Now A Major Moving Pitcher-Show

I'm in Elizabethtown.

And I have no freaking idea why anyone filmed anything here.

It's kinda pretty, relatively hilly, sort of cold, nicely spread out.

It's okay, it's not terrible, but not memorable.

I am, however, EXTREMELY DISAPPOINTED that I can't take a tour of Fort Knox. You know, personally guided by Auric Goldfinger himself.

EXTREMELY DISAPPOINTED.

KENTUCKY! WHY DO YOU DENY ME?

*Shrug*

I think I just wet my pants.

Japanese Spiderman PWNS.

Every time I hear about quantum computing...

I feel like burning witches.

Quantum computing is so far outside my experience with computational theory that I am as a club-wielding heathen, perplexed and frightened by the missionaries' so-called "science."

It's sorcery.

I need to read a lot now, just so I can make this correlate with every other bit of knowledge I've accumulated so far.

Next I'll be driving to places without getting in my car.

UPDATE: Okay, I feel a little better. Thanks, Slashdot. Mod +5 Informative/Funny. I'm going to be thinking about Schroedinger's Seppuku all day now.

Yeah.

So I need to update my links. I'll get around to it.

All I Need Is The Air That I Breath And To Love You.

I'm in the mood for a movie. In space. With monsters.

I think I need to rent Forbidden Planet.

In other news, I think I need to take up pyromania. I've discovered that I own ten million things, and they are all piled up in cardboard boxes in my new place. Things I couldn't possibly need. How could I need them? They're in boxes. If I needed them, I'd be looking for them.

I'm not looking for anything.

I nearly killed myself moving this past weekend. I'm discovering that not only do I own things I don't want, in some cases I own two or three of the same unneeded thing. It's like they're replicating.

Allow me to explain. Physical items have mass. When you have ten million physical items, even extremely small items, they weigh enough to kill a human male in his late twenties.

Things not only have weight (which, I must remind you, can kill you), but they have spacial dimensions, such as height, width, and depth. These are limiting factors. If you don't have room for ten million items, you're in trouble.

So now the only item I wish I had (but don't) is a flamethrower.



I will not deceive you. I was (am?) a Dungeons and Dragons nerd.

I loved playing a monk in DnD. Being a kung fu master was cool, but that wasn't what appealed to me. It was the SIMPLICITY. Monks don't carry weapons. They don't wear armor. They don't need money. They just beat the crap out of stuff.

I'd find myself rolling up monks, just so I wouldn't have to deal with recording all that annoying equipment on my character sheet.

So in summary, I'm so lazy, I don't even want to own things.

Hey.

Have a good week.

Moving.

Switching apartments this week. Won't have much time for updates. Still have a pile of comics I want to write about.

Going to Kentucky in a couple weeks. Will be staying in Elizabethtown(!). No, haven't seen the movie. Looked painfully lame. Maybe I'll meet Legolas, and fullfill the dream of adolescent girls everywhere.

Looking forward to that extra bedroom.

Adios.

Tycho on the Superbowl

From the good gents at Penny Arcade:
"In any case, this will be the last time I invest myself in a game where I have no power to determine the outcome. I really feel a need to emphasize the distinction between this and the sort of game that usually occupies my time. When I feel the kind of plundered devastation I felt on Sunday, there is usually a "learning phase" that follows it. It's the first step in a process, a chain of well-documented events which culminates in the expulsion self-doubt and leaves as the remainder the possibility of future victory. Provided, of course, that I have internalized the deep wisdom presented by the universe - taken the yoke of that strange intellect which courses through defeat."

This sums up precisely my issue with televised sports. You watch, someone wins, someone loses, and networks get paid. There is no phase of this process in which you actively participate.

In any kind of gaming (electronic, athletic, board, etc.), if you get your butt whipped, there's something you can do about that.

I watched the first half of the Super-Dee-Duper Bowl. Glimpsed the second half.

Then I sat down to play a game of Memory against Kate.

She beat me soundly. The kid has a photographic memory when it comes to cards laid out in a grid.

I think I'm going to need to start practicing Memory on my lunch breaks.

Joey's right again.

The Losers is a terrific book. Read the first nine issues last night.

Boy, it's good. It's like the A-Team, only with lots of killing. Great double-crosses, intense conspiracies, and lots of killing. Did I mention there's lots of killing? Lots of it.

Lots.

The fun part is, every time the Losers go on a mission, they go in with the intent of not killing anyone. And then things go bad, and they kill everyone anyway. So the killing's okay, because, you know, it's not intentional.

Of course, I'm not giving enough credit to the intricate plot, hilarious dialogue, and strong characterization. It's a Clancy novel with a sense of humor and a Patriot-Act-Age distrust of government agencies. And the art is very impressive. I'm surprised at how much I'm geeking out over Jock's panel layouts. That's right, panel layouts. The drawings are great as well, but the panel placement paces the action just right. So many good things going on with this book.

I feel like double-crossing someone, just because the Losers makes it so cool.

Just don't try to write anything immediately after reading this stuff, because you'll just want to write like Andy Diggle.

So Joey was right. Again.

What a jerk.

24 last night.

I can't believe I'm blogging about television...

But, holy crap, I was dying to see Jack Bauer take that dude's eye out. In hindsight, I kind of wish the whole episode was of Jack beating the crap out of that guy in front of the President.

It'd go like this:
11:00am
Shot of the President staring calmly at action off-camera. We hear the sounds of a man being beaten. Cut to Jack beating the crap out of Cummings.
JACK: TELL US WHERE THE NERVE GAS IS!
CUMMINGS: NEVER!
Jack continues to torture Cummings for fifteen minutes.
Cut to commercial.

11:15am
Shot of the President staring calmly at action off-camera. We hear the sounds of a man being beaten. Cut to Jack beating the crap out of Cummings.
JACK: TELL US WHERE THE NERVE GAS IS!
CUMMINGS: NEVER!
Jack pulls out knife.
JACK: I'LL CUT YOUR EYES OUT!
CUMMINGS: GO RIGHT AHEAD!
Jack cuts Cummings' eyes out and continues to torture him.
Cut to commercial.

11:30am
Shot of the President staring calmly at action off-camera. We hear the sounds of a man being beaten. Cut to Jack beating the crap out of Cummings. Cumming is eyeless and bleeding profusely.
JACK: TELL US WHERE THE NERVE GAS IS!
CUMMINGS: NEVER!
JACK: I'LL CUT YOUR ARMS AND LEGS OFF WITH MY LITTLE KNIFE!
CUMMINGS: I DARE YOU, YOU COWARD!
Jack cuts off Cummings' arms and legs, making a huge mess.

11:45am
Shot of the President staring calmly at action off-camera. We hear the sounds of a man being beaten. Cut to Jack beating the crap out of Cummings. Cummings is an eyeless bloody torso.
PRESIDENT: I'M THE PRESIDENT AND I APPROVE OF THIS BEATING.
JACK: TELL US WHERE THE NERVE GAS IS!
CUMMINGS: OKAY, YOU WIN. IT'S IN LOS ANGELES SOMEWHERE.
PRESIDENT: EXCELLENT WORK, JACK, YOU'RE THE BEST.
JACK: I KNOW, THANK YOU, MR. PRESIDENT. NOW IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GO STAVE OFF AN ALIEN INVASION.

Roll credits.

...

I should not be doing IT for a living.

Gary North just gets it.

Perhaps you don't know Gary North. You probably should. He's a grumpy old man. He's an economist. He's a scholar. And he knows a lot about money.

If Gary North says your industry is in trouble, your industry is probably in trouble. His points are the same that the geeks on Slashdot have been making for years, but from a purely monetary standpoint, instead of a "information wants to be free, yo" standpoint.

A business depending on lawsuits to survive is doomed.

Humans Are A Destructive Force Of Nature

We're unstoppable.

Oh, man.

It's 3am. Took a too-long nap, and now I can't sleep.

And I've been hit by a frightening realization.

If the 1994 version of me could see me now, he would kill me. Not in a figurative, "uhoh, I'm in trouble" sense. In a "he's going to kill me with the closest sharp object he can find" sense.

I was going to have books written by now. Comics published. Bills paid.

I was going to have a keen sense of humor. And biting cynicism. And marked brilliance.

I think my mid-life crisis is starting early. Please note, this isn't "I need to be driving a Ferrarri to feel better" vibeage.

This is, "My brain was a lot more useful than this" vibeage.

I think my younger self would be okay with some things. My family would get a big thumbs-up. My addiction to information would probably impress him too. I'm older and a bit wiser.

What would he not be okay with:
My willingness to let work life sap my creativity.
My compliance with brain-killing entertainment.
My long periods of couch potato behavior.
My lack of financial discipline.
My inability to finish anything of lasting value.

Yeah, he'd kill me.

This is why you don't stay up until 3am.

Going to bed, hoping I wake up in the morning.

Mostly successful

So, did I force my week to submit to my will?

Yes, I did.

I was in bed by 10pm nearly every night this week. I slept soundly. I was in a good mood. I even ate breakfast one day.

Work went well, for the most part.

No alarms, and no surprises.

I'm ready to hit the comic store, and spend the weekend reading, writing, and packing.

Smackdown

New week.

My plan is to take this week, tie it to a chair, and beat it with a rubber hose until it tells me what I want to hear.

I will get things done this week. Work will behave this week. No alarms and no surprises.

Bills will be paid, issues will be resolved.

And if this week gives me any lip, I'm shoving it into the trunk of a stolen car, and shoving it off a cliff.

Have a good week. I will, or else.

Comics Rundown 1/17/2006

Desolation Freakin' Jones #5 - Jones gets operated on. He gets to fondly remember the life-changing Desolation Experiments. We get the plot summarized for us, in case we're confused. Which we are, but that's okay. Jones gets even. Great fun. The art is very strong for the entire issue. I'm going to have Desolation-Experiment-shaped nightmares now. My only hazy point with this issue is the premise of utilizing Los Angeles as a Prisoner-esque Village for retired spooks. You'd think they'd want to store all these security liabilities in a tighter environment. How hard is it to sneak out of LA? I think Kurt Russell did it in a movie, which means it must be cake. I would think Billings, Montana would be a better candidate location. "Hey, my ex-spy neighbor's Winnebago is missing. Maybe I should call somebody. Oh, wait, there's nothing but 5-foot snow drifts for the next 1000 miles. That sucker's not going anywhere." I haven't made eye-contact with a single human being since I moved to California. As in, more than a month. Which I think is more than enough time for even the crappiest ex-spy to escape. I bet I'd make a terrific crappy ex-spy.

Y: The Last Man #41 - Hm, no Gay Cowboys, I'm a tad disappointed. However, we get a glimpse of the enigma that is 355. Character development. I'm finding the supporting characters are turning out much more interesting than Yorick. Yorick tends to be a bit... hm... Peter Parker. Wisecracks in volatile situations, interesting talents, a little rough history... Funny, but not someone I emotionally connect with. Everyone else just seems so much more jacked-up than Y. Half the population is wiped out, people are mutilating themselves, changing their belief systems, murdering each other. Yorick is still wandering around, looking for true love and his pet monkey, making with the funny. I'm still hanging in there, I'm still reading, and I'm not hating the book. Still not my favorite title though.

Exterminators #1 - Tony Moore Pwns. Not familiar with Simon Oliver. The story looks to have promise. As soon as a 100-foot tall cockroach begins devouring people and destroying the city, I'll hail this book as the next Dark Knight Returns. For now though, the writing isn't super-spectacular. Characterization is promising. The artwork just makes me wish Moore was back on Walking Dead. Maybe someday.

Penny Arcade 25 cent Miracle Book - Cut... Paste... Email pdf file to printer... Rock on, we have a comic book. I didn't get it. I love Penny Arcade. The comic was... from 5 years ago. Some funny old strips were present, sure. But no new material was presented. The really strange part is, I'm fairly sure the 25 cent price point wasn't even enough to recoup the printing and shipping costs. It's like somebody lost a bet. Just weird.

Why is my bed hidden by stuffed animals?

And why are there magnetic letters stuck in the soles of my feet?

And why are my ears ringing with the sound of a screaming child?

And where did all the Gummy Worms go?

Oh.

Right.

I'm a Dad.

I have no clue what's going on today.

Not sure where my head is at. Still reeling with hysterical laughter from reviewing the Chuck Norris Fact List with Troy last night. Wife-lady says I giggle like a teenager. Wife-lady will pay.

Sandpaper Kisses by Martina Topley Bird is knocking my socks off. Spooky, yet soothing.

To my good buddy Don: Yes, you indeed need to throw the Chaff Grenades to beat the first boss fight with Vulcan Raven on Metal Gear Solid. Confirmed. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about your difficulties. Er, I guess I just did. Gamer cred: RUINED.

Snake? Snake! SNAAAAAAAAAKE!

Just went 24 hours without playing any Dystopia, and it did me good. Evil, evil, delicious Dystopia. Going for 48. Now hopefully I'll stop dreaming about grenade-spamming stealth-suited corporate assassins. That's me delivering the spamming, corps receiving spamming. Strange, strange dreams.

Watched 24 last night, missed the first 30 minutes of the first episode. Instead of seeing important characters dying, I was fixing a Zebra 170XiII label printer in a room full of controlled substances. Wife-lady filled me in on the pivotal early-goings-on. Too early to tell how well this season will shape up. Richard Nixon is president again. Somebody is gunning for Jack, and knows he's still alive. The head terrorist looks like, kid you not, Benny Hill.

WTFBBQ.

I'm digging the whole Diehard 2 terrorist-occupied airport angle this time around. And loving more ridiculous accents. Almost as painful as Dennis Hopper's accent in Season 1.

Jack shooting Palmer's sniper in the head makes for pleasing Sunday-night entertainment.

See, there should be a 24 drinking game. Every time a punk kid with long hair causes problems for Jack, take a drink. Seriously, somebody buy these kids a comb. The son of Jack's landlady is this season's problem child. Last season's was SecDef Heller's hippy son. Season 1 had Kim's idiot kidnappers.

Long hair = stoner idiot who needs to be shot or tortured.

Government-approved Jack-sported short hair = someone who could jump out of a plane (no parachute) with a HK-USP .45 and Kabar and singlehandedly wipe out a continent.

Like Jack.

Or Chuck Norris.

Reminder to self:

I've gotta use the following exchange in one of my scripts.

"You know that guilty feeling you get when you do something bad?"

"Yeah..."

"Don't worry, it goes away after a while."

I won't relate where or when this exchange took place.

OH SCHNIKEYS!

My blog is probably illegal...

It's broken, fix it.

Someone please explain to me why my two-year-old (almost two-and-a-half-year-old) is still calling me "Mommy."

Now I'm getting worried.

About her.

Okay, and about me. Maybe a little.