ago - Starship Crisis...except now it's Starslip Crisis. The site and comic are changing their name, and it has been done oh-so-slickly.

The starship gets around by finding the same crew and ship who happen to already be at the desination in a parallel universe. Switch places, and voila! This last switch landed them into a webpage where the sitename had changed. Read and enjoy.

Our X-box has died inconveniently as I was beginning Psychonauts, which promised to be an interesting and fun game. Darn it all.

Mwah-haha!

Forgive me a cruel chuckle. I left a response after one of snobby-lady's most offensive posts for the forum survey yesterday, and it unleashed a storm of pent up anger toward her from the other survey participants.

My post was comparatively mild-mannered. I answered the mod's question and added, "Wow... Everyone has a right to their own opinion, Bitch-face." (uh, except that I used her actual name, cause I'm polite like that.) She responded, "I never said that everyone didn't in fact I wrote that in my post, if you'd even read it." (Ouch. Run on sentence, anyone?)

I didn't bother responding because several other people responded that they had read her post, and certainly didn't gather from it that she respected anyone else's opinion, and that they also found her tone and posts condescending.

The forum is over and snobby-lady has actually managed to bite her lip and write less offensively since then. I wonder if this will make her think about how she treats people? Probably not, but I get the petty satisfaction of having said something about it.

On a Scale From One to Bitch..er...Ten

I would say this woman in my focus group is a 10+.

I'm participating in a study on consumer opinons of fresh vs. frozen food. (Getting paid, of course. I don't contribute my opinions to the vast machine that is American consumerism for free! Feh!) Today was the first day, and since this morning, the 10 or so people participating have been logging on to give a little rundown about who they are, and giving their opions on the questions and products presented. For the most part, it's a group of nice, regular women. There are people from Colorado to New York, some retired, none with kids, 2 of them widowed, and almost all of them with pets they lavish attention on. (no exception here)

We were focus surveying along, minding our own business, when one woman (who has a line of jewelry and a spoiled lapdog--I picture her as Paris Hilton's mother) took it upon herself to, in the rudest possible way, let us all know how ignorant and bourgeois we were for believing "the ridiculous lie" that frozen food could in any way, shape, or form be acceptable (instead of answering the queston that had been asked). Every single thing she writes proves she is consienciously snobby. Other people have expressed similar views, but everyone else manages to do it without being entirely offensive and condescending.

A few questions later, she reasserted her bitchiness (and failed to answer the question) by insisting that everyone could afford to shop at Whole Foods Market, and you'd have to be stupid not to shop there or a specialty store. (Even the widowed lady on a fixed income who lives in a tiny town in Georgia.) "People who would even shop at a store where they suspect might have something lower quality anywhere in it, are people who should just shop at a dollar store for their food. If I even thought there might be something lower quality at a store, I wouldn't let you shop there for me!"

So... people shop for her?

I begin to despise this woman in earnest.

When asked whether we prefer prepared food from the frozen section or the deli section of our grocery store, she wrote:

"I prefer neither. If I want prepared foods, I'll go to a restaurant instead. It's almost the same price and I trust the owner of the restaurant more than a mega grocery store chain's department manager whose just worked a 12 hour shift for 7 days straight because he's shortstaffed and can't get anyone to work for pennies with lots of hours. I feel he might not be adhering to any health guidelines."

?? Does she have a bone to pick with people who work lots of hours for little pay? (those bastards!) In principle, my preference on the food is the same but.... Woah there, bitch-face. What did a grocery store manager ever do to you? I'd be afraid to EVER eat at a restaurant, if I were you. Folks'll spit in your food faster than you can say, "I'm better than you!"

Bleh. I feel like she's stifling the focus group. Now the lady who admitted she can't often afford fresh seafood, and the retired lady who lives in a small town--they give quick, short answers instead of writing about their opinions like they were before. I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to be dissected and told to grocery-shop at a dollar store because I "clearly don't care about freshness or expiration dates."

Bitch-face feels like she has to convince everyone that A. she's better than them, and B. They should shop exactly the way she shops. ("The only frozen food I buy is Sorbet.")

THAT'S NOT THE POINT OF A FOCUS GROUP.

Session over. I feel better. Until I log on tomorrow and see what other outragously offensive thing she's written.

What a little chalk will do

I stumbled over this pavement artist's site the other day:

Julian Beever

I wish they would show more of the pieces from the "wrong" angle. It's bizarre how distorted he has to make the images to create a 3-D look from one direction. Some of them, it's hard to believe are chalk.

I remember an artist in Royal Oak AGES ago... probably 1994 or so, who was doing impromptu 3 minute paintings of space using spray paint in really unconventional ways. They were beautiful, and I was fascinated because the process was so simple and foolproof. I tried it later, and came of with almost as nice an image. I'll try to remember how it was done, and make one. If it works, I'll take a picture and post it.

Prithee, Scroll Downward.

I must direct everyone to scroll down and read the comment that was left on July 25th's "Ow! My Most of Me!" post.

Best. Cat door. Story. EVER.

I'm still snickering to myself about it.

In the end, we managed to have a semi-lopsided "cat hole" which our taller, clumsier cat has to sort of scrunch to get under, but all-told, I guess that's ok. Unless she gets Rheumatism or something in her old age, and is unable to scrunch. While we're on the topic of cat doors, I must share this link to an uber-nerd's cat door dream.

Behold: the Flo Control Project

I can only hope to aspire to such awesome nerditude. I love it.

Smells Like Teen Spirit and Other Various Deodorants.

When I saw this, my first thought was, "My! Gus Van Sant looks a lot like Kurt Kobain."

Ow! My Most of Me!

Achey hands because I just wrenched off the basement door in order to cut a cat hole in the bottom of it. Well, not a cat "hole," persay, but more of an arch. An opening. An aperature. And hopefully something that won't look as though a monster took a snaggle-toothed bite from the door.

Nihao's immediate response to me removing the door was to puke. Thank you Nihao. Now I know exactly how you feel about it. She's been meowing incessently for the last couple days, probably because I've been rendering huge upsetting changes, like cleaning out the litter box. I've tried to make sure she is extra loved and patted. She's actually much better than she used to be--It's been months since she's thrown up because of stress. I'm dreading how it will be when the time comes to rennovate the kitchen, starting with flat-out gutting the place. Poor Neen.

In any case, now that I've got the door off, I'm at a standstill because I can not, for the life of me, make the blade snap into place on the jigsaw. Oh, I've tried. And tried. And cursed like a sailor. I'm beginning to feel that perhaps the jigsaw is designed to entirely ignore people with that extra "girl" chromosome. This sort of thing drives me insane. I can open tight bottle lids, assemble furniture without the directions, program a VCR, even change the oil on a damn car, but I can't...plug...the little...blade...into the jigsaw. GGAARRRRR!!

C-to-the-omic

Here is a comic that takes neither itself, nor you seriously.

Starshift Crisis

Summary: elitist, cynical curator of a museum of worlds based on an intergalactic starship has a giant, humorless preying mantis-like butler who makes him tea. The art is entertaining, but the writing is what comes in a cut above many a web comic I've browsed. In a way, it feels as though someone shook Douglas Adams and a webcomic fell out (except that dear old DA is dead. Uh, ewww. No shaking dead people). I'm not saying that it draws too much on Adams--just that it makes me snicker in precisely the same ways.

I tried BBQing pork chops tonight. Big, thick meaty ones. And they turned out dry and sucky. Oh well. It could have been worse. They could have been dropped in poo.

Calling All Audio-Nerds!

I stumbled across a website for the best type of audio-nerd today. This guy scanned vinyl into his computer and managed to interpret it into something akin to music. The sound samples on the bottom are barely recognizable swishy, crackly bits of Vivaldi's Four Seasons.


Observe.

Someone needs to use a sample of this thing in a song or two. It's practically good enough to listen to on its own as minimalist techno or something along those lines.

You! Musically inclined friends! Let me know if you make anything from it. I'd be excited to hear.

The first time I saw the Monkey, I was spinning at a club in Dusseldorf...

Someone sent a link to THIS today, and I was much entertained by it. It reminds me a little, for some reason, of the people who made the Urban Monkey short films years ago.

The Urban Monkey films revolved around deadpan documentary interviews with people and footage of an elusive "urban monkey" who can out-breakdance anyone on the block. They did a recreation of the legendary "bigfoot footage" that was killer as well. All of this was set against a backdrop of original hip-hop. I'm sad to find that it's disappeared so utterly from the internet. I couldn't even find it using the Wayback Machine.

Now-a-days, the Urban Monkey title has been claimed by some British kid who hops around. Okay. He's slightly cooler than that, but it makes me just a wee bit bitter.

It Grew on an iShrub

Now this is rather slick.



I'm tempted to make some sort of crack about how it only plays rustic folk music now... but I won't.

Oh. Dear. God.

Poor Ennio Morricone, legendary composer of western music and countless movie scores... even HE is not immune to hokey covers.

This must be Swedish. And it's got to be the seventies. It would have to be Sweden in the seventies for anyone to remotely think this is okay.

For those of you of the "Read Now, Click Later" school, the above link is one the Boy sent to a video of what looks like the cousin of Lemmy from Motorhead fronting a fringe-laden band of Swedes high on peyote who've decided that converting Morricone compositions to disco music is actually somehow a good idea.

This is not a joke. The front man seems so taken with the idea that occasionally he punctuates the music with a triumphant (yet slightly sinister), "Hahaa!"

Clad in genuine apache bikinis, the Swedish ladies swim team gyrates their way through the set, brightly crooning, "Apache-pache boy!" as if to somehow convince us that the fluffy-haired gent in a yellow fringed jumpsuit is, in actuality, a certified Native American.

Don't miss a priceless moment near the end where, unable to resist the Apache Boy's aura of seventies sexiness, the ladies run their hands over him...and one earnestly squashes his puffy hairdo. The motion reminds me more of the desparing "Lifetime original movie" mother vigorously stroking the brow of her injured child and choking out: "It's aaaall right. It's going to be aaaall right. It'll be over soon."

Don't worry, Apache-pache Boy. It'll be over soon.

And for My Next Trick...

I will make a snap decision to go to Greenfield Village with my out-of-town family--because I can always finish my work tonight. What a concept. Now that I'm freelancing, where there is a laptop, there is my job.

Do I miss getting heartburn within an hour of arriving at the old office each morning? (I'm dead serious: EVERY day.)

Oh, hell no.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Come on Back, Now...

Quick post to point out that suddenly people who didn't exist when there was betamax are making music as though they warped right out of the best part of the eighties. I... I have to like it. Lots. Retro-pop is never something I could listen to exclusively, but this stuff is really tight:

The Bravery
- Energetic retro-pop that begs for a screening of The Breakfast Club and pixie stix for everyone!
My Favorite
- Think more mature Anything Box with female vocals over tinkley keys.
VHS or Beta
- Robert Smith's son beats up Simon LeBon's son and steals his band. Somewhere along the way, one of the guys from Daft Punk gets lost and ends up in the studio. (try title track... yummy!)

I'll be applying for membership here...

I always knew the Christ knew how to rock.

Low Gravity

I'm in the process of reading Tam Lin by Pamela Dean. It's part of the Fairy Tale series, which is a collection of modern retellings. So far, it's been rather enjoyable, not only becasue if the fact that I tend to be fascinated by fairy tales, but also because the writing is quirky and interesting. At times, the characters seem as though they could be hanging out with the pretentious Classics scholars of A Secret History, but in general, they seem geniune enough, and less inclined to murder each other. (not that A Secret History was not enjoyable as well...) I'm not far enough into the book to really say much more than that.

I watched a shamefully large chunk of episodes of this past season of "Lost" last night. Very interesting stuff, though I wish the finale had answered more questions than it did. Hurrah for TV, that this sort of thing can be mainstream. It's no Twin Peaks, but it's better than most of the schlock that's been on the past few years.

Too Late the Phalarope

Found this book while doing some spring cleaning... It's been years since I've read it.

What the phalarope actually has to do with this blog entry is debatable. It's a small, sleek shore bird that, if Alan Patton is to be believed, can be found in South Africa. In other words, it has nothing to do with it.

But it IS too late. I ought to be sleeping since I think I may be, once again, on the brink of getting sick. Which reminds me:

At the event of my grandfather's 90th birthday (!) this week, a cousin's significant other asked what was happening musically, and I was sort of horrified to find that I was giving him the same answer as I had last time I saw him--a year ago. He raised an eyebrow and commented that if we don't use a gift, the Muse will take it away. I'm hoping the Muse just has a little more patience, because after a year of working a job that devoured my personal life, I'm finally at the point where I can begin to reaquaint myself with the people I care about, and begin to write again.

I feel as though I'm starting over in many ways-- I'm desperately hoping that I don't have to go through the long period of exceedingly sucky writing in order to produce anything worthwhile again.

Challenges:
1. tune your damn piano
2. restring your dusty guitar
3. write something decent enough that you're not tempted to gnaw off your own arm rather than read/listen to it.

Ha. We'll see how that goes. Seriously, though... I'm actually optomistic.

A Letter to the Creators of Suikoden IV.

Dear Suikoden IV Designers -

What drastic and stupid thing happened between Suikoden III and Suikoden IV? Please read my January 17, 2004 post regarding III. It wasn't a perfect game, but it was detailed and highly enjoyable after the first 4 hours. I've actually played it again since then.

Now re-read the few negative points I made about III. Those also apply to IV. Apparently, you didn't attempt to revamp the rough areas of the game. Instead, you just made them rougher. And also, I have to assume that there was an internal memo regarding Zelda - Windwaker and Dark Cloud II that stated, "Feel free to use any of the fun ideas from these games. However, recreating these in any way that could be construed as enjoyable will result in immediate discipliary action up to and possibly including termination or being buried neck deep in a fire-ant nest."

I enjoyed the sailing aspect of Windwaker. You could see distant tantalizing islands, the clever bit about the many map-painting fish was entertaining, you could land anywhere you darn well pleased, and the steering mechanism made some sort of SENSE. On the other hand, there is S.IV, which has a huge map which requires you to slloooowwly traverse EVERY SQUARE INCH in order to see any islands. Lord knows I would have liked to have seen those islands on the horizon, but for some mysterious reason, on this ocean, one doesn't realize an island is there until you're practically crashing onto the beach. Oh WAIT. You CAN'T sail onto the beach, because when you're about a quater-mile away from the damn island, your ship inexplicably heaves itself around, and regardless of your efforts, steers itself firmly away for much too long a period of time. What. The. Hell. The encounter rate alone on the ocean made it near impossible to go anywhere without ripping large chunks of my hair out.

Someone thought the idea of fishing from Dark Cloud II was a good one. But the effect is like taking a big bite of a s'more and realizing that someone made it with a lump of white spray insulation instead of a marshmallow. It looks good until you try it. Like the sailing, all vestages of fun were carefully drained from a good idea. Everything is wrong, detail has been stripped away, leaving a sad shadow of a fishing game that repeatedly plays a mocking noise when you inevitably break your line or lose a fish. Fuck you.

Designers, I can only assume that it was fear of some malevolent project coordinator that kept you from using the interesting multiple-character chapter method that was used in III. Or laziness, maybe?

Also worth note is the fact that the character design in this game is BARELY interesting, and the more interesting bits are unintentional. The silent protagonist runs as though he sat rather hard on a substantially large stick for the first few hours of the game. Even after the change out of his initial ridiculous culottes (remind me of the unflattering "gym shorts" the girls at my dread Southern Baptist junior high were forced to wear. *shudder*) he wears retarded "little pants." At least he walks slightly more naturally. (as if only a small stick were up his ass now)

Sad. Very sad. I don't understand why anyone making or testing the game would not have realized what a pile of crap it is, and how un-fun it is to play. Thank God I rented instead of buying.

Even after all that ranting, I still acknowledge there are some good things about the game. There is a point after which you can make your characters run very, very quickly. Comes in handy when you're bolting around trying to figure out what the next trigger point is. Also, the idea of a huge ship being the base you establish is interesting.

Bleh. Good and bad weighed, S. IV only comes in at 2 out of 5 stars.

2 Things. Probably more.

1. Britney Spears and Mrs. Federline-Spears are making their own reality tv show, apparently. Now instead of just occassional spots on VH1, the grateful public will get regular glimpses of their moronic and dubious relationship. Sing from the rooftops!

2. The Boy and I (for some reason) really like the Discovery show, American Chopper. We're not really the kind of people that watch a motorcycle building show regularly, I think. BUT... American Chopper has about the best interpersonal exchanges and relational dynamics of any reality show I've ever watched. Honestly. Again... that is probably not the reason it's popular with people in huge trucks.

Cast:

Senior - massivly muscled middle aged shop owner. Soft on his younger son, Mikey, and hard as crowbar on his older son, Pauly. Senior has a very "old school dad" feel. Deleriously happy? The corner of his handlebar mustache twitches. Grouchy? EVERYONE RUN.

Pauly - Older son (31). Fantastically brilliant chopper fabricator. Regular guy, with a wife and little daughter. Does his own thing in the shop, and almost without fail, it turns out beautifully. Most of the time, he manages to be completely deaf when his father is bellowing at him from 2 feet away. Sometimes loses his cool and bellows back.

Mikey - younger son (20s). Plays the idiot, because he knows it means he can get away with not working and most times, Senior ends up snorting and trying not to laugh instead of raging. I can't decide if he's really as shallow and incompetant as he seems, or if it's some sort of defense mechanism against his father taking him seriously and treating him like Pauly.

Vinnie - complete saint who steadily and quietly works away with Pauly while Senior stomps and rants around the shop. Close friend of Pauly's.

Rick - basically ditto of above, except he and Pauly are not as close.

Mike - Some schmuck from the shop who occasionally shows up on the show and tries to steamroll the design so he can hotdog for the camera and get on Senior's good side. Perfectly willing to step on anyone he thinks he can get away with stepping on. Even not being a fabricator, I can see his work is shoddy, and his ideas generally suck.

Having seen enough of the show to have a bit of a handle on the relationships, you begin to appreciate smaller things:

Senior's 1974 Sunshine chopper is dragged out for restoration, and Senior takes a long look at it. His ears turn pink, and you know how incredibly proud he is of that bike, and how much he's loved it. He refers to it in the feminine. In some respects, he's very like my dad.

Senior goes ballistic because he suddenly decides there are too many drinks around the shop. He roars something about severe consequences, and forces everyone to pick up pop cans etc before they can continue the bike they're working on. Later, he feels bad, but instead of apologizing, he hovers a bit near the build, asking Pauly questions about his plans in a slightly sheepish way. Very dad-like.

In any case, I recommend seeing the show at least a few time to appreciate the priecless familial interactions.

Full Circle

A couple months ago I convinced one of my former bookstore coworkers to leave the world of wrathful middle aged women and pilfering teens to some work at the company I am currently employed by. It's been intersting to exchange stories with her.

Not to say that the bookstore consisted ONLY of the above mentioned, but it's weirdly weighted in that direction sometimes. It's been over a year since I last worked behind a counter, and I've found that the fact that I am treated humanely every single day has morphed me into a much more confident and secure person. hmm. I do miss the bookstore at times though.

In my talks with S, I was reminded the other day of the Not Really Lawyer. This was a man pushing the far end of middle age, who, dressed in a grubby and wrinkled polyester suit, would "stop by" the store in the mornings and end up wandering about all day. The Not Really Lawyer used to tell me about his job as I'd fill his coffee mug. He talked offhandedly about the firm he worked for/owned (depending on the day). So much to do. So prestigious. So lucrative. And, as he'd sit for the fourth hour in a row reading the same magazine, I'd think to myself, "So sad."

If he had just been a guy trying to pretend he had a place in life, that would have been one thing, but the Not Really Lawyer tended to border on obnoxious about it. He'd talk about the massive settlement he'd just raked in, while fingering the grubby edges of hs sleeves as though there were imaginary cuff links. And he'd give a look down his nose and pointedly say things about how he USED to work in retail, but he wanted something better for his life.

Then there was the time he abandonded his 94 year old father at our store. What a rollicking good time. The Not Really Lawyer dragged the old man in by the elbow and plopped him into a chair near the cafe. For the rest of the day the father sat there, sometimes snoring gently. Closing time came, and we realized that we hadn't seen Not Really Lawyer in hours, and his ancient father was still flopped onto the seat in the cafe. I don't remember exactly how we roused him from his deathlike slumber. I do recall though, that the old man couldn't even tell us his son's name at first, and seemed disoriented, to say the least. At a loss, we eventually called the police. I hope Not Really lawyer remembers to do things like provide food and liquids to his elderly father.

Shame on you, you pretender.

Most Likely the Coolest Photos You'll See Today...

It would take many many gin & tonics to get me to play tennis on the helipad of 20+ story building. Looks like a film set, but no... it's the Burj Al-Arab Hotel in Dubai.



And now it looks as though we've just been beamed up with Mike TV in Willie Wonka's factory.



Look! It's our favorite bald tennis player about to play fetch with his charming yet slightly gullible canine pal.

Well, I'll Be Gosh-Swoggled.

Whatever that means.

I had the pleasant surprise today of having author Patrick O'Leary comment on a July blog post in which I mentioned enjoying his book, The Gift.

(Well, on the miniscule chance you ever read this blog again: I own The Impossible Bird too, Patrick, and think it also is beautifully intricate, and has fantastic cover art. And I'm a girl. Er..a Dudette..?)

The Boy would also like to me point out that O'Leary is a southeast Michigan native, and set a scene from his book, Door Number Three, in the Borders Books at Southfield and 13 Mile Rd.

Ha! That pleases me more than it probably should.

Not a single, tiny, wimpering regret.

Regarding my last post, I would just like to say that I should have added several more exclamation points to drive home my point. And I lied - I did look at PvP again today since Kurtz posted what he deemed and "apology," and I was curious.

In his "apology," Kurtz first presents himself as a hurting victim, then manages not only to be MORE offensive toward Fred Gallagher, but also to alienate all MegaTokyo readers as well. You think drastic sterotypes and bitter blanket statements are really going to mollify anyone? How about a little humility? Perhaps he's unaware of the fact that he actually shares a massive percentage of his readers with MegaTokyo. Like I said earlier, Fred can be melodramatic, but at least he's unassuming and genuine.

Congratulations - You really put those pokey-eating MT readers in their place, Kurtz. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that you may find a curious dip your readership. I'm sure I'm not the only person who left in disgust.

Because he can't freeze my blog.

There was once a time when the webcomic PvP was actually enjoyable - it was witty, funny, creative, and definitely one of my bookmarked "dailies." However, even during the golden years of PvP, I was occasionally annoyed by its creator, Scott Kurtz. He took himself so seriously, and his constant weedleing for people to click sponsor links and buy his swag grated now and then. I responded by ignoring the rants/journal entries, and still managed to enjoy the comic.

Within the last year or so, I've trudged dutifully through several painfully stupid and unfunny story arcs involving things like Jade's younger sister trying to seduce Brent (I kept coming back for the faint hope that there might be a strip involving Scratch and Skull.). The decline of the comic is not what ultimately made me stop visiting PvP, however. The strip didn't disturb me half so much as Scott Kurtz disturbed me.

The fact is that in his PvP universe, Scott Kurtz is a god. A tyrannical little god who's terrified of people saying anything MEAN about him, and who rewrites history as suits him. I recall his rant about an obnoxious band in the booth next to his at a particular con...understandable - they sounded like total asshats. However, Scott went one step further and attempted to mobilize his PvP army against them by CLEARLY posting a link to the band's site and, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, saying how awful it would be if too many people downloaded from their website, because they might exceed their bandwidth and have to pay a lot extra...

What do you think that means? It means, "After them, my PvP minions!" Of course. I thought at the time it was a sort of low thing to do, but it didn't particularly bother me...

Except that a couple days later, god-Scott breezed in and erased his previous post, replacing it with one that claimed, in a self-righteously indignant tone, that some people had accused him of telling readers to flood the band's server and that was not what he intended AT ALL. These guys were just trying to make a living, etc. etc. and now they're good friends, blah blah.

What outrageous and obnoxious backpaddling. Just admit that you were pissed off, and you wrote before you thought of the consequences, Scott.

That episode left a bad taste in my mouth, but it was pretty much behind me, until this past week's debacle. In the midst of congratulating Rodney Caston (of early Megatokyo renown) on his upcoming baby, Kurtz took an unexpected and unwarrented swipe at Fred Gallagher, current Megatokyo writer and artist. Now the swipe itself, though to me a pretty despicable thing, was Kurtz's personal opinion. I believe that he's wrong, but he has every right to say what he wants. Conversly, I have ever right to never go back to his site again because of my personal opinion that he's a dickhead.

Now, if you go to the PvP site, you won't find any evidence of the post. It's been neatly swept under a virtual rug by Mr. Kurtz. He even froze the thread on the message boards pertaining to it to keep people from discussing it. It took only a few hours for him to realize that someone, somewhere might think that it wasn't cool, and as a result, say something MEAN about him. Like that he's a dickhead.

Fred responded on Megatokyo's site. He was a little overwrought and emotional, but one can hardly blame him. In the end, his point was valid: his business relationship with Rodney Caston is none of Kurtz's bloody business.

The jewels that only occasionally crop up in PvP these days are not worth putting up with Scott Kurtz.

Today, after years of reading PvP, I deleted the bookmark entirely.
It was a grand, pointless gesture, but somehow it feels good.

The Joys that Come with Age

"What creature walks on four legs at the dawn, two in the midday, and three legs in the evening?" the Sphinx asked Oedipus. At least I think that's how it goes. As I recall, the answer to the Sphinx's riddle was "Man - because he crawls on all fours as an infant, walks as an adult, and uses a cane in his old age."

Speaking of old age...

I have a hearty esteem for the elderly. Anyone who manages to stick around 80 years has my respect. At the same time, one can't deny that sometimes, as people become more childlike in their old age, they render stories that are by one token sad, but by another, howlingly funny. My general rule of thumb is that I will not take myself seriously as an old person, (Why start then?) and I should hope if I do something laughable, people are not afraid to guffaw.

For instance:
A friend had a grandfather who, upon his own occasional epic episodes of flatulance, would crane his head around sharply, demanding, "Who's that? Who's there?!"

How could one not giggle like an idiot?

A sister of mine worked at a home where a tiny, ancient French-Canadian lady refused to eat breakfast. When J gently but firmly steered her back to the table, the tiny lady went into little girl mode - stamping her foot angrily, and flinging her ever-present tissue to the ground in a fit of rage. As the tissue fluttered gently to the floor,(perhaps not the effect she had intended) she would declare, "I'm goin' to TOWN!"

When I'm old, I hope that somehow I manage to avoid troublesome things like brain shrinkage and the type of thing that puts one into the company of people such as This lucky lady.

This story is the reason I've been thinking about age today. The Boy's grandfather did the exact same thing a few years ago. What boggles me is that he managed to superglue BOTH his eyes shut. One I could (sort of) understand, but BOTH-- reportedly, the grandfather put the "drops" into one eye, noticed they stung a little, but proceeded with the next anyway.

Upon finding he was rendered blind via his epoxied eyelids, he sat quietly on the bed until it was clear that the Boy's uncle was awake, then called him in a little voice to inform him that there was something wrong with his eyedrops. (the "little voice" gets me - in both the lady and grandpa stories. What other type of voice could you possible have but a meek and sheepish one after doing something like that?)

The uncle took him to the hospital, where some jackass of a doctor decided it would "just wear off on its own." So they went home again. The uncle stayed home from work, understandably, and together they sat on the couch so the uncle could tell the grandpa everything that was happening on Murder She Wrote. In the Boy's family version of the story, this section in accompanied by the teller making a very interested face and leaning forward, except with his or her eyes tightly closed. "Yes? yes? What now?" The uncle says things such as, "ok... now Jessica is underneath the window in the bushes. She's listening to the conversation... Oh! They might have seen her!"

Later, the uncle took the grandpa to another hospital, where they told him the first doctor was a jackass. The glue had dried on the surface of the grandpa's eyes, creating a hard contact with sharp edges that scratched every time he shifted his eyeballs. Through sheer determination and merciless ripping, the medical staff opened them again. Today the grandpa seems no worse for the wear from it.