Hazardously well-intentioned.

There’s something about Michael Cera I do not trust.

I don’t mean to imply that I think he’s up to no good. I just have this powerful feeling that he’s hiding something; something he knows, deep down, society isn’t ready to understand.

That secret, I believe, is that this is not Michael’s first trip aboard the mortal coil.

Let’s examine Michael’s genesis as an actor and his career path thus far:

Canadian? Yup.

Garnered industry notoriety  as an integral member of an ensemble cast? Check.

Broke into movie stardom as a well-meaning goof? Check.

Built up a body of work playing similarly well-meaning goofs? Um,  check, check, check and (I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m going to go ahead and guess) check.

That’s right, kids. John Franklin Candy is back, and improbably, he’s taken up residence in the body and mind of young Mr. Cera. Granted, Cera was six years old when Candy died in 1994. But he didn’t start acting until 1999, and it’s not unreasonable, considering the sheer volume of souls shuffling to and from the Great Beyond every day, to assume there’s going to be some lagtime between arrivals and return flights. (Still, John, you have my sympathies. Five years is one bitch of a layover, and you know a thing or two about layovers, don’t ya Big Fella?)

…alright, I’ll admit the pattern is a little thin. I guess I’m just a man standing on the brink of desperation. A scant ten years ago, this was a country replete with talented fat comedians. These days, we’re resorting to dressing erstwhile thin (and only arguably funny) men in fat suits to fill the void. How bad is it? In the field of porcine funnymen, this guy is the big man on campus.

In Cera, I think we’ve got a chance. He’s shown us a firm command of playing at Candy’s aw-shucks charmer, George Wendt’s acerbic wallflower and Jon Belushi’s willingness to give his body up to the bit. It’s not going to be an easy sell, but Michael strikes me as the “take-one-for-the-team” type. Told of the good his sacrifice could do, I think he’d offer to put that weight on his shoulders (or, more accurately, his ass).

Michael, if you’re reading this, it’s all on you, buddy. Either you go home and get wrist-deep in a box of Yodells pronto, or you condemn us all to another ten years of  laugh-vacuums like these clogging the multiplexes with unwatchable garbage.

Cornrows on the Cob

I just don’t know how to feel about this one. I really don’t.

My kneejerk reaction was to dismiss it out of hand. I mean, this is Coolio, after all. The name alone smacks of someone straining to prove himself despite, shall we say, limited resources.

But, having leafed through the book’s introduction (available for your perusal here), I get the strange feeling the joke here is ultimately on me. That I took this seriously, even for a moment, is the punchline.

Actually, Coolio has been turning out Youtube-based cooking segments for more than a year now, and it seems he had a short-lived reality series on the Oxygen network chronicling his foray in the catering business. Who knew?

Anyway, those endeavors seemed geared toward a genuine and prevailing interest in food and/or cooking. This book, if the first ten pages are any indication, comes off more like a parody, written not for curious cooks of the world but for those of us who’ve ever wondered what the Food Network would be like if it were run by Keenan Ivory Wayans. For Christ’s sake, look at that cover. There’s a turntable on the damn stove top. This thing is a Leslie Nielsen cameo away from being straight-to-video.

Consider an excerpt from the section marked “How to Become a Kitchen Pimp:”

Take a chance, make her some Tricked-Out Westside Tilapia and you’ll be watching them panties come right off. Zoom! Knocking over lampshades and shit.

Um, who’s…hungry…?

It is, of course, entirely possible that Coolio is deathly serious about all of this; that he thinks himself a master of les arts culinaires.

It’s just that with exhortations like, “As long as you do it with style and flavor, they’ll all be shouting, ‘That tastes better than your momma’s titties,’” I kind of doubt it.

I broke up with J Crew, but we got back together.

I’ve noticed that a lot of Born Agains are starting to follow me on Twitter. To be clear, I don’t mean Christians or Catholics, I mean Zealarellas (zealots). I’m wondering… What part of me screams save me?

One broad told me that she loved everyone. Shocked, I asked everyone, I mean, every single person?! Yes, everyone, and with conviction. In 140 characters, I couldn’t go into detail, so I will here. While I think it’s a lovely, altruistic notion to love everyone, in my mind, it’s literally impossible.

I don’t love George Bush or what he did to this country and I think he should be tried for war crimes, along with his sick fuck side kick, Dick Cheney and Donald bottoming-for-Bush-and-loving-it Rumsfeld, et al. I don’t love the people cock blocking Universal Health Care from passing. They’re willing to spend our tax dollars on weapons, but not our health?! Can you spell fucktardsquared?! I don’t love hard core republicans. In fact, I hate what they stand for. I don’t love doctors who mistreat their patients and lie to them. I don’t love insurance companies — I hate them. I don’t love murderers, pedophiles, or rapists. I don’t love assholics. I don’t love people who embrace censorship and who want the government to determine what’s appropriate for me to view, listen to, and read. I don’t love people who want to infringe on my choice to have an abortion. My list is endless and I won’t bore you with it, but you get the gist of what I’m saying. I think love is a gift. I couldn’t love everyone, not because I’m a hate junky. It’s simply unrealistic.

Another person told me that if I didn’t follow him back, I wouldn’t be saved from Armageddon. If I don’t believe in Armageddon, how will his 140 character tweets save me? What am I missing? Oh, did I mention that I’m a Jew? Aren’t we the chosen ones at the minute, the gateway or something? I can’t remember. I’ll have to email The Postal Service of the Saved for clarification.

Someone else assured me that it wasn’t too late to be Born Again. Thanks. But, I’m willing to take my chances, I said.

Why can’t I be a Jew? Perhaps that’s the issue I have with this lot of followers, intolerance and a lack of regard for my beliefs. Everything is cloaked in a threat, if you don’t, than you won’t. I digress… I intolerance.

Now, let’s discuss the rectal warfare that took place in my intestines last Friday morning. My intestines weren’t arguing, they were waging “Shock and Awe”, careening towards my pucker pellet at the speed of light. I still can’t figure out why or what I ate that made my intestines have a, yes I’m going to go 80’s on your ass, COW. Everything came out just dandy, thanks for asking. Though, for a moment I thought that my intestines were going to fly out of my tuchas. Fortunately, we’re still together.

Friday, I was at Cedars for blood work and there was no fucking parking. One of the lots closed due to construction. I have never seen so many cars trying to get into parking lots in my life. LA drivers don’t give a shit about who is behind them. They stop in the middle of the road, la-de-da’ng on the phone or talking to someone on the sidewalk, even though you’re behind them with ten other shmucks. Please, in NY, in less than a minute, baseball bats would be smashing these cars.

After 30 minutes, I was ready to shoot myself (that would’ve cost a bundle, so I passed). Mind you, it only took me 10 minutes to get there. I finally found a lot that I was able to squeeze into, though it was a valet lot, I was Despy Desperalla and her twin sister Tranta Gavant.

This super homeless guy, like scale of 1-10, definitely a 10 on the homelessesque scale, approaches me and says, “I’ll take your car.”

Right. Cause I’m stupid.

Meanwhile, there’s a guy in the booth at the valet stand, wearing a white shirt with the name of the p-lot co. on it and I was trying to get his attention. Homeless guy says, “What? You don’t trust me? Give me your car!”

I kindly asked him to unzip his jacket and show me his shirt. If it was the same as the guy’s standing in the booth, great, I would’ve given him my car. Most valets don’t sit on the ground with their dressers duffel bags.

He says, “Why I gotta unzip my jacket? I wouldn’t ask you to take your shirt off.”

Um. Okay, let’s review. I’m now late for my blood draw. I need to get it done. I’ve been driving in circles for 30 minutes with shitty drivers who want to be FIRST, FIRST, FIRST. I’m profoundly irritated.

“In this situation, I believe I’m entitled to ask to see your shirt before I hand you the keys to my car.” I said.

He responds by saying “You don’t trust me because I’m black. You’re a racist.”

I was so fucking angry at this point, I got out of my car and screamed, “HEY, I HAVE SYSTEMIC TRUST ISSUES. IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME, CALL MY PSYCHIATRIST AND ASK HIM. YOU THINK YOUR FUCKING RACE OR GENDER MATTERS TO ME? YOU COULD BE A PURPLE, HERMAPHRODITE GNOME AND I STILL WOULDN’T TRUST YOU.”

Cedars security came out, and instead of asking what the problem was, he exacerbated the issue by telling us to take it elsewhere. Seriously, hospital-mall-cop?!

I ended up at another lot because I bribed the gatekeeper with a $20 to get me in.

You’d think I was trying to get into some hot restaurant, not that a $20 would cut it, but you get where this is going, right? Right.

Caitlin will not stop emailing me. All week, I’ve been receiving emails from her:

Hi!

and

Hey, I analyzed the name ‘caitlin’ using the iPhone Name Analyzer.

It means:

Cute

Awesome

Inspirational

Tipsy

Lovely

Imperfect

Naughty

Seriously?! This improves the quality of my life?

Someone signed me up for Millsberry.com as Justice4Ever. I can create my own buddy and join the city. The site is for tweeners at best, so of course I’m a perfect fit. I’m sure they’d welcome Justice4Ever calling CutsieTeenyTot snatch for moving into my crib and boosting my gluten free pretzels.

This concludes my rant fest.

If you haven’t read @SoyGoy’s interview, check it out. Coming up next, Elissa Stein and her new book FLOW, followed by, In The Belly Of The Fail Whale. I’m plotzarella.

The following was originally penned as a reply to friend of mine who recommended, in what I imagine to be the best of intentions, that I download a few Eagle Twin songs, get a little of the Sacrament in me and burn a Saturday afternoon:

Mr. [Name Redacted],

I have just now emerged from the smoldering rubble that once was my apartment building to find this world a changed and frightening place.

As per your instructions, I partook of the aural stylings of Eagle Twin, beginning with recommended “Crow’s Hymn.” A bottle of Kentucky bourbon was to be my sherpa on this sonic expedition.

At first, I found their brand of heavy-metal chuggery quite pleasing. An hour into my sampling, however, things began to unravel. A great darkness descended on the city like a shroud woven of the scorched carcasses of slain angels, and all of the clocks in the apartment began running backwards. The ground trembled, as though a stampeding herd of elephants were fleeing a hurricane of fire. In my kitchen, a cavernous hellmouth tore open the floor, spewing molten steel and menstrual blood. From its recesses, a regiment of undead Visigoths aboard a spectral locomotive, flanked by feral dogs and the the skeletons of the 1919 Chicago White Sox, burst forth through the ceiling and into the sky. The ghost train’s whistle screeched as it climbed to the stratosphere, shattering every glass edifice within a half-mile and causing small birds to spontaneously combust. The barbarians looked out over the city like vultures over a felled gazelle. They dove from the train, bursting into flames and reciting the screenplay of “My Blue Heaven” as they fell towards the earth. My last memory before blacking out was of Shoeless Joe Jackson’s severed head setting the bathroom on fire.

When I awoke, the sky was a sickly green and the air smelled like the hot, rancid breath of a drunken shrimp boat captain. Seconds after I freed myself from the twisted, fiery wreckage of my building, the dogs were on my scent. I was surrounded all sides by the heaving, frothing beasts, each one dripping in day-glo puff paint and bearing the Nike swoosh. (Even the Apocalypse, it seems, will not be spared corporate sponsorship.) The dogs flinched and I ran, for shelter, or a weapon, or any sight at all other than their vacant, hungry eyes.

I have found asylum in what remains of a Starbucks. Twenty-some corpses lie on the floor in a perfect line, evidence that their last thoughts before expiration were likely of an impatient nature. I’m not sure I care to know why, but this makes me smile. I’ve written you this letter on a makeshift computer I’ve fashioned from a payphone and the bones of a barista I found cradling an espresso machine. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but if this is to be the last you’ll hear from me, please know that I really did enjoy the songs.

I have to go now. The dogs have found me.

-M

So here it is. A blog. One of literally thousands littering the great digital ether, and every bit as inconsequential as any of them. Except, quite obviously, for FUPenguin.com. (Go ahead, go there. Go there and say goodbye to your afternoon.)

I’d lay out the how’s and why’s of this little project’s genesis, but it seems premature, for precisely the reason films are rarely immediately preceded by the “making-of” DVD extra. So with that said, just what the hell is with that title, huh?

Sept. 29, 8:45 p.m., on the No. 4 Train home: Visually, the woman sitting across from me on the Subway doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. She looks to be in her mid-40s, maybe older, and of average height and build. She’s wearing (in the order that I noticed them) a pink Static-X t-shirt, flare-leg jeans hemmed with safety pins and low-cut Chuck Taylors that have been hand-painted gold. She has with her the following items: a small shopping bag from Crate & Barrel, a black purse and a copy of Marie Claire.

Now I could really have cared less about the jeans, shoes, shopping bag or magazine. In fact, their combined inclusion in Madame’s sartorial goulash only led me to believe that this woman was not homeless or (at least visibly) mentally ill. What interested and puzzled me more than anything was the shirt.

For those who don’t remember or weren’t interested in such matters (and my how I envy you), Static-X were one of about a dozen or so truly awful heavy metal bands producing inexplicably well-selling albums near the end of the 20th century. Their fans were, to oversimplify only a bit, young, overwhelmingly male and quite stupid, preoccupied with all things “dark” or “black” or some such silliness. I am shamed, now, to have counted myself among them in my teens. I admit with aching regret ownership of more than a few of those groups’ aforementioned aural excrement, and shall spend the rest of my days seeking only mercy for my sins.

So, considering the nature of those bands (remember: young, stupid men obsessed with “dark” stuff) I could not understand how their logo even found its way onto a pink shirt, let alone into the hands of a middle-aged woman. I started to dissect a number of possible scenarios (it was/is her daughter’s shirt; one of her sons is in the band; her taste in music is, at best, questionable) when I noticed the man sitting a few seats away from her. He was reading what appeared to be a graphic novel (comic book, for those of you with plans Friday night) based on the now-defunct Fox series “Alias,” and I…I, dear reader, have begun to doubt my senses. A panic washes over me akin to the feeling of dread one experiences when, midway through the cab ride, you realize you told the driver LaGuardia when you meant JFK.

In an instant, I am quite convinced this train will not be taking me home…

has it really been 5 days since i last posted?

there has just been too much going on around here.

first of all this book is great. and i am not even a boy. but when you have 3 of them you end up loving boy things no matter what. in fact i like it so much that i could really see using it as a textbook for the rest of the year.

i am happy to report that this nasty flu is packing its’ things. and we are sending it on its’ way. we thank it profusely for all the snuggling. and stories. but the past few days have been spent cleaning up after it. it is such a messy and inconsiderate houseguest. leaving dishes and laundry everywhere. the bathroom was in need of serious cleaning and then there was, of course, lessons. two of my students started their rosetta stone online courses today. i am hoping that their enthusiasm isn’t limited to the desire to communicate with italian supermodels at some point. that could be another boy thing.

do you see my our little sproutlings? this is my bend the rules garden. zinnias. and sunflowers. etc. i am crossing my fingers. but seriously. it is nearly 95 degrees here still. something has to grow. well, we’ll wait and see.

someone inspired me to draw a little bit. not that my silly little sketches hold a candle to hers. because not everyone can draw. but a girl can dream, right? so i took out my pencils and drew a few things i’d like to see growing in my yard. and i felt 10 again. i really like feeling 10. i told you i was living dangerously.

happy tuesday. or wednesday. when you’re 10 you don’t pay attention to what day it is!

Have you ever had a conversation where you started off pretty solid on your grounds, then few words in you realized how really cheap the convo is, so you decided to completely let go off your principal that brought you to that scene of the conversation to begin with? Not the best situation to be in.

Just imagine that pair of sandals you got for $120 that you lent to your best friend but she hasn’t returned them for a little over 9 months, and when you remind her she always gives you the I’m-still-looking-for-them response. Seriously, like you can’t make a scene or break into her apartment to look for them, despite the stupid amount of money you paid for them. Or that dinner you paid for the other day, while your boss was supposed to take care of it, but she forgot her purse that night, so you offered to charge it on your Chase PerfectCard (that ain’t perfect anymore) and she promised to pay you back. But wait, she never did! I mean, who would bring it up to her and be like “Can I have my sixty bucks back for the dinner I paid for the other night, the one you originally said it was on you- so man up and let it be on you.”

Or, your fancy shmancy new bluetooth piece that your friend accidentally dropped down a sewer drainage when you asked her to hold it for a sec. You can’t possibly ask for a compensation for it now, or can you?

Some people have the guts to say stuff like “hey, dude, seriously!!!!”- but not me. When money is involved in the story, I find it absolutely cheap to “negotiate” the matter. The sad part is I know I could have been vacationing on a tropical island right now with all the money people make off me that way!

They lose control.

They yell.

They make assumptions.

They break ties.

They lose friends.

They break relationships.

And they kill!

And with all the violence on TV, it became really common for people to resort to anger. It’s actually scary to see how violent the PG-13 TV series are. In a way or the other, they’re sending out subliminal messages “it’s ok to get your anger out in a nasty way, it’s oh-kaay”.

I personally blame my fussiness and ugly side on Tom & Jerry.

It was a very normal morning; I snoozed my alarm 4 times, ended up leaving bed 10 minutes after I should have been driving already. I took a peek out of my window, and from the look of the grass, I figured it’s cold. I was running late, so I decided to go a little faster than usual.

Few exits down the highway, I noticed my car wiggling in my lane. Many thoughts crossed my mind, but an icy, slippery road wasn’t one of them. I saw a line of cars about to get into a bottleneck traffic situation. As I approached, I started seeing it clearly,…it was a fresh accident!

It was a head on collision involving a HUGE truck, the kind that’s the size of 5 blocks put together, and a minuscule car, one from the 80’s or something. Yep, head on collision on the highway and both cars were originally going same direction, but it seems that the small car slipped and made a 180 and it was too late for the truck to escape it. The truck was literally on top of the mini car, which was crushed and only its trunk can be seen. Woah! Indeed a scary scene. I thought to myself: “he couldn’t have made it! he could not have made it!”

As I passed by slowly, I sneaked a peek at the wreck and I knew I would regret doing that. My body was trembling, I had hard time maintaining acceptable speed on the highway. Many question marks arose in my head:

What was the driver thinking when his car slipped?

Did he have breakfast before he left? Was he in a hurry? Did he have a cup of coffee in his hand when he lost control over the car?

Did he feel it coming? Did he say goodbye to anyone?

How did it feel when his soul was being seized? Did it happen suddenly?

Wow, death is indeed near. No one is ready for it. I mean, how could anyone possibly be ready for it. It could have been a normal day. It started normally for some, it was the final for others, and surely it will be a significant day for many. But, does it really matter? Time will pass and we will forget, and that person will be gone, and that would be the new norm. And people would still be able to start a “normal” day.

All I could think of is that it could have been me.

diese Woche : gegen 22:30 Uhr klingelte es mal wieder , und obwohl wir echt schnell waren, haben wir bis auf das leuchtende Hoflicht nix und niemanden gesehen…auf einmal macht Nachbar(in) XY die Tür auf und sagt (hahahaha)

” Hat es bei ihnen auch geklingelt? Ich wars nicht , ich war ja nicht da , ich habs nicht gehört!!! ”

Häääää????? Auch nach Tagen bei uns noch ein RunningGag

More Visual Goodness for you peeps and dames…

p.s.- Yes I took these images from an eclectic group of sites, blogs, and forums, so if any of the aforementioned group of people stumble upon this post (not likely), hopefully your not an emo, paranoid fool thinking the world is out to mimic “your shit”. Merely, I am trying to spotlight those images worthy of evoking emotions that inspire the common man…. One Love- Mad Polymath

Or short attention span. Very short, that is.

Every time I sit down and start writing my paper (final research piece of art), I fail to stay focused for 80 seconds straight. For real! After writing an entire sentence that makes sense and not plain plagiarism, I feel like rewarding myself by something. That something could be: check email, listen to something, eat something, text, twitter, or just walk around!

I mean, here I am blogging when I am supposed to be writing a “publishable” research paper that’s due in 4 days! Somehow Virtual computing reminds me of baking. Whenever I think of something solid to write, the idea of baking occurs to me. I already thought of 2 recipes to try for tomorrow.

That’s a joke. Whoever said that grad school is for me?

Finished the banner! I wanted something simple and stylish, and that’s the best I could come up with. It has nothing to do with brains or toast, but it looks pretty, so that’s good enough for me! Who wants to look at brains anyway? Especially the kind of brains I was talking about. Anyway, hope everyone who visits here likes it, if you don’t, I will happily remove your eyes with a spoon, thus solving the entire problem.

Good Day, Come back soon,

  -NaytoE

It is exactly a quarter of a century. Pretty cool!

It is the number 5 squared. A phenomenon that happened 9 years ago, and might be repeated in 11 years.

Rent cars without paying “under age” fee. And you can rent ANY type of car, even a pickup truck.

Discount on auto insurance!

Being taken a little bit more seriously, after all people gotta realize that you must know what you’re talking about now.

No need to live up to anyone’s expectation, it’s about time you live it the way you want. Seriously.

You can look at all the 21yrs old kids and laugh at their excitement at “growing up”.

More wisdom C’mon, you get credit for being around for 2 decades and a half!!

You can still add to the non-ending list of things you wanna do before turning 21 25 50!! Hey “touring the world” is far fetched. Studying abroad, however, is doable!!

It’s been an amazing 25 years, alhamdulilah. I am indeed blessed!

I have experimented with each and every possible sport I could get myself to play. As much as I love sports, I really suck at playing it and I don’t have the patience to watch it. But that’s the truth that no one really knows, yet!

My dear mother put me in swimming classes when I was really young. I owe her big time for it. But what ended up happening was, I passed the first level (intro) and made up my mind that I’m a pro swimmer and she shouldn’t make me take them anymore. We can safely assume that I have a short attention span, and swimming was too boring for me.

I did horseback riding, but I never got past the “trotting” part. Like, I never got it. I can trot all day long, but never get the horse to obey my rules, and go where I want him to go. After numerous attempts, I decided horseback riding isn’t my thing. I revisited this decision 2 summers ago, when me and another friend joined horseback riding classes. Few classes in and I reaffirmed my decision; horseback riding isn’t for me. Who knew that an hour class is broken down into 20min riding and 40min shampooing and massaging the horse. Seriously, people?

I have been playing ping pong lately, which is weird cause it has always been a sport I’m not a fan of. I feel I’m really restricted playing it. Somehow, however, I now do it 5 times a week. Issue with that is I can’t get myself to focus on the table, all the folks who have played against me keep telling me the same thing over and over again: “You would do really good in tennis!”

I do play tennis, but the thing with tennis is I run out of breath like a pot smoker. My feet get trapped under me and I don’t maintain my balance. OK, this last weekend, I was playing tennis, running left and right and I can see the ball coming just above the net, I ran and with all the force that God gave me, I hit the ball really hard,…. yeah the ball ended up over the fence outside the court, and I ended up flipping over the net, just like an idiot! No, an idiot wouldn’t have done it as good!

Pool/snooker has been my thing since I was 10 (yes, for the purpose of this post, I’d assume pool is a sport). It’s all about strategy, doesn’t take a lot of body movement, but definitely a mind-physics-tactics game. I actually love it. I remember playing the video game version (coincidentally, it was called Pool_, back when it was DOS-compatible, like 15 years ago. I still remember that the hardest computer-player was named “Shark”. He always had a pipe in his mouth, and NEVER missed a shot. And he had this evil laugh whenever he won- all the time. At work, we have a pool table. So I started playing that. I must admit, I lost my charm in it. I get the balls really close to the pocket, just as in golf, as if in my next turn I’ll have a better aim. But that’s completely not the point of the game, cause my opponent would end up shooting the ball all the way to the other end of the table.

I play golf from time to time. I claim to enjoy it, I really do try my best to enjoy it, but in the back of my head, I think it’s a retarded sport. Like whoever dare call this a sport? No offense, but it’s merely an old ladies game, a hybrid version of croquet.

The fave sport of my life was squash. I did pretty good at it. One thing comes in mind when I think of squash, is the incident where I was playing with someone and accidentally, she aimed right at my lower jaw with her racket. Not a pleasant memory. Regardless, I still played after that incident, but now I can’t stand the court. It’s way too claustrophobic and smells like feet and sweat.

I have a lot more to add to the list: cycling, basketball, taekwondo, racket ball, kayaking…. All my experiences have, proudly, been big fat failures. I’m still exploring and I’m yet to find a sport that matches my taste and skills.

Dear all,

I have some classified information for you.

Please watch your news channel tomorrow at 6 pm.

You’ll see the live coverage of the arrest and imprisonment of a “war criminal“–NOT

(INSIDER—more on that tomorrow at 6 pm)

jj

jjj

For further information please contact:

The Office of Morons aka. Friedensplenum Iserlohn

JUZ Karnacksweg 44

58636 Iserlohn

Don’t miss!!!!

Friedensfest Umsonst & Draußen an der Bauernkirche in Iserlohn 2010

http://www.friedensfestival.de/

———————————————————————

Excuse me but…hahaha

…haha

I have to go and

hahah….

LAUGH NOW!!!

so much so that I didn’t get any real work done today. And there was rockband too. I’m a very distractable girl on a sugar high. Wheeee

Ah. The first thing most ten year olds do on the first day of english class. They write about what they did on their summer vacation.  Trips to SeaWorld, Disney Land, smelly old Aunt Agnes’s smelly old cats and other lame tales of things lame little kids do.  What did I do?  I drank a lot and bothered people in the gaming industry for a week.

When last we met, I tried to give away a free copy of Fallout 3 for the PC.  No one entered. Screw you. I still have the game, and I still can’t give it away. That’s besides the point though and I just wanted to point it out.

Right. Gencon.

The first thing I do at any Gencon is run by the booth that controls Shadowrun, be it Fanpro in the past or Catalyst Game Labs in the present, and check out what’s going on in the Sixth World.  They popped out new Seattle 2072 hardcovers, an April Fool’s joke gone too far, and a whole new product that I couldn’t resist. Eclipse Phase – the transhumanist adventures of horror and conspiracy in outer space.  I’ll address this game in a separate post, but to summarize quickly, your mind can be converted to binary and transferred from body to body, prolonging your life.  This does not come without cost, as the process has been known to drive people insane, cause them to lose large chunks of memory, or the process simply fails and consciousness ceases to exists.  Did I mention it happens in outer space? Awesome stuff from Rob Boyle and the crew at Catalyst Game Labs and Posthuman Studios.

I checked out Geist, as mentioned in the Gencon Podcasts, which I’ll dig deeper into later next week, so as to not litter this post with things mentioned in other places.  White Wolf was really pushing Geist and didn’t offer much else of interest to me, to be honest.

Then I came upon Dragon Age Origins at the Bioware booth.  My god, is this game a wet dream for me.  I haven’t been this excited for a game since Baldur’s Gate II, and that’s saying something.  After talking to the lead writer whose name sadly escapes me at the moment, (coincidentally, he worked on BGII as well…) I knew he was dedicated to the project, explaining that he wrote a lot of dialogue.  I’d make up a number in the thousands of pages, but ‘a lot’ were the exact words he used.  After watching an ogre pick up the leader of the party and pummel the hell out of them, I wandered away.  I didn’t want to be spoiled too much.  I’ve enough anticipation for the game as it is, I didn’t really need to be fucked in the eye sockets and lose control of my bowels in front of the lead writer.  It’s bad press and not professional.

The big three I was going to mention are out of the way.  Here’s some minor stuff.

The folks at Oddsociety.net made a cute little game.  You play an ugly bald kid with big ears and a point and click interface on a quest to build an odd society.  Really though, it’s a neat little game made by some independent French Canadians.  Check it out.

Smirk and Dagger Games had a demo up for Shootin Ladders, a devious derivation of Shoots N’ Ladders in the same vain of Run For Your Life, Candyman!  I didn’t get a chance to actually demo it, as I wanted our own Dave Reid to play some Candyman, but I did manage to line  up a Q&A session with the deviant behind Smirk And Dagger, Curt Covert.  I should have that up sometime next week as both our schedules allow.

Lastly, I delved deep into the underbelly of video game cosplay.  And by delved deeply, I mean I hung out with my friends at the Kingdom Arts booth and did no delving at all-  ran rum past the blockades for them, and even worked their booth.  And by worked their booth, I mean I told whomever walked up to it that they were both taking a leak and would be back in ten minutes.  Disclaimer: I greeted everyone who came to the booth with a smile, and did not use the exact phrase mentioned above at all.  It was a nice experience, though, as I’ve been to plenty of cons but never on the other side of the booth.  I watched the slow times and the high times.  Especially the slow times.  You poor souls.  My heart goes out to the guys and gals at the booths that make the cons worth going to.

Anyway, I’m done boring you with my first assignment of the new school year.  At least I didn’t write out an introduction to my hobbies and what my favourite flavours of ice creams are.  Stay tuned for Eclipse Phase reviews, Geist reviews, Q&A with the Smirk and Dagger bigwig and a list of all my favourite ice creams.

Part of the PNG Gencon ‘09 Wrap Up series of articles.

I haven’t been having the best luck with food lately.  Last week I was having dinner: steak & okra simmered in tomato sauce.  I started having a funny feeling chewing on that steak. Now, I have a really good imaginary skills. Very good, indeed.  I just couldn’t help but picture the cow’s face in my plate.  I know I wasn’t eating the face, perhaps the shoulder, but the image couldn’t go away regardless.  I tried to push the food down my throat, but I gagged and ran to the bathroom.  Don’t get me wrong, I was not upset over the killing of the cow, that I can get over, I was just disgusted. Just like that.

Few days after, I was given the choice of either salmon or steak for dinner.  Needless to say, I wasn’t gonna go for steak again.  I’m still not over the earlier incident. I was actually excited to have salmon, you know, finally I get to stock up on my omega-3 and what not. So I came home that night, and I saw the poor salmon wrapped in foil paper.  I made sure to cover it’s face (yeah, I have issues with animal faces in my food) and I attempted to cut the middle and lift the skin.  SubhanAllah, usually people get happy when they see that, but I almost passed out when I saw a baby fish in it’s stomach.  Now, it could’ve been the bait or simply it’s indigested food.  It definitely didn’t do my appetite good. And that was it for dinner.  I had some rice and a freezing cold water.

Nope, it doesn’t stop there. Last night, I thought I’ll make dinner that doesn’t look like anything. Something like mashed potatoes or even better, tuna.  So right after work, I went to BigY, I got everything that goes with a tuna sandwich, from the bread to the chips that goes on the side.  After 45min, I was ready to go home and hit that can.  Came home, I put everything away, toasted the bread, prepared the salad and ripped open the bag of chips.  I had the can of tuna in my hand, but couldn’t find the can opener.  After some digging, I found it.  The head (the knife part) was unassembled, however.  I put all my forces together, and *crack*, I put it back on.  Wait, that *crack* didn’t sound right.  I attempted to work with the can, but no, that *crack* wasn’t right indeed.  I broke the can opener.  Which happened to be the only can opener we have.  I looked around, and there was the bread with the mayo spread on it, olives on the side, salad and chips, and even my drink… everything was ready, except the tuna.  The bread was good, though.

So tonight, I came home at around 8.30pm.  I had a sore throat.  I figured what’s better to have than orzo soup with corn?  Plus, Ramadan is almost here, which means I can probably cook an entire pot of soup and it shall come in handy at iftar time.  Or so I thought.  So I brought out the pot, put some butter and added the orzo.  I let it brown for 7min. I then added the broth thing and water, and kept it on medium heat.  Meanwhile, I was snacking on olives. I like to give orzo its sweet time to cook. The entire thing cooked in about 35min.  I was very excited, I must admit.  I took out a big spoon and I started pouring it in a big bowl.  At which point I saw black things floating on the surface.  Yep, I know those creatures.  I don’t know what they’re called, but they’re those things that fly around bananas if kept out for long.  Minute flies.  Whatever they are, they shouldn’t have been in my soup.  And down the drain it went.

Not sure what went wrong, but I know something is wrong. Tomorrow I should order pizza inshaAllah.

I have no desire to blog. But my life is becoming too much to handle. I decided to write a book.  Which I figured ain’t happening, so a blog it is.

Stay tuned.

I think I’m beginning to lose faith in people or mankind in general. What kind of person runs another person’s hard earned money, puts on a deceiving mask and continues to swindle them? Why do they even exist? If justice could be served with fists, my hands would be wrapped in gauze for months.

On a lighter note, and while we’re on the subject of hate, I’m frickin pissed at my cousin. I had asked him earlier aka last week if he could drive me to the Kah Bang Festival this Saturday and it was a “maybe but most likely”. It really depended if I got the tickets or not which I did the next day and I’ve been calling him ever since BUT HE IS NOT ANSWERING HIS PHONE. The festival is tomorrow and I would really like to get an answer. I mean, I’d understand if he couldn’t but dodging my calls isn’t going to solve anything. So, now I’m bummed that I can’t see Matt & Kim and Ida Maria but I’m even more peeved at the fact that it’s all due to his lack of willingness to pick up his phone.

I’m going to remedy this situation by biking in 90 degree weather. HOT.

I’m going back to Boston on Sunday so tomorrow’s the last day with my father and brother. Sunday is dedicated to packing and cleaning all day. Try imagining cramming a month’s worth of packing boxes and vacuuming in 24 hours. I don’t know how I feel about this. I partially hate myself for going so far away and making my parents shell out 50k a year for a degree that will probably get me nowhere. Somehow, I’ve managed to convince them that I know what I want to do with my future, that going to Reed is worth it but deep down inside, I’m not so sure of what’s to come. I absolutely hate the thought of my father working 12 hours a day in a hot kitchen, doing the same backbreaking and mundane work he has been doing for the past 20 years only to amount to nothing but my failure. I don’t know if I have it in me to strive the way I once thought I could or the way my parents want me to/believe I can.

Oh, and TMS better have received this month’s payment or I’m going to flip a bitch. Reed too. There’s still another 24 hours for my payment to show up.