A handsome piece of deformity.

Hotel, checked in. Suite upgraded from king with interior view to double-queen with exterior view and balcony. Dull drive with nice roads. Four year anniversary about to commence with hot tub action and relaxation.

Sitting here, I spy a few stray thoughts peacefully grazing in the snowy field beyond the frosted pane before me–

It was four years ago, in the same hotel, that I began Warren Ellis’ Transmetropolitan. Not so coincidentally, I brought the first five volumes with me.

It was four years ago, in the same hotel, that I began to feverishly scribble notes onto a found pad of paper. Said notes, though long lost, were the seeds for the Dungeons & Dragons campaign that I’m currently mastering. Not so coincidentally, I brought my laptop and campaign notes collection with me.

It was four years ago, in the same hotel, that my wife and I were wed and, within fifteen minutes of the ceremony’s conclusion, were feverishly validating the abstract union of marriage with something a touch more substantial. Not so coincidentally… well, dear reader, I’m certain you can fill in the blanks. Lord knows that I’m about to.

Yup–gonzo cyber-punk, flights of fantasy, and sheet rumpling. Hard to complain, methinks.

The strength of the dark yellow liquid, sheathed by a glass tumbler, is betrayed by minute oily swirls.

It’s five o’clock and the June afternoon beyond these walls is dim, sky low with dense, dark cloud cover. My eyes are fixed on the beverage before me, mind whirring, and I am lost in thought, striving to bludgeon my way out of a mental labyrinth with a bottled hammer.

Focus on the drink.

Single malt. Islay Scotch Whiskey. Moss water over barren falls, cool mountain air and moor land peat. Aged in oak open to the winds of the North Channel, heavy with the weight of history. A robust, smoky character with an intense, warm finish. Lagavulin, sixteen year.

Will she live to see sixteen?

She wasn’t a student of mine, but I consider her one of my children. Acquaintance made via after-school detention, attendance followed by casual conversation. Music and politics, policy and museums. From classics to classes, fresh to freshman, retro and back to the future, she had a reasoned opinion on everything, Monday through Friday.

She’d seen it all.

Lip-ringed, tattooed. A runaway with track marks and scars and fresh scabs, made nocturnally as an offering, a sacrifice to silence the shouting voices she’d left behind, living what little life her past left her in an affluent satellite community of ________, _______. She was fourteen, and her eyes told of hard asphalt, sharp sleet, and rough hands.

Outside, it’s begun to rain. Nature’s pulse drums in my ears, steady beat playing on the rooftop.

Aged beyond her years, she grew up cold and hard, weighted with wisdom unbefitting an adolescent. Years ago, she fled abusive, alcoholic parents, searching for something better in _______’s concrete jungle, only to become the very thing she hated—an abuser of substances, seeking better living through chemicals. A smoker at twelve, she cut, fucked, drank, and doped.

Until eighteen months passed and refuge was found with distant relatives in distant ________.

But good things never last. A taste for freedom, and even the loosest of leashes seem draconian. She ran, again, at the conclusion of the eighth grade. And here I am, staring into a drink, wondering what’s become of her. A failing grade in every subject, yet arguably the most intelligent student I’ve encountered. What need does a student of the streets have for the teachings of a classroom? _____—her name was—is—_____, is out there somewhere, having left an indelible mark on my practice.

To be approachable, available to any student wishing to converse. To not underestimate the intelligence of a child, nor to condescend. That though kindness may not be capable of healing a hurt, kindness itself cannot hurt and should be given freely. That a moment’s conversation may alleviate the ills of a hurt soul, however fleetingly. That a failing child need not be a failure, nor intelligence defined by curriculum. That students, though often faceless strangers in a crowd, live lives filled with happiness and horror alike, victories and valiant attempts culminating in failure. That a life written in scar tissue is just as precious as any other.

I am a teacher, and I am a student of _____. In the brief time she was in my life she taught me a great deal, and as I drown her memory in a peaty haze my only hope is that she’s able to age as long as the drink I’m downing has, that she have time enough to turn things around as best she can.

And though it may be the alcohol talking, my heart echoes its sentiment in a hurried, hopeful prayer to a historically deaf, dumb deity: “I beseech [Y]ou, let [her] lack of years be no impediment to let [her] lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave [her] to [Y]our gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish [her] commendation.”¹

Amen.

It’s been a week, and I’ve been a busy body. Degree-related shenanigans have kept me otherwise occupied, dear reader; you’ll forgive the prioritization, of course, but my self- sought and bought slavery rates higher than you, or Dead Space, or this otherwise dusty, musty journal.

But hey, I did warn you in my last post, did I not?

Now, enough doldrums and excuses and bullshit. Let’s get down to the meat of the matter and discuss what everyone reading really wants to know more about: the opinions of an arrogant ass concerning a game of the video variety.

Dead Space continues to entertain and, now in Chapter 7, I’ve noticed a few things concerning the importance of names. Consider, dear reader, that the writers of the game made immediately obvious the importance of names by dubbing the tale’s protagonist Isaac Clarke. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of science fiction is familiar with, even if only by name, writers Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke. Thus we are forewarned and forearmed, prior to the beginning of the game proper, that names are significant and worthy of our consideration.

So it was that I felt bloody obtuse the other night when, after several hours of exposure to them, my spouse remarked on the religiously-themed names of Dr. Elizabeth Cross and Engineer Jack Temple. Though I pride myself on noticing the significance of minutia in media, I confess that these two things passed me by. I blame excessive distraction in the form of wave after wave of shambling, spitting, and hissing monstrosities, but such are the little lies we tell ourselves to sleep better at night…

So, religion. Unitarianism. Temple, Cross. These things fresh in my mind, I met Dr. Mercer. Mercer, who believes that humanity must die in order to live, surrender to (inevitable) extinction, and find new life in the hallowed halls of a hive mind. It was– oh. Did I mention Mercer’s first name? I didn’t, did I? ChaliceChallus, dear reader; Dr. Challus Mercer. Given his experiments and conviction that all that is happening aboard the Ishimura is God’s work, I shan’t be surprised to learn–nay, dear, nay; in fact, I predict–that Mercer attempted, if not succeeded, to convince the ship’s crew to “drink the Kool Aid,” as it were, citing Matthew citing Christ and saying “Drink this, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” Mass suicide, dear reader, prompted by the (perhaps well-intentioned but ultimately) maniacal Dr. Mercer. This would, given what we’ve learned of the bio-recombinants, have been the ‘easy in’ for the invading life form, providing dead tissue galore and only scattered pockets of resistance.

I’m reaching here, but Dead Space may represent a war of ideologies, of the Christian Cross and Temple and (likely poor, sacrificial) Isaac battling against one who believes he is doing God’s work, but is gravely mistaken. Challus is wrong, you see: it is not God’s will he is doing, but his own. A Challus has been found, but it is not the Chalice, hence the phonetic accuracy but deviant spelling. Furthermore, Mercer believes he is being merciful, offering the mercy of salvation from human inadequacy and cannot fathom, therefore, Isaac’s resistance to the ‘gift’ proffered. Challus Mercer, believing he is God’s tool, is blurring the line between euthanasia and homicide.

Looking back over my post, I confess to having the desire to write a lot more. Not only on names, no, but on weapons, mini-games, game mechanics, and designer decision. That, I’m afraid, will have to wait for another day: this post is already five hundred words and counting, and I’ve a mountain of other tasks awaiting me this fine, sunny Sunday. One final note on names, however: when do I meet something named Stanislaw? If Dead Space is anything, it most certainly seems to be a rather bent take on sci-fi classic Solaris.

Oh, my. Save point. Door. Answer to creepy-crawly question.

Wanted to telephone dear reader and rip his dear head off (you see, dear reader, you nonchalantly said to me the other night “That’s where you saved? Right after reactivating the centrifuge system? Isn’t there one of those bloody holes in the wall just outside of that door? Okay. You’ll find out sooner or later what’s crawling around the ship, don’t worry”). Bastard. I’m glad you didn’t spoil the surprise… though it nearly caused the soiling of my pantaloons. Reduced poor Isaac to a bloody pulp, it did, not to mention my store of munitions.

First time, in fact, that I’ve had serious munition issues and inventory issues this game. You see, dear reader, for the longest time I’ve been running rampant amongst the ruins of the Ishimura, laying waste (with great gusto) to anything (and everything, as a few inanimate objects can attest to) that I cross paths with. Well, following the wallworm (for lack of a better term), I realized that I had a whoppin’ three rounds remaining for my cutter. Necessity is the mother and invention and all that so, next enemy encountered, I tried something new: three rounds to the leg and off and, once prone, stasis and boot stomped into a fine paste. It’s since become a favoured tactic of mine for solo assaulting monstrosities–the boot is a renewable resource, and a bloody useful one at that.

Ammunition issues continued until level’s end (and let me tell you, reactivating the engines is a pain in the ass with only 21 rounds on Hard), though I made do with the surgical application of environmental objects flung with my kinesis module. Not too sure what else to say this post; whatsherface, Strong Female has re-appeared after a brief absence, and Nicole (who I’d think would have been long dead by the time that Isaac “boarded”) sent me a cut up, cryptic query. Plot thickens, though I call shenanigans.

Level 4 notes soon, though I can’t guarantee how soon–my grad work for the coming three weeks is likely to be occupying my evenings and weekends, so another substantial (game-related) post may take as long as three weeks. Expect, instead, life-driven, self-indulgent navel gazing. Perhaps some poetry capable of making a Vogon cringe…

Please stand by.

Just a quick post tonight, dear reader.

I’m dying to know what it is that’s crawling around the guts of the ship. I mean, I’ve encountered several… signs… that something impossibly strong is, but I’ve yet to see it, finding only evidence of its passage. Unfortunately, poor avatar Isaac will probably pay the price for my curiousity. Oh, well; Isaac’s more lives than a cat, and the benefit of save points. He can handle it, but can my heart cope with the scare? Here’s hoping…

In other news, I’m approximately two-thirds of the way through the third level, having just re-activated the Ishimura’s centrifuge drive(s?), and have been playing for approximately four-and-one-half hours. Slow and steady–in both progression and aim–wins the race, as it allows the player to emerge laden with loot.

…though not necessarily in that order.

First, the apology: dear reader, I am sorry for the absence. Now, hear me out–arguably, my main motivation in resuscitating this text-based beast was as means of procrastination from my university work. However, second to that and the proverbial back-breaking straw was as means of entertainment for you. You see, I know you’re busy, I know you’re tired, but hey, this is a shelter from the storm, you know? I want this to be a place where you can come in, kick off your tattered shoes and forget about the growling beast in your gut, the ravenous wolves at the door, and the fact that you’re a stranger in a strange land. This blog is your home away from home and I, your ever humble host, mistakenly locked the door… oops. Well, welcome back. Come in on, you bastard. Let’s drink some scotch and talk about…

Dead Space continues to entertain and, lo, a few familiar themes are starting to emerge. Much like DOOM 3 before it, Dead Space appears to be an examination of the effect an elite may have on a captive populous, and the struggle that emerges in the wake of personal belief (read: religion) interfering with external responsibility (read: politics). Assuming accuracy in these statements (disclaimer: I’m in the midst of the third level, and I’ve heard that there are as many as twelve), this casts a rather emancipatory light on the player’s actions.

Beyond this–and I’m hoping that, as the game progresses, my assumptions here are cemented via the fortuitous finding of audio logs–themes of pregnancy and the pains of birth continue to skirt the periphery, at best silhouetted and casting shadow. Assuming I’m reading the shape of said shadow accurately, I’m seeing, as I wander the Ishimura, the birth of a new form of life. It’s crazy, man; I stumbled across a lab-cum-menagerie of grotesqueries in which, in addition to a few (fucking huge) fetuses in jars, there lurked a fetus-like monstrosity that, when attacking, looks eerily like a peacock in heat trying to attract a mate. To further the idea of new life and birth pains and what have you, there’ve been audio logs to that effect, talking about how “beautiful” the whole process is. I dunno. Maybe I’m reading to much into this, but I hold to a few things: Nicole, literally or figuratively, is (was?) pregnant and this is all linked, somehow, to her and Isaac. Hell, playing with the ol’ Bible, this whole game may culminate in the sacrifice of Isaac (note that I didn’t say death) to prove faith. Just leaves the question of who’s Abraham, yes?

Finally, the title of this (increasingly long) post mentioned weapons, so I would be remiss not to discuss them. A few things: kinesis is, sadly, useless on those smarmy, swarming green globules that like so much to maul me to death. My disappointment upon discovering this was a palatable entity in the room which, my damnedest be damned, I simply couldn’t get to leave. Mr. Disappointment then ended up keeping my wife, cats, and I company as I finished the second level. Have yet to try kinesis in a zero-g section (wherein you’d think it could be used gloriously), but I only just convinced Mr. Disappointment to leave and am hesitant to ask him back. Moving on, I’m still using the plasma cutter. Yeah, that sucker’s damn useful. Ammo’s plentiful (more on that in a second), and it’s stunningly useful at all but the closest of ranges. Now, I’m probably abusing the designers’ intent in doing this, but I haven’t bought any other weapons and I’m currently mid-way through the third map. You see, I began to notice that I’m provided (almost exclusively) with ammunition for the plasma cutter so long as it’s the only weapon in my inventory. There have been a few exceptions (to wit–I’ve found a whopping 50 pulse rounds and four lines), but thus far, the lowest I’ve been on plasma munitions–on Hard difficulty–is ~40. Glee.

Another weapon-specific behaviour I noted tonight is that firing on an empty clip initiates the reloading sequence. I’m of two minds about this. While I think it’s pleasantly generous of the designers to do so for a blind or desperate or stupid player, it has the potential to be bug-fuck annoying to someone who is not any of those things. EA, seriously: if I drain my clip in a hot’n'heavy shoot ‘em up with a few necromorphic hotties, you know, if I manage to shoot myself dry, I’m unlikely to want you to reload my weapon for me. Rather, I’d very much like to hear a click-click-click corresponding with my frantic button-mashing, see unhindered enemies advancing towards me, and contemplate which course of action I’d prefer pursuing–reload tool of destruction, swap boom-sticks, initiate stasis field, run to the hills–than I would you assuming what’s best for me. Make no mistake: I understand, hell, I even on some level appreciate the gesture, but the gamer in me cries out that I know what’s best for me, that the only way to learn is through adversity and struggle and sometimes messy, messy failure, and that I can choose when I want to reload all by myself, thank you very much.

Because I haven’t yet established the fact: I’m playing Dead Space on difficulty level Hard. I turned to my loving wife upon loading up the game for the first time and informed her that, lo, I shall play on the difficulty the game recommends for me.

Bastards. I knew my 360 was trying to kill me.

A likely occurrence, too, given the few heart-stopping moments that I’ve faced recently. In fact, it was the absence of such moments that made my second play session–and completion of the first level–a bit of a dud. Nothing too extreme happened play-wise until the end of the area, a fact which I’m (not so secretly) grateful for, given I’ve already jumped out of my chair a few times.

My penchant’s for the plasma cutter, and I’ve developed preference to aim for the legs–either, doesn’t matter–and, once I’ve limited the mobility of my opponent, shearing off its right arm. This feat is typically sufficient for putting down my foes, often with four to six rounds of ammunition expended (depending upon the intensity of the scene [read: number of opponents] and how precise my aim [read: focus] is as a consequence). Things were, in fact, fine during my second play session–thanks, no doubt, to the wonders of stasis and my ability to dismember and bootfuck pretty much anything stupid enough to attack me either individually or pairs–until the end. At the end of the act, my prediction came true (kabloo goes set-piece! kabloo goes quick escape! nooo goes soon-to-be zombie-fodder NPCs!) when I was, already injured in the explosion, set upon by no less than four enemies at once.

I mentioned that I’m playing on Hard, right, and that consoles are still (relative to my experiences with a mouse and keyboard) new to me, yes?

Well, it was at this point that I learned a number of things. One: stasis is a proximity weapon that, with careful application, may hinder several opponents simultaneously. Two: EA is a bunch of shitheads who, forgetting the better part of valour, have made level progression dependent upon elimination of enemies. This second point was discovered when, finding myself hurt and outnumbered, I unleashed a precisely aimed stasis charge and ran like a mofo for the exit… only to find it locked and, seconds later, that I was in no condition to resist the insistent attentions of three very irritable monstrosities wishing to mate with my eye sockets, anus, and other orifices.

Ugh.

Replaying the scene to EA’s specifications, I dispatched my foes in spite of my limited munitions and health and triggered the cut scene. Having satisfied the level designers’ objectives, I was too busy reflecting on the on-rails game-play I’d thus far encountered (which hitherto I’d been too preoccupied to contemplate) than I was either congratulating myself on a hard-fought victory or paying attention to what said cut scene was conveying. Hmm. Time to adapt the Mr. Pink persona, then, when dealing with creatures wishing me harm: You wanna fuck with me? Lemme show you who yer fuckin’ with.

Completing the first level rewarded me with my first in-game store. At this point, I resisted the urge to use either of the free downloadable content suits, the Elite or Scorpion, for the sake of purity. I mean, let’s be honest: were I to wear either, my first (and arguably most important) impressions of the game would be corrupted. Thus, for your sake, dear phantom readers, I shall soldier on, naked save for my newly purchased Level 2 Suit, seeking salvation for someone from something amidst the cavernous corridors of the Ishimura.

So.

Thirty minutes of Dead Space under my belt, and thus far? Good.

Interface is excellent, and–despite my typical trepidation when it comes to console games–intuitive. It was a breeze to navigate the variety of menus offered, and it was with a start that I noticed that the auto-map displays several floors at once. Nice and smooth.

Ironic, though, that a game called Dead Space has such a strong atmosphere. First of all, the inventory space looks like it could be a bitch to manage (flashing back to the early portions of Resident Evil 4, here), which is bound to have me carefully stocking, using, and dropping supplies as needs must. Secondly, the fact that game-play is not interrupted by accessing said inventory (or map) is bound to lead to some hair-raising moments. Already, I’ve been backing myself into a corner before even daring to glimpse at it, which isn’t like me (smug sonuvabitch that I am) at all. To continue, the scattering of save points throughout the levels ensures minimal save/load bullshit on the part of the player, insisting that a certain distance or objective be completed from save to save. This, obviously, ramps up the tension considerably–you’ve been playing through ten minutes of hell, and aren’t eager to re-do it–don’t fuck up. Finally, the ambient score is terrific. Mood, already evoked by lighting and immediate environment, is heightened through the almost-tangible score built into the guts of the Ishimura: half-voiced murmurings, pounding percussion, hisses, drones, and disembodied shrieks. Sense of urgency? Established. Sense of place? Established. As I said, going’s good so far; methinks the game’s got me by the gonads.

Ah, but what of the enemies, you ask? Well. It’s rare that a game is able to get the jump on me, but to do so twice within a frantic sixty second span? Piss off! Unheard of. Impossible. But lo, there I was–squealing like a stuck pig while running deeper into the darkened, bloodied passages of the Ishimura–away from the nice people with protective firearms–whilst being chased by a half-seen, shambling monstrosity (an excellent use of the third-person perspective, which I’ve otherwise found irritatingly obstructive). Couple that with the elevator (those in the know know what I’m talking about), and I’d swear my bowels had prolapsed in an effort to frighten my disfigured foe through sheer stench. I mean, seriously? I’m backed into a corner, I’m defenseless, and this is inflicted on me within the game’s first ten minutes? Message clear: be on guard, ’cause next time you ain’t gettin’ off so easily.

Other tropes followed shortly thereafter. We have Strong Female playing off of Bold Black Man (or vice versa), both of whom I’m certain shall meet their end immediately prior to my reconvening with them (and shall have to, doubtless, put out of their newly found misery), we have Corpse on Floor that Ain’t Dead (something I’m pleased the designers got out of the way early–it’s guaranteed that I’m going to be suspicious of everything I encounter, ambulatory or otherwise), and exposition-heavy audio logs scattered throughout (and hey, no complaints; long-standing fan of these, particularly if they remain as brief as the few I’ve found have been).

Random predictions?

Plot
The ship that got me to the Ishimura blows up, or is made otherwise inaccessible. Someone’s an asshole–I’m thinking of the Weyland-Yutani Corp. from the Alien movies, here. How much does humanity have to do with what’s going down?

Setting
I end up in something big, nasty, and biological.

Theme
Nicole was pregnant. I’ve a few embryonic thoughts as to what this game is about beyond its gore and gameplay, but I want to see a bit more before committing anything to the web.

My interest in the first-person shooter began with the release of id Software’s Castle Wolfenstein in the early 90s. Interest became admiration with id’s subsequent release, DOOM, and admiration fermented to fanaticism with my discovery of the myriad of level-editing programs available (a hobby I devoted the mid-to-late 90s to, during which time I produced several levels, contributed to a myriad of high-profile projects, and indirectly contributed to many, many more through meticulous play-testing). For over a decade, I’ve prided myself on my ability to play–and some would say play well–the various offerings of the genre: Heretic and Hexen, Counter-Strike, Quake and its bastard off-spring, the Half-Life saga, et cetera et cetera ad nauseum. It was not until recent years that my gaming efforts moved from the realm of the personal computer–you will note the absence of, say, Halo from the list previous–and into the realm of the console.

And the console, kind attendee, is the indirect inspiration for this post.

You see, dear reader, I’ve of late begun–as is true to my shooter and horror roots–playing EA’s latest offering, Dead Space. I figured, what with the recent resurrection of this bloody, soul-sucking blog, that the surefire way to ensure my continual updating is to have something to update about. Thus, in the coming days and weeks (and, help us all if it takes me that long to finish, months), I’ll be posting commentary, questions, and critique on the aforementioned game, drawing upon my skills as a gamer, my understanding of game design, and my preferences in game-play to inform my posting.

More soon.

The date’s hazy, but I’ve distinct impressions of concrete- and brick- lined hallways crowded with lockers and adorned with a myriad of murals. Handprints, sketches, chiaroscuros and landscapes compete for the limited space just above eye-level, crowning the alternating blood-red and maroon lockers that line the halls like so many solemn, saluting soldiers. I recall kicking snow from my boots as I entered—perhaps it is late October, then, or November of 2006—and a chill running up my spine. My name is x, I am a teacher, and I am attending a professional development session aimed at introducing my colleagues and I to a new curriculum.

I help myself to a steaming cup of coffee, hoping its heat shall alleviate my shivering, and take a low-profile seat in the midst of the mid-sized room, hoping to mask myself in its soon-to-be sea of faces. I blink, and the clock nailed to the nearest wall informs me that forty-five minutes have passed. My bladder is screaming, my coffee’s cold, and I’m still rattling—like clothes hung out to dry during tornado season, like a cat crouched in the grass, sensing nearby danger. Introductions have gone poorly, and as I excuse myself to the washroom, I do my damnedest to reflect on exactly why.

Several bold assumptions are being made.

How are teachers and schools intended to implement this curriculum? Furthermore, through the creation of a Knowledge and Employability curriculum, is not the admission implicit that the predominantly theoretical knowledge-base offered to students cross-country insufficient in enhancing potential employability? If that’s not the case, what function is being served, and for whom? Finally, does education even equate to employability? If education is the key to success, what particular lock does it open?

I’m not sure I’m the only one taking the piss here.

He’d escaped Baddy, and his legs would carry him no further. Thomas’ burden weighed on him, but Bear would never leave him and he’d never leave Bear, especially now. Tear-streaked, trembling, alone save Bear amidst the masses, Thomas was invisible to the world. Vision limited to battering legs, he squeezed Bear and bawled. He’d seen all: Mommy, then Bear; Baddy’d opened both, but repaired only Bear. Thomas would never understand why, or that he’d been allowed to escape, clutching a companion whose insides had been replaced with plastique. His last thought before Bear exploded was, simply, “I want my Mommy…”

After convincing most every one I know to join the club, I myself am finally a member due to my wife’s mischievious machinations. You see, last night, her and I exchanged Christmas gifts…

My gift was sixty gigabytes big.

Never been moved to tears by a gift before. My eyes a-twinkle with unaccustomed wetness, I gingerly unwrapped my black beauty and gazed, for what seemed hours, upon its flawless ebony face. So precious…

Dear? I am indebted. Thank you.

My life’s become a black hole of Civilization 4, lesson planning, and sleeping… though, admittedly, Civ4 possesses the strongest pull as even the need for work-related productivity and sleep–not to mention, you know, speaking to my wife–have taken a backseat to my burning urge to re-shape countless worlds in my image.

Oi.

Case in point: you’d think that, after waiting a decade to see Nine Inch Nails in concert, I’d have more to say than “it was good. Excellent, even.” It’s true: I do have more to say but, frankly, I can’t find the inclination nor the time to share my thoughts in greater detail. I mean, what am I supposed to do? There’s a brave new world out there, ripe for the taking… and I’ve got to be quick, or the heathen Mongols will beat me to it.

Now, if you’d excuse me, I really do need to get some work done before I’m completely mired in missed deadlines.

I had intended to write a detailed review of the spectacle I witnessed last night but, alas, fate will not have it. At present, I am mired in marking, my ears are still ringing, and my thoughts are still gathering.

In the meantime, I offer an appetizer: it was good. Excellent, even.

Now… run along, you. These are not the droids you are looking for.

And an old woman, too. Or so I’ve been told by sources knowledgeable.

You’d think I’d have more to write about after a week’s worth of silence and my promise last week of a multi-month backlog of vitriol, but oh no, no… no. This post, this is all about me, baby; it’s all about me, and what makes me happy.

Happiness, despite what a certain Fab Four may have claimed, is not a warm gun. Rather, happiness is the guarantee of quality, even if said quality takes an additional handful of months to prepare. Now, if that quality involves the use of firearms and my being able to capitalize with impeccable aim and quick reflexes, well… that’s just dandy, isn’t it? Especially since I don’t have a lot of time at the moment, anyways. In the interim, I’m more than happy to spend the free-time I do have playing and re-playing Half-Life 2, and whiling away my hours constructing civilizations that worship and adore me.

Speaking of which, Steve Buscemi got it right… but then, dearest reader of my bosom, what has Steve Buscemi ever gotten wrong? In the classic piece of cinema known as Con Air, Buscemi defines irony as “a bunch of idiots dancing around on a plane to a song made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.” Hey, Steve, how’s this for irony? Confucian Romans grinding a Christian Saladin beneath their sandals in the name of pacificism. Yes, thanks to the miracles of crack cocaine Civilization 4, irony has never been more ironic, history more historic, nor my grammar more idiotic.

Need to put this slurpee down now…

And finally, finally… I’ve waited ten years for it, and my patience has been rewarded. At long last, …oh, the hell with it. I’m tired of typing. Those who know me already know exactly what I was going to say, and those who don’t, well, what are you doing here? Sod off!

What? Are you still here?

Oh, fine.

If you’ve read this far, I feel it only fair that I apologize–you, who hold this weblog so dear to your heart, are no doubt aware that this post, unlike the plethora that preceeded it, has a tone unique. It’s tone is not one that one would normally associate with me–if one knew what was good for one. Though it hardly passes for an excuse, I suppose the blame for this shift falls squarely on the shoulders of… oh… Blaine the Mono. Or David Bowie.