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October 31, 2006

Lazy Micro Blog #5
Alas. Chronic (and non-candy-related, really!) gastrointestinal malaise coupled with the usual legendary Gordonian indolence/despondency prevents yours truly from regurgitating something suitably macabre for 'Ween 06.

So in its stead, I reluctantly present a TALE OF TERROR, circa second grade. Insert bad Cryptkeeper pun here.

October 12, 2006

Dork Cred #4 -- Photo Roll Playing
Sigh. I guess we're never gonna have hovercars, are we?

Been digging around old photographs recently, so this'll be a somewhat quirky/experimental blog entry, insofar as GUI consistency goes. For some unfathomable reason there're people out there using the WWWeb, who still can't grasp this basic concept of thumbnails leading to higher-resolution graphics. Ah well. First, to get the ball rolling, here's the obligatory self-indulgent sketchbook bit:



Yes, yes. That bionic oinker provided a great opportunity to plug Jon Hoenig's porcine-themed economic texts. Or perhaps even earning one of those nifty fatwa-thingies from the Religion of Peace™ (this nanosecond's infidel-icious outrage: the Apple Store in NYC). Well, I'll merely confess that lecherous, corrupt lump called my "mind" was, er, elsewhere at the time (hint: not upon the pig).

And, in the luridly disturbing non-spirit of Halloween -- let's now clickwhirl the ol' iPod to 'Saint-Saens', pry open the dust-shrouded Wardrobe of Embarrassment with a rusty crowbar, and let loose all them cackling skeletons! The scrawny shirtless git playing the trumpet's yours truly. Yeah, laugh it up:

Munchkin city

Oh yeah? Well, your mom. Once upon a time, this would've been the third item published by my enemies to ruin any bid for future political office (after sordid pix of the 1995 Psilocybin Mushroom/Hershey's Syrup Incident, and an interview with a certain futile love shrine's owner, of course). However, I think the stigma associated with the game's largely dissipated nowadays -- what with musclebound lunks like Vin Diesel writing nostalgic dice-hurling accounts, the hugely successful Potter/LOTR Axis, and teeming thousands having their will to live voluntarily sucked out via World of Warcraft, et al. (Hi Scott!)

IAE, it appears our characters were smack dab in the middle of the Slavers modules -- yup. Naturally we'd gotten there after completing the previous Giants series. I don't know why disrupting the commerce of unethical merchantmen would've been considered a greater challenge than, say, fighting hundreds of beings several times larger/stronger than you. Or for that matter, resisting such obvious adolescent geek-baiting situations as this (from "Hall of the Fire Giant King"). But then we're also talking about a world populated with psionically-powered slime and cube-shaped dungeon janitorial services -- so I s'pose different rules must apply. Next, my seventeenth birthday, celebrated in Maine. Sigh. Testosterone, where are you?

Burying the Wuss Meter's needle

Oh well, guess I look cute, in an effeminate, Audrey Hepburn-styled way. Yet absorb a hefty cutting implement next to the cake, and the whole picture takes on a most disturbing air. One gets a distinct impression that as soon as I grab that frickin' knife, I'm gonna spring up from the table and proceed to gleefully fillet the photographer. Heck, that may have even been on my mind at the time, because -- insane grinning notwithstanding -- that period was NOT an overly happy one.

OTOH, maybe I've just got my hands down my pants. And hey, scope that well-executed frosting iconography, eh? An artist's palette -- AND a computer! Whew! Thank god I outgrew all that juvenile crap!



And lastly, the inevitable, vacant-expressioned kitties. Smokey! Smokey BABY!

Grey, deaf and dumb

Gad. What IS it with Russian Blues, anyway? I'm aware such felines are bred by professionals to be overly friendly with their owners, but just what attributes are the gene-wranglers selecting for to achieve that end? 'Cause if I could use a single word to describe every one I've encountered, it'd be 'dopey.'

In other smeggy news, North Korea apparently lit off The Big One, this week. Whew, that Karl Rove fella sure gets around, huh? First he made the price of gasoline artificially drop using his Commodity Influence Ray... and now THIS! (Darn. And just when we were finally getting back to Important Issues too -- like banning trans-fats in restaurants!)

I jest, of course. But to paraphrase The Pursuit of Happiness, at such abysmal moments in history, "you've got to laugh to prevent yourself from crying". And to be honest, I DO kinda wonder how those appeasing ostriches we call "Democrats" (with a straight face) will ultimately handle this. Particularly when up until now they'd been over-investing themselves in this fantastic notion that surfing a wave of dirty e-mails and proclaiming American failure will somehow carry them into power again. Oh, obviously the Donkey Boys can't league themselves with what they've always proclaimed to be an illegitimate dictatorial regime, run by an evil warmongering tyrant. But they also can't support Kim Jong Il, either! (Nyuk, nyuk.)

So my guess is they'll just do their usual bitter finger-pointing routine, in defiance of historical reality -- why, this never would've happened if WE'D been in charge! -- and then go right back to calling their opponents PERVERT ENABLERS. Except in that alternate reality where what's-his-face DID get booted out of office on the strength of electronic correspondence. In which case they're slinging INTOLERANT HOMOPHOBES, instead.

The nuance. The nuance...

October 5, 2006

Tee-vee Indolence #1
To the writers and producers of "Lost"...

I've enjoyed your science-fiction themed show over the past several months, though must confess that with all the story's loose threads and oh-gimme-a-break one-degree-of-separation coincidences, the only way you're ever going to pull yourself out the plot chasm you've dug for yourselves is by introducing yet another Dharma Initiative Station... preferably one equipped with an Infinite Improbability Field. But that's besides the point.

Hey look! LOOK! It's Megs, dammit!

Ahem. Anyway, the premiere last night was par for the course, answering a single question while simultaneously introducing ninety-six surrealistic new ones. I dug how y'all covered previous ground concerning polar bears/sharks, Sawyer's cagey situation was most hilarious ('specially his anticlimactic 'reward') and Kate was... exceedingly hubbalicious in that dress. (T'was also most gratifying to see that "Henry Gale"/Ben hates Stephen King, too. Now that's truly the stuff of leadership.)

However, in the future, please realize most of your viewership expects only ONE flashback story per episode -- usually boring retcon explorations of 'human relationships' -- and that they generally endure such syrupy conventional drama, just so they can see what goofy weirdness is taking place on the Island this week.

There goes the neighborhood

With that in mind, please ALSO realize that it is the height of abject cruelty to kick off a new season with a brief flashback of something that is TOTALLY HOLY FARGIN' RAD for a change -- to wit, the Galt's Gulch-styled retreat of the Others -- and then, after the commercial break, replace it with yet more run-of-the-mill Jack-angst about his alkie papa.

Now that's just mean...

October 3, 2006

Pop Cult '06
Because Stephen King remains a contemptible putz, I believe I'll call this one "The Girl Who Loved Mean Giant Badass Robots From Space":



And yes, in case you were wondering, that IS the ever-plucky Penny Gadget. Yet another in a very long (and pathetically sad) list of painted-celluloid females whom yours truly futilely hankered after in his preadolescent years -- that is, when he wasn't also crippling his mediocre artistic development slavishly emulating their Disney/Japanime-distorted features. Still, with the widespread stylistic quirks rife in animation today -- ones that'd make Bambi look like some grim, obsessed avenger -- I suppose it could've been far, far worse.

(Oh, and any pointers to relevant Cybertronian-slash-Puny Fleshling fanfic will be duly ignored. For God's sake, it's horrible enough reading the sue-thored exploits of, say, one of Rowling's heroines gone bewilderingly amnesiac/goth, without having to also indigest highly improbable naughty bits. Or the inevitable revelation that 'SNAPE IS A VAMPIRE!!!!111')

Anyway, at present I'm in my monthly writhing-in-agony mode. This belies the process of relaying messages about my brother's newly-born daughter somewhat, as happy news should never, ever be delivered in an unenthusiastic death-monotone that a state of physical discomfort always affects. T'was also a wee bit galling that the birth announcement was made via cellular camera/phone e-mail -- one of the few bits of modern tech whose usage I still eschew, preferring instead to watch several dozen feature-length films on a tiny handheld device like one of those geriatric codgers rambling on about the glory days of whalebone corset repair.

And for obscure genealogical reasons not adequately explained yet, they opted to name the gal 'Louisa'. Which makes me exceedingly glad my "you'll have a boy" prediction fell through. A limerick-friendly sound like 'loo-WEEE' is only a few steps removed from, say, 'Gaylord' in Darwinian schoolyard terms.

Also endured a recent futile exchange on MySuperfluousness regarding the latest attempt to re-mold America into a spark-hydranted Alan Moore utopia (with, presumably, labor camps for those unreconstructed die-hard tinkerers who still enjoy loud fast things). Sorry, I think a $100,000 tag for ANY rolling conveyance that isn't also equipped with a bed, kitchen and a toilet should be outrageously silly to anybody (besides overpaid Hollywood celebs eager to demonstrate their monumental stupidity eco-cred, that is). But hey, that's just me, parroting the party line of my oily tech-suppressing corporate overlords, who've brainwashed me into considering such piddling trivialities as 'price'.

Oh, not that there isn't a market for short-range e-mobiles to mundane joes -- hell, most of my automotive travels span no more than thirty miles. But if their manufacturers aren't even going to make an attempt to compete with their IC-powered counterparts -- preferring instead to market inflated wares to a tiny gullible clique of wealthy Kool-Aid drinkers who delusionally think they're 'making a difference' -- well, more power to 'em! The spirit of P.T. Barnum lives on!
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