Morgan Dempsey

I'm Not Keeping Up Here

2007-12-20T17:44:00.000-08:00

So just fix your links to point to geardrops.net.

Christmas Shopping is LoL-Tastic

2007-12-12T10:19:00.000-08:00

“How’s your Christmas shopping going?”

“Ugh.” My friend gripped the wheel and glared at the San Jose traffic. “I don’t even want to fucking talk about it.”

(more)

Recipe: Irish Bigos

2007-12-10T19:55:00.000-08:00

I was looking up recipes for an idea for dinner today. I ran across a recipe for cabbage and sausage that sounded distinctly like bigos and was touted as a dish that Irish grandmothers make. I made the two meet and added a few things.

(more)

Perhaps I'd Write it as a Book and Call it "Proof"

2007-12-10T10:35:00.001-08:00

Normally I don't do posts like this. I rank 'posts about dreams I've had' about as high as 'posts about my cat.' And while my cat is so cute she frequently makes me late for work, I can't bring myself to write a full blog about the sole topic of Gravy.

But this was a really fucking good dream.

(more)

Otherwise I'm Fiscally Prudent

2007-12-07T15:26:00.000-08:00

I have a problem: I buy too many books.

This afternoon was as inauspicious as any. Working diligently (semi-diligently) a friend of mine asked me to lunch. A delicious prospect laden with Thai food (particularly kai kaprow) and a stop on Murphy Street, Sunnyvale’s yuppie attempt at getting closer to an artistic, vaguely bohemian scene without running the risk of losing their wallets to gypsies. But it’s cute, and there was a used bookstore about twenty feet away from where we ate. I had no complaints there.

(more)

Trying Wordpress

2007-12-07T11:13:00.000-08:00

Brief as my excursion at Blogger has been, I am giving Wordpress a swing.

I already like it better. I'm a huge fan of tag clouds which I feel let you know what direction your blog is taking more than any other tool. Posts come with word counts, which is about as accurate as your processor word count. The layouts are more varied and far more artistic. I was never a fan of the Lego look-and-feel of Blogger's layouts. These are just classier.

It's like moving from Livejournal to Vox. Upgrade. Try it out, if you're so inclined.

I'll be posting links from Blogger to Wordpress, but the content will be at Wordpress. Just look how shiny it is!

Beirut

2007-12-07T09:51:00.000-08:00

Beirut - Elephant Gun

Put yourself in any movie featuring Europe that was made in the 1960s. What music would you hear crossing the canals of Amsterdam, climbing the breeze up to Montmartre, filling the beer halls of Munich, or crawling out of alleyways of Prague? Now picture that being sung by a guy who, from the right angle, kind of looks like Marty McFly. You'd have Beirut. If you're not sold yet, I don't know what's wrong with you, but it is something deep and terrible.

Also, though not an official video, this allows me to share my favorite song of theirs, Mount Wroclai (Idle Days). No, Wroclai is not a real mountain. I looked it up. But I really kind of wish it was.

Worthless Headlines

2007-12-07T09:41:00.000-08:00

Before I get to this week's music post - I'm certain the one-point-two-seven readers I have are going to be upset if I don't - I would like to report that some headlines are silly.

Innocent People Going About their Daily Lives

Doesn't strike me as news-worthy. It was the headline to the article about the mass-shooting in a mall, and you'd think an event that auspicious would warrant asking for a headline from someone other than Mark in the mail room. Also, whoever wrote that headline, keep an eye on them. I wasn't aware a mass-shooting warranted the moniker of "going about one's daily life." Did the writer wet the bed until they were twelve? This is what we call a window into a dark psyche.

Watch as Peterson Refuses to Answer Reporters

Can I? Can I really? After this can we watch paint dry? If you're trying to entice someone to view your obvious waste of bandwidth, can we at least make it worth the while of getting caught slacking off? If I'm going to watch someone not do something, I'm going to watch myself not code. Far more interesting and saves on the energy bill.

Billy Joel Pens Anti-War Song, Won't Sing It

Next in news: writer writes book, won't publish it; artist paints painting, won't show it; and news reporter writes story, won't read it.

It Really Should be a Controlled Substance

2007-12-06T17:09:00.001-08:00

I have drawn yet another into World of Warcraft. I imagine this is the pride a drug dealer feels. And Blizzard does nothing to draw away from the comparison. If anything, they contribute to it. With the ten-day guest pass in each copy of the game, "First taste is free," and the recently-added incentive to draw back those who have escaped its oily tentacles, they do a great deal to make themselves look like that guy on a random corner of the Tenderloin, eyes shifty and red at three in the morning.

"Naw man, I've been clean for a year now. I just got my first chip."

He smiles at you. Is it just the poor lighting or are his teeth naturally yellow? "Just one little taste. Maybe we go kill a mob in Outlands? Or how about just a few starter quests in Coldridge? You like gnomes, don't you?"

"I... I love gnomes."

He sidles up to you. A musk of Mountain Dew and stale pizza hangs on his clothing. "Gnomes make great warlocks."

"I used to play a warlock."

"Best on the server, I bet." His eyes turn feral.

"The best."

His smile is wide. Triumphant.

Things You Can Trust Me On

2007-12-05T10:38:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine wants to pierce her nose. She's Indian with really nice skin and hair. Actually, she's pretty hot. And she'd look great with a piercing. She came to me about it, asking if she should.

MONDEEP: Should I get my nose pierced?

ME: Yes. Absolutely.

MONDEEP: You really think so?

ME: I do. But do not get it with a gun. Needle. NEEDLE.

MONDEEP: Needle? Doesn't that take longer?

ME: To pierce? Yes. To heal? No.

MONDEEP: But the increased piercing time means greater pain, doesn't it?

ME: No no no. Trust me. I've gotten four holes with a gun and three with a needle. Needle > Gun.

MONDEEP: Are you sure?

ME: There's more to piercing than just getting the metal into your flesh. I just got my lip pierced and it's healing beautifully. Guns don't hurt at the moment of piercing, but within five minutes it burns like a bitch. A needle hurts at piercing but after that you're pretty much done with pain.

MONDEEP: Really?

ME: The reason is that the gun forces a blunt object through your skin, tearing the flesh and making it jagged and horrible for healing. A needle slices clean through, which makes it very easy for your skin to heal. Ever wonder why a paper cut hurts more than a razor cut? Same theory.

MONDEEP: I didn't know that.

ME: Seven piercings. You can trust me here.

MONDEEP: I'll think about it.

It hurts me that she doesn't trust me. I've told her to get hot pink streaks and pierce her nose for years now, and she had to pull the dumb move of going to a company that doesn't support unnatural hair colors. Thank goodness my company is all right. Someone here has purple hair. The CEO himself chatted with me and has said nothing about the holes in my head. She's doon it rong.

And if you're curious: double piercings in each lobe (14 gauge fishhooks in the lower piercing), left ear helix, right ear conch, left lower lip. I think I'm set for now. I may eventually want a second ring in my left helix, just below the one I have currently, but I have a lot of metal. I'm good for the time being.

Comic Review: Fables, vol 1

2007-12-05T10:06:00.000-08:00

Link.

The basic rundown: every fairy story you've ever heard is actually true, and they've been run out of their homeland by a Sauron-esque adversary simply called... The Adversary. Catchy, no? They've now moved underground in New York and are attempting to live in such a way that the mundane citizens (or 'mundies') don't notice their existence, piddling away eternity, longing for their homeland. Along the way, there's murder.

In this volume, divorcee and bureaucratic leader of Fable, Snow White, is horrified to learn from detective Bigby Wolf that her sister, Rose Red, has been murdered. I won't tell you how the plot unravels, except to say that along the way we encounter a trickster Jack (the beanstalk one), a Bluebeard whose money sense borders on Robber Baron, a sword-wielding Cinderella, and a womanizing Prince Charming, all culminating in a rooftop 'parlor scene' wherein the mystery unfolds to a disbelieving audience.

This first volume was good, but I like a little more grit in my murder mysteries. It was well-written, the characters were likable and overall believable, but I couldn't get behind the story. Just a bit too PG-13 for my tastes. I like blood, gore, chases, forensics, and a healthy body count. However, this is just a personal grievance, and doesn't really reflect on the work. For those of you who like murder mysteries that pan out more like Clue and less like the latest episode of CSI, this is perfect for you.

Once HeavyInk gets the first volume of this series on their site, I'll drop my review there. It would be unfair of me to judge the series as a whole based on this first volume.

TV Review: Dexter

2007-12-04T10:20:00.000-08:00

Behind the times? Perhaps. I don't have an antenna.

Quick summary of the show: it's about a serial killer who kills serial killers.

Grander summary (and this is about all I can give you without spoiling major plot points): Dexter Morgan is a blood spatter analyst for the Miami PD, and in his spare time he hunts down those who have managed to escape justice, but not because he wishes to balance the books. At a young age he was witness to something horrific, something that changed him. His foster father, Harry Morgan, tells him, "They cut into you too early. They cut too deep." Dexter is completely devoid of emotion and is consumed by the need to kill. Harry trains him in how to quiet his urges without getting caught.

To give you more would ruin things. All of this is revealed in the first episode, but how he became what he is today unfolds throughout the story, weaved together with the tale of the Ice Truck Killer, the most horrific serial killer in Florida's history. The supporting cast is rich, each character distinctly human, both likable and unlikable in their own ways, and exceedingly human.

What got me was that this man, Dexter, is a serial killer. They don't pull punches. He's brutal, vicious, and takes a trophy of each kill. He is unable to relate to anybody and fakes every human interaction. Yet I connect with him. How often do we in our own lives fake social niceties? Smile at that coworker you despise, or show up to family functions when you'd rather just be running yourself headlong into hard things? Put up a false front to preserve what's going on behind the scenes? It's a very existential theme, this constantly feeling on the outside of society, and it's a feeling we can relate to.

That's what made me love the show. Other than how well scripted it is and the perfectly coordinated visuals. But when I stepped back and realized, "The writers just made me cheer on a serial killer," I was hooked.

I can't recommend this any more. There's no way for me to communicate how incredible this show is. It's on DVD. Go buy it.

Rundown

2007-12-03T10:24:00.000-08:00

I had a long post, but I deleted it. Some things are best left unsaid.

This weekend held a great deal of media consumption. Caught up on nearly all of Y the Last Man, read part of Chiaroscuro (and there's a reason I read only part of it), read the first volume of Fable, and read through another section of Wicked. I can't wait to finish that book. I picked up issue 1 of Fell and Doktor Sleepless, and the first volume of Ex Machina (sorry HeavyInk, I couldn't hold out). I tried reading The Trial (Kafka), but I just wasn't in the right headspace for it.

Also, I've gone through a good chunk of the Showtime show Dexter, which I absolutely have to write a review for. The fact that these writers can make me sympathize and cheer for an antisocial serial killer (and when I say anti-social I don't mean unsocial, withdrawn, or introverted - I mean that he's a sociopath) left me amazed. Behold, the power of good writing. You can be turned into someone who roots for the pinnacle of an evil persona.

Anyway, I'm going to review all of those things.

On a completely different topic, I made a post recently about this whole Gertsmann kerfuffle in the gaming industry. It got worse. I, being a complete whore for drama that does not include me, am savoring this like a prisoner long-starved for sunlight waking on the rooftops of Santorini. There was once a point in my callow youth that I would flare and blog and blog and blog about these issues. I've said my piece. Now to smile as the claws unfurl like banners of war.

And as a sidenote about ethics and money in reviewing, this article has proven itself interesting.

Bradbury and Heinlein

2007-11-30T17:19:00.000-08:00

How do you become a writer? Ray Bradbury (if you don't know who he is go just... castrate yourself or something; really, you probably deserve it) had a simple response. His guide to writing was completely self-contained. There was no way you could follow his advice to the letter and not improve somewhat.

Universe at Large: How do you become a writer?
Bradburry: Write every day for a year.

Heinlein had five rules to writing speculative fiction, a fraction of which are applicable here. I'll list the first three.

You must write.
You must finish what you write.
You must refrain from rewriting, except to editorial order.

I do my best to write every day but this isn't always feasible. I have a job that keeps me from when I wake up until six in the evening, which requires a half-hour commute. I have a significant other. I have a cat. I have an apartment that needs cleaning, frequently. Books to read, games to play, friends to see. Moreover, I have a 10pm bedtime. Call me spoiled in that last bit of trivia, but I am cranky as a five-year-old without that sleep.

I can't write at work. I've tried. I write pen-and-paper first which may slow the process, but in the end I'm far more cautious over each word I select which improves the output, if only marginally. My writing is better than my blogging (not difficult to conceive I'm sure).

Moreover, tonight I'm - apparently - orchestrating a birthday party. It only requires the aggregation of Sloppy Joes and yellow cake (and alcohol which I cannot consume due to recent oral piercing), but being notified at noon-thirty the day of means a lot more cleaning than I wanted to do. And I was looking forward to tackling The Trial tonight. (Kafka, for those less inclined.)

No more! My resolution as of now - no pathetic waiting for an arbitrary Gregorian timestamp - is to write three hundred words a day. Three hundred. That's all. Just a hair over a double-spaced page in OpenOffice. The trick here, for myself, is to not only get into the habit of writing every day, rain or shine, but to have the breathing room to pause over previous work and edit.

The three hundred baseline is for those days that I stare at the blinking cursor hating everything, at all, ever. No matter what, I can at least squeeze that much out, even if it's something I delete the next day. So long as I put something down, and tried, I can call it time well spent.

And this small scratching of verbage won't interfere so much with my having an existence outside of work, which I'm sure those other entities in my life appreciate. Except the cat. She loves sitting on my lap when I write.

As I wrote this, I overheard someone order a pizza to be delivered to work. Good Lord, that sounds delicious. Steady, Morgan. Maintain.

Nobody Left to Trust

2007-11-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

Bullshit like this is why I tend to only trust reviews from Penny Arcade.

The quick and dirty summary. Fact has it that Eidos made a game called Kane and Lynch, and paid many kilo-dollars to GameSpot (subsidary of CNet Networks) for extensive advertising. Fact also has it that Jeff Gerstmann gave this game a poor review, with a detailed explanation to the faults he found within said game. Then two events occurred, in quick succession: one, Eidos pulled said stacks of kilo-dollars from GameSpot and promised to pledge their future giga-dollars elsewhere; two, Gerstmann was fired.

Now, I'm no scientist... wait, yes I am. Well, an engineer, but I've done my fair share of science. As a scientist, at best I could pull a correlation here. (As a philosopher who would sell their soul to have a drink with Hume, I couldn't pull anything that wasn't directly linked to an emotional need for order within my universe, but I'm ignoring that portion of me.) All the same, Gerstmann's inability to comment leaves my head hanging in sadness. Of course management said something about the story (something that completely contradicts the simple data flow of modus ponens) but being who I am I inherently distrust anybody with power. And as my friend Jason said, "coincidental is just another way of saying zomgconspiracy."

I can't trust GameSpot. I can kind of trust 1up; at least as of two years ago they were a great team. I can't... well, I've never trusted IGN so we won't even go there. The joke is that "you can't spell 'ignorant' without IGN" and I hold to that. Really, the only reviewers I stand behind are the guys at Penny Arcade. I just wish they posted more reviews.

Final Fantasy

2007-11-30T09:21:00.000-08:00

Final Fantasy - This Lamb Sells Condos

Of course Owen Pallett had to dub his solo project Final Fantasy. He couldn't make it easy to find his music on YouTube between edits of the games to play up the epic romance of Tidus and Yuna - or of Rikku and Yuna, depending how your tastes roll - usually set to Utada Hikaru or Evanescence.

Owen Pallett, if you recognize the name but have no idea where from, is the man responsible for the strings of The Arcade Fire. He does that here, while singing. Apparently seeing him live, an honor I've yet to have bestowed upon mine head, is awesome. Just from videos I can see that. Great crowd interaction, and I love seeing artists record and loop live. It's just fun to watch.

And although the above song, and corresponding video are amazing, the song below is actually what got me listening more. He opens by saying, "Thanks for not asking if this is The Dream Of Win And Regine." That, and He Poos Clouds all have videos.

Final Fantasy - This Modern Love (Bloc Party cover)

STEFAN: Was it you who got me into Owen Pallett?

ME: You're welcome.

STEFAN: Yeah, that was awesome how you did that.

Also would like to add that this pleases me. A good deal of my favorites are on there.

Government Pwnt by Laws

2007-11-29T14:52:00.000-08:00

I ate sushi and an onigiri today, only to recall that I have corned beef and cabbage sitting in the fridge. Tomorrow, I suppose.

During the process of procuring raw fish and cooked rice (I prefer it that way rather than the other way 'round) I also purchased a blanket. A red fleece thing. They lacked green, so I went with my second choice. I worry I'll be mocked for this, but I'm wearing a sweater. It's not like I didn't put effort into maintaining an internal temperature of ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit (thirty-seven degrees centigrade).

By the way, 'centigrade' makes far more sense than 'Celsius.' It is a grade against which temperature is gaged, starting from the freezing point of water and ending at the boiling point of water. It is divided into one hundred individual points, the SI prefix for which is 'centi-.' I passed a multitude of maths. I challenge you to defy me.

At twenty dollars, I can't argue with this investment. Red fuzzy fleece. It's just harder to stay awake at work now.

On a completely unrelated but far more interesting note, joys upon joys danced around my feet like rejoicing Minpins, and they brought forth this as a burnt offering. I gladly accepted and graced their farmlands with heavy crops that they may spend the winter in lavish repose.

"A federal judge ordered the Bush administration yesterday to accede to the EFF's Freedom of Information Act request."

Simply delicious.

Watchmen Photos

2007-11-28T10:47:00.001-08:00

I was originally intended on writing a giant blog post about politics and how I appreciated Obama's directness about his prior drug use, and how this should be lauded as an example of bold honesty in the face of so much vile vilification and puerile posturing. (Writing that was delicious.)

But then this showed its ass up and I couldn't ignore it.

There were some fun facts listed, too:

5,800 feet of neon requiring 24,000 watts of power
100 unique and custom-designed graphics created for the various storefronts
5,000 square feet of custom posters
Street had to work for 1938, 1945, 1953, 1957, 1964, 1974, 1975, 1977, and 1985
1,040 feet of 1:1 scale New York streets
98,400 square feet of exterior scenery
12,500 square feet of interior scenery
Building heights range from 23'9" to 42'6"
10,325 16-foot 2x4s
3,600 sheets of OSB (plywood-like construction material)
384,000 square feet of foam brick
200,000 nails
3,500 tubes of construction adhesive
160,000 lbs. of steel I-beams support the facades
300 cubic meters of concrete
6,000 square feet of glass
4,800 square feet of plexiglass
20,000 donuts were consumed by the construction crew
20,000 gallons of water and 3,000 gallons of Gatorade was drunk by the crew

The first response from my buddy Jason was, "So many donuts. I want that many donuts."

The images, in case you don't care to follow the link:

ME: The last foto became my background.

JASON: Nnnhuuuuurrrrddddd.

ME: Says the guy with a WoW background on a laptop he got primarily to play WoW on the go?

JASON: Hey, I'm doing homework right now.

A Difficult Youth

2007-11-27T10:29:00.001-08:00

The more I think on my youth, the more I am surprised I've survived as long as I have.

My parents are tiny eastern Europeans, and you should understand that as far as parental relationships, I had more in common with my Asian and Indian friends than I did with my more western friends. Eastern Europeans are hard, bitter people, hard working, self-doubting, and mistrusting of compliments. They demand their children respect them absolutely, and do not do very well in the face of rampant insubordination (as what was offered by me).

They fled when Poland declared martial law. They spent a year or more rolling around central Europe, trying to scratch out a living while awaiting acceptance into the US as political refugees. My mother was a physician. My father was a PhD in electrical engineering. She cleaned houses and he dug wells. You do what you must. They struggled, and made it to America, to give their one, single, solitary child all the opportunities they never had.

And this is what they got.

I managed to graduate college, although by the skin of my teeth. I actually sneaked into the graduation ceremony for the year I was intended to graduate in, which is a story unto itself - rambling and uninteresting, but I amused myself with my own fast talking. Bachelor's in engineering (minor in philosophy, my pride in which is due to the fact that I'm an engineer who can actually communicate) which is really nothing to sneeze at, although I could have applied myself. My epitaph will read "Could have become something if had only applied self."

Despite my present on-paper success (steady job, own apartment, self-sustaining, relatively healthy) I am still a trial, a fact made fresh this Sunday when I put a new hole in my head. This brings me to seven piercings, and this one is in the lip, so it's particularly audacious. I drink, I have smoked although I am not a smoker, I hung out with the 'wrong crowd' for the bulk of my life. To be fair, that's a rather cruel statement on my mother's part: she's stunned that I would be good friends with an actor or artist-types. I wonder how she would swing with my father's side, considering we have actors, musicians, artists, and the like. (No writers.)

I was injured a great deal of my childhood. I played rough and thought I was invincible. The latter has yet to be proven to the contrary although I've yet to really put it to the test. For several years it was dubious whether I would survive the day, merely due to how often I came home with new bandages or bruises.

Add this to the fact that I screamed and cried as an infant. I was a loud baby. I wanted my presence known, and in very angry manners.

For this, I thank my parents. Not for the gifts they have given me in life, simultaneously many and few, but for the fact that they didn't kill me. I am an only child and accident-prone. You really think they couldn't have made that look like an accident? How easy it would have been for me to - whoops! - fall down the stairs or out of a tree (both of which have actually happened to me on more than one occasion). You, too, should muse on how difficult you were for your parents - if indeed you were difficult - and thank them for not killing you. If nothing else, the reaction is worth it.

"Yes, ah," my mother said to me with a weary sigh after my thanks. "You were not an easy child."

I smiled at this. "Do you ever wish you had a different kid?"

Another sigh. "Well... you weren't easy."

Thanksgiving Rundown

2007-11-26T14:21:00.001-08:00

I had a total of three Thanksgivings. This is what happens when you have too many people who are important to you, but not to one another.

Thanksgiving number one was more a Thanksgiving luncheon than anything. There was a good deal of awkward standing around and attempting to help on my part, along with the occasional sly dodge of politics. I always assume everyone else's political views differ sharply from mine, and allow people to think they're exactly the same. It's not that I lie. I just don't correct assumptions that work in my favor.

"Boys are smarter than girls."

I looked up briefly, at Liam, an eight-year-old with Autism. High-functioning, but still autistic. The statement didn't bother me, for what I hope are obvious reasons: he's eight. When I was eight there were rhymes dedicated to the intellectual deficiency of the opposite sex. Ballads that spanned evenings in their telling, shared in merriment over mead and sweet meats. The rest of the table flipped out. I returned to my stuffing.

"Boys aren't any smarter than girls are."

"Yeah they are." He bore the adamant conviction of Jan Crouch, with a similar facial expression. "It's science. I read it in a book."

Now I started laughing. His parents were frantically trying to convince him that no, boys were not smarter than girls, that they are the same, that some girls are smarter than some boys, and some boys are smarter than some girls. It's different from person to person.

Liam was thoughtful about this barrage of new data. And this was all coming from his parents, the definitive source of all things Rational and True. They are a walking intellectual reservoir. "Well," he says, slowly, piecing the logic together, "I guess a girl dog is smarter than a boy fish."

Clearly. You have to pull back to the phylum to get distinctions in intelligence. It's just science. Quickly following this came another conversation which ended in: "Thanks, Grandma. Thanks for reminding me about my lost childhood."

Thanksgiving number deux saw my father incredibly drunk off of two cosmos. I pointed this out to my mother, who snapped at me, "Have you ever seen a grown man get drunk from two Cosmopolitans?" The answer to which is: yes, my father. In his attempt to explain to me the magic of ethanol and its stunning array of powers vis-a-vis one's synapses, he started muttering something about the color before downing the rest of the shaker.

The third Thanksgiving was simple, with probably the moistest turkey I've eaten in my life. The Guitar Hero was epic. Everything else was simple. I destroyed the game in the face of the rest of the group's button-pressing inadequacies. Someone yelled at me for beating their game before they did. I wish I had the self-preservation to be reticent, but Dragonforce came up on the screen shortly after.

Friday began as a different day. It ended in Everclear.

I discovered this and found it endearing, especially considering I've been unwittingly participating for the entirety of my life. Not as a protest statement or a desire to crush consumerism. I just hate crowds.

We are Scientists

2007-11-26T09:51:00.000-08:00

We are Scientists - Inaction

Pop isn't a crime, folks.

If you check out their site, you'll find they are every bit as weird as the video indicates. All of their music is of that indie-pop type feel, with several songs that are just a bit out there. Not so far you can't reach it, but just far enough that people like me can appreciate it. Songs with titles like 'On the Nature of Empirical Truth' which tell you that 'dogs are smart but not like pigs are.'

I was aiming for some sort of 'new music post every Friday' schedule, but well. Friday I was AFK, and there's nothing to be done for it. Not like its absence weighs heavily on my reading public. So, double-dose this week. Because I love sharing music.

Next one... I don't know. Would the Eels be insulting? A friend who claimed to be a fanatic of All Things Indie Rock had never heard of them/him, so I'm not entirely certain how to treat a band that's been on the scene since 1995. I feel it'd be like asking a movie buff if he's heard of Kurosawa.

I'm thinking I'll go with Final Fantasy.

Fuck the Petty Bourgeois

2007-11-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

I frequently despise how spoiled I've become.

I'm the one at the helm, you understand. The one with the credit card, the bank account, the income to support booking hotels, rental cars, et cetera. (Ignore the fact that I'm going to paying through the nose for this car rental; you hit one cop car...) Moreover, I'm the one with the responsibility to do these things. I chase things down. I mind the details. I finish what I start.

The ticket to ComicCon in my inbox, blissfully paid for and giving me passage to all days. I've found the hotel, and car rental, which will land our group $200 per person, total, for the whole weekend. This is because I am good at what I do.

Of course, I looked up reviews for the hotel. Not so great. I really can't complain for $1000, for eight people, over four nights. But the thought of sleeping on an uncomfortable bed, or unclean sheets, or bathing under sketchy water, already has my skin crawling a little. I would be willing to pay more for soft sheets and pristine toilets. Those are booked. Even if they weren't, I'd be flying solo due to cost.

I used to not mind. I used to be able to crash anywhere, curled up on a cement floor with nothing but my next day of clothing under me. Rock quarries in Mexico. Hidden corners of conventions. Five people piled onto one couch. And now, I just want a soft, warm bed where I can be spoiled into sleep.

Where the hell did my spirit of survival go?

I'm just glad one of us is going to have a driver's license but be physically unable to consume alcohol. I have free reign to get obliterated. No one minds if you bring a coffee cup full of gin on the convention floor. Trust me, I've done this.

Book Review: The Dresden Files

2007-11-20T11:00:00.001-08:00

As you can potentially see by my sidebar, depending on when this is read, you'd see that I'm currently on book three of The Dresden Files series. It's taken me a long time to hop on board with these books, for a few reasons. I am very wary of the bulk of urban fantasy, even though I love the genre, because it's frequently crap. I like science fiction too, and shy away from it for the same reason. I'm actually least often disappointed by YA lit, which says something, though I'm not sure what. Also, about the same time I heard about the series, I also heard the words "Sci-Fi Series" and that immediately shot it down. The Sci-Fi channel does one good thing, which is playing episodes of Firefly.

Actually, that's unfair for me to say. I don't have TV.

But, a friend told me no, they're actually good, I should really give them a chance. I did. I'm glad I did. I'm not going to tout these as being incredible literature. They're not. They're fun fantastic escapism, and were just what the doctor ordered after finishing some Nietzsche.

There are a few things categorically wrong with the writing, if you ask me. For one, every chick is hot. Now, don't get me wrong here. I realize this is fantasy, pandering and shameless. But really, not every chick is going to be smoking hot. It gets to a distracting point, and you can't appreciate every individual smoking-hot-chick when she's just one in a number. Moreover, the whole shabby-guy-gets-hot-chicks thing? I've seen it before. Come up with a new shtick.

Also, I feel a bit abused with the constant cliffhanger writing. Every chapter ends with some sort of 'holy shit you just might die' moment, and forces you to keep going. Yes, great, it's a literary trick, I know, it's what you do to keep people coming back for more. But the thing about tricks is that you don't keep showing the same one over and over. It's like the Chekhov's gun in Harry Potter and the Generic Fantasy Reference - or perhaps I should say Chekhov's arsenal? You just start to feel a little knocked around.

I dig the campy noir thing it has going on, the dark settings with touches of dry detective humor. I worry a bit over what this says about me as a human, but well. Them's facts. This does get a bit over-the-top as well, but in general, it's just an over-the-top series. It makes no apologies about it, and it really doesn't need to.

Overall, good escapist writing. If you're getting tired of reading too much heady literature, dive in for a little while. Although I think after book three (of seven) I'm going to have to go read something intellectually redeeming, lest my brain muscles start to atrophy. I can already feel them shrinking, crying out, "Camus, Kierkegaard, save us!" It's annoying when you're trying to get some work done. Although they have a point: I never finished Sickness Unto Death.

Next I have to say something about Wicked. That book was just incredible.

Get Me to the Church On Time

2007-11-19T09:33:00.001-08:00

I got a call from a friend of mine from high school whom I've kept in touch with. Bear in mind that high school was not so much something I graduate from as something I escaped. Surmounted. I made jokes about it being like Auschwitz on regular intervals, which is a lot darker once you've seen the actual Auschwitz. The fact that they erected black wrought-iron gates around the whole thing really didn't help dispel the comparison. Shortly after this call I had a wedding invitation in my mailbox.

I got my ass there, on time even. I'm really glad for the three other weddings I've had to attend in the past year, all of which were friends from high school or earlier, which led to a complete wedding-appropriate outfit. One less thing to be distraught over. The gift was easy too, God bless registries. I know the girl, but really, I have no sense of good crystal or how to approach her specific toasting needs.

I stumbled into the church gymnasium, decked out for a wedding. Red roses, white lights, and some sort of fabric that after some research I have found the name of: crinoline. Steak was served, so that was a plus, and the entire ceremony lasted fifteen minutes, another plus. I appreciate not having to sit through long ceremonies, having sat through multiple. But then, then, the questions started.

"Wow! I haven't seen you in years!"

"Yeah, I know." 'I engineered it that way.'

"How have you been?"

I shrugged. "Good. You?"

"Good! Oh, hey, doesn't this make you miss high school?"

"Not really, no."

They faltered. "But didn't we have a blast?"

'You and I?' I thought. "Maybe you. Graduation was a day of liberation for me."

"Are you going to go to the reunion?"

"Spend a night hanging out with people I didn't really like when I was younger and probably will react to my presence with the indifferent silence that I spent four years in?" I pause. Sometimes long sentences with big words slows people down. "Probably not."

And then I spot the swollen bellies of impending childbirth walk around arm-in-arm with men smiling because they're too dumb to realize what they've thrown away.

It's not that I'm bitter or an elitist. It's that I'm kind of selective. I had my friends. We could talk about anime, Star Wars, existentialism, Harry Potter, comic books, Faulkner, politics. I never gave a rats ass about who was hot, either in school or the celebrity world. I don't care about having a 'pimp' ride, or how exactly to best attract the opposite sex. And I really, really hate bullshit small talk. I can do it. I'd just rather not.

Did I mention this was a Mormon wedding? In case you're unaware of what this implies, I'll spell it out: dry wedding. Dry. Wedding. Immediately following this shindig I got intimate with a bottle of Jameson and a copy of Evil Dead.

Actually, ironically enough, today's Diesel Sweeties captured that exact feeling. I wish I could have read this before the wedding, so that when asked if I missed high school, I could retort with "Unlike you, I don't confuse 'The Breakfast Club' with 'Shawshank Redemption.'"

iPod 5 Song Shuffle

2007-11-16T15:49:00.000-08:00

Todd, you're on.

The Futureheads - Decent Days and Nights
Placebo - English Summer Rain
Kasabian - Processed Beats
The Decemberists - Shanty for the Arethusa
Muse - Muscle Museum

Holy shit. That actually turned out better than I expected.

Architecture in Helsinki

2007-11-16T10:16:00.001-08:00

Architecture in Helsinki - Hold Music

I was thinking of opening up with Muse, but if you haven't heard of them by now, you fail. In fact, there are a plethora of bands I could have listed, but chose not to, for that reason. I feel saying bands like Shiny Toy Guns, The Decemberists, or Air might just be insulting. At the same time, maybe not.

Just the same. Architecture. Band from Australia. Probably the boppiest, happiest thing you're likely to hear in a long time. I don't see the point in any further writeup. The music is there.

Next week: probably We are Scientists. Because powerpop is not a crime.

No, Says the Man in Moscow

2007-11-16T09:54:00.000-08:00

My office mate is in his fifties, divorced with two children, and someone whom I would characterize as highly responsible. I don't expect the members of my Warcraft guild to epitomize restraint in any capacity, so when asking them whether my paycheck should be saved for bills, food, car repairs, and upcoming Christmas shopping, or blown on comic books and video games, I was entirely unsurprised at their response. My office mate, however, surprised me.

ME: So, I have a dilemma.

OM: Shoot.

ME: I just got paid. It's a paycheck. It's delicious. And I have things like rent, and bills, and Christmas shopping.

OM: Okay.

ME: Problem is, I also really want to play Assassin's Creed, which not only requires buying the game, but buying the console as well. So the question becomes: do I be responsible or irresponsi--

OM: Irresponsible. Definately.

There was no conscious thought there. It was completely knee-jerk.

So, yesterday, I dropped half my paycheck on video games and comic books. I couldn't swing Assassin's Creed, being that it was sold out by the time I left work, but I did pick up Bioshock, which is really a trade-up anyway.

I think I'm going to add a Weekly Music Tidbit or Something Like That to this blog. I really am a music aficionado. That needs to shine through.

Why Do I Hate When People Get Famous?

2007-11-15T17:29:00.001-08:00

There are two things that I fully admit to being:

Music Nerd
Elitist

And unfortunately, those are being simultaneously tested as one of my Tier-2 Bands became a featured video on 'the YouTubez.'

Two Gallants is a folk rock duo from San Francisco which I can readily describe as "Like Bob Dylan, but Angrier." A heady blend of raspy vocals, self-loathing, and empty bottles of Pinot Noir, they aren't a band I'd recommend going to see after you've driven six hours, as I have in the past. (But that concert at Bimbo's just before New Year's was totally fucking worth it.) Absolutely incredible and lulling. Best to listen to when stoned, although I can't personally vouch for that one. I can only assume.

Now that they're popular can I still like them? I don't know.

I'll just take a page out of their lyrics: steady rollin', and I keep goin'...

To understand my ranking: there is only one tier-1 band, and that is Muse.

Best Because it's True

2007-11-14T11:23:00.000-08:00

Today I ate a lot of pumpkin.

I was one of three judges at a pumpkin recipe contest held by work, as a part of the Thanksgiving festivities. Saying I'm "gainfully employed" doesn't even scratch the surface of my current situation. Soon I'll be regaling you with the horror stories of getting my master's in engineering, but for now: punch and pie.

After this meal, we took a side-trip to play laser tag. We were discussing fun activities, such as going to Sky High, and the conversation flowed into something like this:

ME: You know, we should go to Sky High right now.

CHRIS: Do you know where it is?

ME: No.

KRISTEN: Me neither.

DAVE: There's other stuff to do.

ME: Laser tag?

KRISTEN: Yes.

CHRIS: It's already one o'clock.

ME: Let's be honest, we're all going to go back and take a little nap in our offices.

DAVE: We just ate a lot of carbs.

ME: We need to burn that energy off. And that increased blood flow will help us think.

There is more plotted for next Wednesday. This job is incredible.

Also, I'm going to narrate a story my friend related to me. He's striving to be a high school English teacher, the poor bastard. At least it's a sight better than the prospects of working in a camera store until he dies. I'm doing it in first person because I fucking feel like it. Just note that the story is absolutely true in its retelling, down to bits and pieces from the internal monologue. We discuss things in this manner.

"Reaction formation."

I sighed, staring at the students. None of them gave a damn. Honors kids, supposedly, but too many of them were shoved through by parents thinking their child was the next Ramanujan. The reference would be beyond them. Let's go with 'Doogie Howser.' I just want to send letters home to all of them simply saying "Not everyone grows up to be an astronaut."

"It's when you take something traumatic in your life, and turn it around and make it a part of your character." I could be silent for the next ten minutes and none of them would notice. "Say, for instance..."

Ah, shit. I hadn't gotten to this point. Figured it would just come to me. "Say for instance, you get mugged by a guy wearing green." Yeah. That was good. "And then you just start wearing green, obsessively. Get it?"

There was a soft murmur from the back of the room.

"What was that?" Challenge of authority or genuine participation? Probably the former but worth a look. "Could you speak up?"

The student looked away and responded quietly. "Like Batman?"

Fuck yes.

New Job

2007-11-13T11:33:00.001-08:00

I really ought to update this thing more frequently. Unfortunately, life is startlingly uninteresting.

I've started a new job. Week one consisted of two free lunches and one fixed bug. I appreciate this ratio. My waistline less so, but there's a gym on-site so at least they offer solutions. At the second lunch the entire team I'm apparently a member of got trashed. Which lead to a good deal of gossip.

Let it be known that I love gossip and drama, but there are two strict rules I have with them:

Gossip stops at me.
Drama doesn't start with, revolve around, or contain me.

The new job has me behind Linux all day (RedHat) using VIM. I've made some people frown, but what can I say to those dirty EMacs fiends? Unfortunately the code repository we're using is comprised some sixty-odd percent of guano, but I suppose it excuses some slack time claiming I'm fighting with the application. Why we can't just use CVS or switch to Git is beyond me.

I got a comment on my HeavyInk page that I "write like a writer." I take it as a compliment even though I can't define what it entirely means. Good writing is like porn: I know it when I see it. And yes I am self-deprecating, but let me assure you that this is the least of my neuroses.

Pity my poor office mate. I am an Olympic typist. Nearly one hundred thundering wpm, and each keystroke is a heavy axe shattering on petrified wood. I swing five hundred times every minute. Ninety-eight percent accuracy. Accuracy is important, they judge you harshly on that. Especially France.

Page One

2007-11-06T19:10:00.000-08:00

The first page of Still Life is done and up. I didn't so much make art as rub up against Photoshop making inappropriate noises. I wish the writing of it were stronger, but it allows for page two, which is stronger. Anyway. It's not like I'm going to publish this. It's just something for fun.

Starting 'Still Life'

2007-11-03T18:07:00.000-07:00

I've decided to tentatively call my graphic novel Still Life. I am worried it sounds too much like a play on words, but the only other title I can think of at this point is Collector and I'm not inclined to name a story after the narrator-slash-protagonist. Just like I'm not going to make the last sentence of a book refer back to the title. It just seems a bit cheesy.

It's been a long road getting this thing to happen. I've been struggling with it as a novel and a short story when, really, it isn't meant for that. The second I said it to myself - 'Mo,' I said, 'this is a graphic novel' - I had eighteen pages of comic and artistic direction written.

Shame is that I'm no artist, but I'll just bend Photoshop to my will until someone takes pity on me. After all, I'm disinclined to rope someone else into this whole debacle until I can prove to myself that I'll get it done.

The Funeral Pyre is a Lesson in Thermodynamics

2007-10-16T12:12:00.000-07:00

I have this thing. This condition. It has to do with quantum theory, relativity, and the probabilistic model of the universe, and the fact that the further I move in the state of inebriation, the more likely I am to discuss any of these topics. There is a constant likelihood of their being mentioned, even if I am stone cold sober. But if I'm drunk, and the conversation veers anywhere series, these topics will come out. You'd be surprised.

I have been thanked many times for my ability to explain these difficult concepts with relative ease. Especially relativity. I was in a philosophy discussion, and relativity came up, and I thought of a good example of how to explain it using Star Wars as an example. Well, how to explain the lack of absolute time on a macroscopic scale. My professor told me to fire away.

Before I launch into this, let me explain this professor. A PhD in philosophy and on her way to a tenure position, sharp as a Ginsu knife, utterly composed and distractingly intelligent. I was extremely intimidated by her and so did everything in my pathetic little undergraduate power to win her esteem. In the end I feel like I failed, but well, these things happen.

We began our ascent from the basement of Graham. "Well, there are three versions of the movies currently, right? The original, the 1997 VHS re-release, and the new DVDs. And there is one key event in A New Hope that has been changed. Who shot first: Greedo or Han?

"You see," I continued, now halfway up the stairs, "in the original, Han shoots first. In the 1997 VHS they made it so that Greedo shot first. In the DVDs, they tried to make it seem as if they shot at the same time. Which one is right?"

"Han shot first." The authority in her voice was overwhelming and I peed a little in fear. "There's no other way about it."

"Woah." I raised my hands to ward off any potential blows. It was a palpable moment of fear: she had one of my grades in her hands. I didn't want to argue with her for two reasons: one, Han did, in fact, shoot first and that pathetic CGI head-twitch to try to soften his character was just awful in every capacity; two, I really look more to the Jedi bits and find myself overall uninterested in the goings on of bounty hunters.

"And don't even get me started on that scream they added when Luke fell in Bespin. They took a heart-wrenchingly heroic moment and made him into a little bitch."