Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Mayans, how could you?
This month is drawing to a close it seems and St.Patty's day is fast approaching, despite what the church says. I will be painting my beard green...I will also be growing a beard...starting now.
That leaves us only a few more years before the real doomsday on 12-21-2012 or 12-23-2012. It seems people can't decide if the Mayan calendar runs out on the easily catchy assortment of ones and twos or the sort of choppy 23rd. They also cannot seem to come up with what it means to end. Did the Mayans mean that the cycle ends and begins again or did they mean pack up your soul its quitting time?
My thought is the former as most calendars work in a circular way it seems. The 365 days my grandparents had are the same that I inherited etc. It also doesn't make sense that we put so much emphasis on their calendar as being the prediction of it all. Certainly they were an astrologically and astronomically gifted people, capable of predicting eclipses and such to a high degree of accuracy, but we can do that as well. Maybe the Mayans should be worrying about when our calendar stops
It will be an interesting day, however, as several different astronomy related things happen. The Earth completes a wobble which is cool, the sun hits solar maximum so we will probably see the aurora in Indiana again and the sun lines up with the center of the galaxy which might give us the chance to see a clearer picture of it.
Ready the bomb shelter, I'm bringing the sloppy joes.
That leaves us only a few more years before the real doomsday on 12-21-2012 or 12-23-2012. It seems people can't decide if the Mayan calendar runs out on the easily catchy assortment of ones and twos or the sort of choppy 23rd. They also cannot seem to come up with what it means to end. Did the Mayans mean that the cycle ends and begins again or did they mean pack up your soul its quitting time?
My thought is the former as most calendars work in a circular way it seems. The 365 days my grandparents had are the same that I inherited etc. It also doesn't make sense that we put so much emphasis on their calendar as being the prediction of it all. Certainly they were an astrologically and astronomically gifted people, capable of predicting eclipses and such to a high degree of accuracy, but we can do that as well. Maybe the Mayans should be worrying about when our calendar stops
It will be an interesting day, however, as several different astronomy related things happen. The Earth completes a wobble which is cool, the sun hits solar maximum so we will probably see the aurora in Indiana again and the sun lines up with the center of the galaxy which might give us the chance to see a clearer picture of it.
Ready the bomb shelter, I'm bringing the sloppy joes.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Cthulu
Did you know he is on the '08 ballot? Bring your blood and seaweed.
The morning started right with coffee and an empty stomach. Really I have no idea how I lived without the morning brew....probably I lived without the afternoon shakes.
I really just need to get through this semester as best I can at this point. My grades are atrocious and I don't see them improving because I cannot seem to force myself through them every day. My brit lit class has a wonderfully smart professor who cannot put together an interesting lecture despite her brilliance. The only glimmer I have is my CW Fic One class, yet at just two classes a week it hardly makes up for the other three days of other BS. I've stopped going to psychology entirely because I've figured out that the entire class is online, attendance is non-important and I take tests in a computer lab. Theatre is not too bad, the proff is a great man but somehow everything is due in 2009 and tests that I've scored 100% on are showing up as failed or zeros.
This is an early post, my brothers, and the day is still long. I'll put something else up later no doubt. Leave me your love, or at the least the bloody excuse for what we did together last night.
I have that sandpaper, baby, so spread yo cheeks.
The morning started right with coffee and an empty stomach. Really I have no idea how I lived without the morning brew....probably I lived without the afternoon shakes.
I really just need to get through this semester as best I can at this point. My grades are atrocious and I don't see them improving because I cannot seem to force myself through them every day. My brit lit class has a wonderfully smart professor who cannot put together an interesting lecture despite her brilliance. The only glimmer I have is my CW Fic One class, yet at just two classes a week it hardly makes up for the other three days of other BS. I've stopped going to psychology entirely because I've figured out that the entire class is online, attendance is non-important and I take tests in a computer lab. Theatre is not too bad, the proff is a great man but somehow everything is due in 2009 and tests that I've scored 100% on are showing up as failed or zeros.
This is an early post, my brothers, and the day is still long. I'll put something else up later no doubt. Leave me your love, or at the least the bloody excuse for what we did together last night.
I have that sandpaper, baby, so spread yo cheeks.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Honesty
I don't think I'm ever going to escape mates, and that is the worst of all.
I'm trapped in some sort of holding pattern, bad weather that won't let me land and an uncomfortable seat on the plane. Seems like everywhere I'd like to be is never where I am.
I've begun chapter two. What will happen is a mystery to me although I'm excited to see how it unfolds. I only wish I had some confidence in my ability to finish this endeavor of mine. Maybe I need a ritual like the author from Misery. The protag not King. I don't smoke or stay in cheap hotels, however, so I'm pretty much fucked. I do drink though, and in the event of an emergency I can get pretty drunk in a hurry. Is this a tangent? I don't do math.
Keighdee is reviewing chapter one's third revision rough draft. Should be interesting. Maybe I can make some 3d shit on the page with a little constructive insight. My cdubb proff thinks I have phenominal description, too bad the bible also has said description and we know how many people actually read that.
I suppose I'll go pour some gin and think on this matter for a while. The best way to tend an open wound is to clean it with strong medicine before the suture.
Bring me a needle and thread, oh my brothers, and see that the iron is hot for the closing.
I'm trapped in some sort of holding pattern, bad weather that won't let me land and an uncomfortable seat on the plane. Seems like everywhere I'd like to be is never where I am.
I've begun chapter two. What will happen is a mystery to me although I'm excited to see how it unfolds. I only wish I had some confidence in my ability to finish this endeavor of mine. Maybe I need a ritual like the author from Misery. The protag not King. I don't smoke or stay in cheap hotels, however, so I'm pretty much fucked. I do drink though, and in the event of an emergency I can get pretty drunk in a hurry. Is this a tangent? I don't do math.
Keighdee is reviewing chapter one's third revision rough draft. Should be interesting. Maybe I can make some 3d shit on the page with a little constructive insight. My cdubb proff thinks I have phenominal description, too bad the bible also has said description and we know how many people actually read that.
I suppose I'll go pour some gin and think on this matter for a while. The best way to tend an open wound is to clean it with strong medicine before the suture.
Bring me a needle and thread, oh my brothers, and see that the iron is hot for the closing.
Friday, February 22, 2008
If You Give A Mouse A Confection...
...He's going to want to anally plug you.
I finished the third revision of my steam punk endeavor. Keighdee has yet to read it, however, so I'm afraid but hopeful.
I've been playing Call of Duty 4 recently with Ryan and I have to say that it is a tasty piece of business. I will not sing too much of its praises because no song could match what playing it does to a man, but I will say this: I have a shotgun with a laser sight painted with jungle camo ready for opposing faces.I have recieved 150 experience for jumping out of a window and only breaking my legs instead of dieing. I once accidentally tossed a grenade under a nearby car and via chain reaction earned 15 experience for a triple frag.
Need you more convincing? With most games it seems that once you finish the single player experience you are basically relegated to dealing with the multiplayer experience instead of enjoying it. After your fourth game of Halo you start to wonder just what the fucking point is of shooting the same people over and over again. This is where super-goddamn-awesome COD4 comes in. With such a short single player experience I was worried that I was going to fall into that Halo holding pattern, but not so.
The character creation was something that really caught my attention. I've never heard of a shooter that allowed you to build your own character for PvP and upgrade it steadily like an RPG. I was worried that I would be at a huge disadvantage, starting a new character without any of the weapons or upgrades that the other players would have. Luckily I found that my bullets were just as effective at mangling brains as theirs, even if mine were not as powerful or accurate. My first foray into the field may not have netted me the top spot on my team, but I could hold my own well enough.
Every kill, achievement and challenge completed in the field of battle earns experience that gives me new ranks, new weapons and new perks to upgrade my character with. Killing the same people over and over again doesn't become a factor because they never stay the same character. They may have been wielding a grenade launching assault rifle when you killed them last, but now they hold a light machine gun capable of shooting through walls and bearing a 300 tound canister. It keeps it lively.
I suppose I'll leave you with this morsel from my night of player killing.
After killing three people in a row I was given the ability to see all the players on the map for a short time. With this I managed five kills in a row which unlocked the ability to call in an airstrike anywhere on the map. The airstrike I'd called in felled two more men and this is what became of it....
I found myself literally out of my seat, one first pumping in maniac fashion into the air as I watched a helicopter I summoned with my seven kill streak fly in and begin raining missiles and bullets down on the map. Its guns thundered and rained the earth with metal tearing snipers apart in the fields and burning hardened warriors from their places of power. There were great cries of anguish and misery as point after point was racked up in my favor, the experience rolling over me in waves.
As though controlled by a person, the helicopter dodged small arms fire and RPGs shot from the opposing force's stronghold, returning fire upon their base and razing it in impressive fashion. When it finally left to refuel and rearm, I'd gained a new rank for my profile and the respect of the men who witnessed the spectacle. Certainly those men were really boys....boys screaming obscenties like "Your mother is whorefooted!" and "Bitchcunts and bloodspoons!" but they knew who I was then.
Respect.
I finished the third revision of my steam punk endeavor. Keighdee has yet to read it, however, so I'm afraid but hopeful.
I've been playing Call of Duty 4 recently with Ryan and I have to say that it is a tasty piece of business. I will not sing too much of its praises because no song could match what playing it does to a man, but I will say this: I have a shotgun with a laser sight painted with jungle camo ready for opposing faces.I have recieved 150 experience for jumping out of a window and only breaking my legs instead of dieing. I once accidentally tossed a grenade under a nearby car and via chain reaction earned 15 experience for a triple frag.
Need you more convincing? With most games it seems that once you finish the single player experience you are basically relegated to dealing with the multiplayer experience instead of enjoying it. After your fourth game of Halo you start to wonder just what the fucking point is of shooting the same people over and over again. This is where super-goddamn-awesome COD4 comes in. With such a short single player experience I was worried that I was going to fall into that Halo holding pattern, but not so.
The character creation was something that really caught my attention. I've never heard of a shooter that allowed you to build your own character for PvP and upgrade it steadily like an RPG. I was worried that I would be at a huge disadvantage, starting a new character without any of the weapons or upgrades that the other players would have. Luckily I found that my bullets were just as effective at mangling brains as theirs, even if mine were not as powerful or accurate. My first foray into the field may not have netted me the top spot on my team, but I could hold my own well enough.
Every kill, achievement and challenge completed in the field of battle earns experience that gives me new ranks, new weapons and new perks to upgrade my character with. Killing the same people over and over again doesn't become a factor because they never stay the same character. They may have been wielding a grenade launching assault rifle when you killed them last, but now they hold a light machine gun capable of shooting through walls and bearing a 300 tound canister. It keeps it lively.
I suppose I'll leave you with this morsel from my night of player killing.
After killing three people in a row I was given the ability to see all the players on the map for a short time. With this I managed five kills in a row which unlocked the ability to call in an airstrike anywhere on the map. The airstrike I'd called in felled two more men and this is what became of it....
I found myself literally out of my seat, one first pumping in maniac fashion into the air as I watched a helicopter I summoned with my seven kill streak fly in and begin raining missiles and bullets down on the map. Its guns thundered and rained the earth with metal tearing snipers apart in the fields and burning hardened warriors from their places of power. There were great cries of anguish and misery as point after point was racked up in my favor, the experience rolling over me in waves.
As though controlled by a person, the helicopter dodged small arms fire and RPGs shot from the opposing force's stronghold, returning fire upon their base and razing it in impressive fashion. When it finally left to refuel and rearm, I'd gained a new rank for my profile and the respect of the men who witnessed the spectacle. Certainly those men were really boys....boys screaming obscenties like "Your mother is whorefooted!" and "Bitchcunts and bloodspoons!" but they knew who I was then.
Respect.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Reverb
Also known as changing a verb in order to make sense at all. John raises his hand in class and says:
"I'd like to fall from your sweet touch,"
once thoroughly beaten by the schoolmaster, a great man with a pale complexion and flowing black beard, he relents with a face of twisted sorrow.
"Please no more! I wish to reverb if I could!"
the schoolmaster would then nod and, having placed a thick brown boot onto a nearby cask, he would listen intently for the reverb.
"I'd like to," he begins slowly, "run...? from your sweet touch?" and the beating would begin again.
I write this as I sit in my brit lit class discussing the role of victorian women in society. somehow writing something about this misuse of reverb is funny and makes the time pass by quicker. Victorian women were split three ways: those that were rich and couldn't care less, those who were poor and were fucked for life and those who were rich and wanted to make a difference.
Unfortunately we've been talking about gender roles since as long as I can recall. Every religion class I've had in the last twenty or so years dealt with how to treat people as you treat yourself. luckily I'm a very bruised and battered person, otherwise the stories I force keighdee to come up with wouldnt work.
"Honestly," she says, "I put the car in neutral while Eric was home and then tried my best to fix the break problem on the back wheels....at the same time,"
and that is how she got acidentally run over three times.
Love you keighders, that is still a good joke.
"I'd like to fall from your sweet touch,"
once thoroughly beaten by the schoolmaster, a great man with a pale complexion and flowing black beard, he relents with a face of twisted sorrow.
"Please no more! I wish to reverb if I could!"
the schoolmaster would then nod and, having placed a thick brown boot onto a nearby cask, he would listen intently for the reverb.
"I'd like to," he begins slowly, "run...? from your sweet touch?" and the beating would begin again.
I write this as I sit in my brit lit class discussing the role of victorian women in society. somehow writing something about this misuse of reverb is funny and makes the time pass by quicker. Victorian women were split three ways: those that were rich and couldn't care less, those who were poor and were fucked for life and those who were rich and wanted to make a difference.
Unfortunately we've been talking about gender roles since as long as I can recall. Every religion class I've had in the last twenty or so years dealt with how to treat people as you treat yourself. luckily I'm a very bruised and battered person, otherwise the stories I force keighdee to come up with wouldnt work.
"Honestly," she says, "I put the car in neutral while Eric was home and then tried my best to fix the break problem on the back wheels....at the same time,"
and that is how she got acidentally run over three times.
Love you keighders, that is still a good joke.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Droplets
"I believe what he said was that we live but to die," he said, popping open his cigarette case with a light click and removing a slender white roll of paper. He paused to tap the smoke on the back of the case before his lighter flashed it into life.
"Morbid," James replied.
"Life is morbid, mate" he replied.
A short woman carrying a tray almost as large as she was stopped at their table and waved the smoke out of her face idly with one hand.
"Gentlemen," She said.
"Madam," they said back.
"What'll it be tonight?"
She set the tray down on their table and pulled out a small pad of paper and a blue pen.
"I'll have the Romana," James said smiling.
"I'll have gin and water," said the other man.
"Nothing to eat, hun?" the waitress asked.
"Maybe you," He said smiling. She blushed and gathered the tray in her arms.
"Might be hard, sir," her cheeks grew red and warm, "I'm not on the list of specials,"
"I'll call the manager and see what can be done,"
She nodded briefly to him, trying to hide a smile that was spreading across her face, before heading back into the kitchen.
"You play a dangerous game, Niel," James whispered, "She may have taken that to heart,"
"She won't know until she is bone dry, my friend," He leaned back in his chair making it creak and groan, "If only food were this easy to catch when I was still alive,"
Niel laughed but James remained uneasy, tearing little pieces from a napkin left on the table by the waitress. It would have to be soon, James thought, or never.
James felt in his pocket for the thick piece of wood he'd spent the day filing to a point. It pricked his finger, bringing out a bright red droplet. Niel sat up a little straighter in his seat and sniffed the air, his eyes tightening into slits.
"So it comes to this then," Niel said to James.
The stake came out of his pocket, brandished point down and ready. Niel flew from his chair which slid across the floor and crashed against the wall.
"Come then, little one. To think I would have made you a brother,"
Niel's fingers curled into claws and James' teeth lengthened to sharp daggers. The crowd began to scream.
"Morbid," James replied.
"Life is morbid, mate" he replied.
A short woman carrying a tray almost as large as she was stopped at their table and waved the smoke out of her face idly with one hand.
"Gentlemen," She said.
"Madam," they said back.
"What'll it be tonight?"
She set the tray down on their table and pulled out a small pad of paper and a blue pen.
"I'll have the Romana," James said smiling.
"I'll have gin and water," said the other man.
"Nothing to eat, hun?" the waitress asked.
"Maybe you," He said smiling. She blushed and gathered the tray in her arms.
"Might be hard, sir," her cheeks grew red and warm, "I'm not on the list of specials,"
"I'll call the manager and see what can be done,"
She nodded briefly to him, trying to hide a smile that was spreading across her face, before heading back into the kitchen.
"You play a dangerous game, Niel," James whispered, "She may have taken that to heart,"
"She won't know until she is bone dry, my friend," He leaned back in his chair making it creak and groan, "If only food were this easy to catch when I was still alive,"
Niel laughed but James remained uneasy, tearing little pieces from a napkin left on the table by the waitress. It would have to be soon, James thought, or never.
James felt in his pocket for the thick piece of wood he'd spent the day filing to a point. It pricked his finger, bringing out a bright red droplet. Niel sat up a little straighter in his seat and sniffed the air, his eyes tightening into slits.
"So it comes to this then," Niel said to James.
The stake came out of his pocket, brandished point down and ready. Niel flew from his chair which slid across the floor and crashed against the wall.
"Come then, little one. To think I would have made you a brother,"
Niel's fingers curled into claws and James' teeth lengthened to sharp daggers. The crowd began to scream.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)