Begun the Geek Wars Have (My 300th Post!)

Watching South Park last night, I knew there would be some backlash at their heavy criticism of Family Guy. People are staunch Family Guy supporters, and in my heart of hearts I knew that people could would get militant about it. But I had no idea that an all out civil war could break out.

Family Guy and South Park can both be loved on their own separate levels. Lets not break our strong ties over this one incident. There is no need to choose sides, nor is there a reason to continue burning down "enemy comic book shops."

Now I must jam my head in the sand so people don't assume I watch South Park or Family Guy.

Mad Shout Out

Have you seen Colin's blog lately? It's finally time to admit it, Colin has become better at me than blogging. Finally, the teacher has surpassed the student. My only issue is that I feel like those of us who brought you where you are today (Brie, Eric, Bill, etc...) should get a stipend for your Courant blog. After all, we did lay the groundwork. How's about spreading the wealth Colin?

Of course, I may just be mad because he never seems to be able to reply to my glowing emails, asking him a really smart question. Nothing, not even a quick "yes we shared something special, but it's over so go away, freak." I get tons of those emails a day, but none from Colin.

Oh well.

Who is Reading My Mind?

When I was younger, my friend Dave and I played a game called Wing Commander: Privateer. It was the ultimatge addiction. he game was fun because it let you run around the galaxy in your own ship, accomplishing pretty much anything you want. If you want to be a space pilot hero, all power to you. Of course, the real fun was being a crazy pirate who was chased around the galaxy. You needed a fast ship for that.

Not a single game has recaptured that magic for me. Origin made a Privateer 2 but the game became too complicated and lost its charm. Microsoft brought out a game called Freelancer, which was close to Privateer, but ultimately not free form enough. I've clamored to find that one perfect game that recreates the Privateer experience.

Which is why I'm so excited about Space Rangers. This game, developed by a small software company in Russia, has eveything I want. It's as if they went inside my head and tailor made the game to me. I'm still finding cool things in it.

The most exciting thing for me is that the game allows you to just fly around an enormous galaxy and do whatever you want. But it's so much more than that. The missions you are assigned to are incredibly diverse. You could be running trade routes with your ship on one mission, and on another land on a planet and deal with an alien infestation RTS style. Plus, the RTS in the game isn't some wonky, cheesy minigame. It's a fully realized game in itself with features I've never seen in other RTS games.

Of course, what I really love about this game is that the missions don't take hours. My rationale for playing games has changed and now I play games when I need a distraction. So it's nice to see a game that I can play for a bit, feel like I've accomplished something, and return to whatever it was I was doing. Check it out.

Thank You

On Friday, SJ identified me as the "star of the murder mystery." Indeed, this is not true. I am merely a humble facilitator.

Everyone else involved were the stars, able to take what I put down and truly make it come to life. There were so many wonderful ways in which people infused their characters with energy and joy. I couldn't have been more happy, and more proud everyone in the show.

One specific person I'd like to thank is the tireless R-dogg, who worked an incredible amount. He is truly a wonderful individual who takes on interesting challenges. I know I imposed a great deal by asking him to play a character that essentially never leaves the stage, but he seriously rose to the occasion.

Thank you.

Am I More Memorable Than I Realize?

I recently called my wonderful apartment office, wondering when the hell they would fix the disaster that is my toilet. They also haven't gotten around to fixing my garage door, but I'm not complaining on that one. I always feel bourgeois when I slide into my garade while others must step out of their cars and open their doors manually. Take your time and let my guilt fade. Anyways, the woman on the phone asked for my apartment number, paused and said "Oh cool, it's Brett. Hi Brett, how's your cat situation?"

I have no recollection of talking to this person about my monstrous cat situation. I'm not even sure who it was I was talking to, but I only put signs up about the devilish Queen of all Cats. So how do the leasing people know about her? My guess is that by day she leaves the apartment, terrorizes the neighborhood, and returns to terrorize my own animals. My name may be coming up in local curses, spread far and wide across the estates.

Of course, this woman could always just be making casual conversation. They may have some ginormous database filled with residents likes and dislikes. Still, it's always nice to be remembered.

Cautiously Nervous

I know rationally that I'm not really nervous about the show tonight. Indeed, I'm looking forward to it. Yet people seem hellbent on making me nervous. Thus far today I've had this conversation about a hundred times:

"Hey"

"Hey Brett"

"Whats up?"

"You nervous about tonight's debut?"

"Not really. It should be good."

"So you're not worried about your writing debut? It's a big night for you. I hope it's good."

"Like I said, it's good."

"You nervous about forgetting a line?"

"It's usually funnier when people forget their lines. Makes the show feel more amateur."

"Well just don't be nervous because you might screw up if you're nervous."

"I've done this before. It's not a big deal."

"Well Mr. Funnyman, break a leg and all. Don't be too nervous. I'll be watching."


I'm also still working on that novel. You know, where there's a protagonist who learns a valuable lesson. Maybe changes...(KABONG!)

Thanks for the laugh

Heather at Dooce has posted pictures of fake children's books. My favorite is "I Lost My Dad to Syphilis" which almost had me fooled.

Nice one.

Courage

When I think of courage, I think of this man, who survived a horrifying ordeal. He suffered through the death of his coworkers and a terrible coma that almost killed him. Despite his overwhelming brain damage, he rehabilitated himself faster than anyone thought possible and is now returning home to his family. His only comment when asked what he would do is "probably just hang around, hold my kids and stuff." Wow.

Shameless Promotion

I rarely use this blog for self-promotion (cough...cough...ehem) but I feel I need to promote this wonderful event. This Friday, March 31st at 6:30, there will be a production of my very first script. Okay, it's a murder mystery, and most of the dialogue I wrote has been improved upon by other people, but I'm still proud. If you want to come see it, email me and I'll arrange tickets.

Starbucks Woes

I hate it when I'm misunderstood. It happens a lot. People often misinterpret my body language, thinking I'm uncomfortable or rude even when I'm trying not to be. There are times in my life (I suspect there are times in anyone's life) when I seem uncomfortable or awkward. Lately, it's been because of my hands, which I've preferred either sticking in my pockets or holding against my arms. Both these positions make me appear unhappy. I swear I'm not.

What spurred this was R-dogg's declaration that the Starbucks ladies are unhappy with me. They claim that I am unfriendly with them, grabbing my coffee and completely lacking any greeting. In his defense, R-dogg did attempt to rationalize my behavior, but he wasn't entirely sure why I was so odd in front of them either. He confronted me about it, and I managed to blubber something about being uncomfortable around new people. But I've been thinking more about this, and I think it's deeper than that.

R-dogg and I have an odd dynamic to our friendship. He is the bombastic, incredibly friendly and very social guy. I am his comic foil. My purpose is to listen and occasionally make a funny quip or an insightful remark. I am quite happy in this role and function well with it. Our friendship works quite well.

However, when R-dogg isn't around and I am left alone with the Starbucks ladies he has befriended, I become shy. I say hi, grab my coffee and sit down to read or work for class. As previously noted, my body language will suggest that I'm uncomfortable at the table. Starbucks ladies, I am not put off by you. Indeed I find you very affable and nice. Your willingness to remember my name and the exact thing I want is quite amazing. But when I'm there alone, it's often for ulterior motives. I want to be alone, sipping my coffee and being contemplative. My reserved greeting or lack of conversation is merely because I have other things on my mind.

Part of the problem is that we (as a society) read far too much into each other's body languages. Analysts suggest that 80% of our communicating is through body language. I feel that may be because we are pushing our own preconceived ideals about body language onto others. Maybe it would honestly be better if we spoke exactly in the way that we meant and didn't judge based on the way their bodies react.

V (Why I'm Not a Chef)

Last Saturday I tried making the "eggy in a basket" from the movie V for Vendetta. It seemed simple enough to me, fry some bread up and throw an egg over it. Apparently the thought hadn't occurred to me that eggs don't tend to cook on top of bread. Instead, the egg slid off the bread and crashed onto the pan. I ended up with scrambled eggs attached to toast, which wasn't all that bad.

My failed breakfast attempt made me realize how deeply embedded in my mind the movie has become. It's rare that a movie stays with me, but V for Vendetta has. Once again Wachowskis, you have me thinking about heavy philosophical and social issues.

Thank you.

Fun with Spam (Found Poem)

Discoloration.
Rancher to operate foggy bay window,
Give the nonfat malpractice
To moral support.
Telling the
bobcat.
Avenge the brotherhood pompom
sourly.
But frantically,
in inherent stink
baby boom loser or joyrider,
automobile mayo
was bungee jumping.
Confine the cutter:
delighted peach.
Body language
With outhouse of missing.
Rhino was approximate.
The conceptual migratory
of a four-leaf clover and
dally to equitable
eye-opener.
Religiously geometrical
the sordid water is a
skyscraper per
smug sneeze: self-important
but a flea!
Cobweb and marmalade
of steel wool
rotate waxiness in
fanciful to
eardrum.

The certification of a peach
as a wristwatch:
still life resurgence.

Ahhh exercises in nothingness, how wonderful you are.

Elliott...

I vivdly remember the moment I found out that Elliott Smith died. My normal routine was to sit down at my computer at work and check the news. My boss at the time was sitting at the computer next to me. I hopped onto Yahoo News and my eye immediately caught the headline. Elliott was dead of an apparent suicide. My throat let out an inadvertent yelp that caught the concern of the entire room. I couldn't help it, my favorite musician was dead.

Elliott brought me through some tough times. His melodic melancholy always had a healing effect on me. I owed him. His death saddened me greatly because I knew that I could never tell him how much he impacted me.

I recently purchased the Elliott Smith tribute album, and found it interesting. I have always wanted to sing his songs, indeed I find myself singing along to his music more than any others. So I wanted to know how others would treat his music.

The result is, admittedly, quite a mixed response. Some of the choices are downright strange, creating the wrong feeling. At one point while I was listening I openly cringed, my hand shooting for the skip track button.

The problem is that Elliott's songs are purposely slow to create a mood, and attempting a more up tempo feel loses the spirit of the song. I felt my hands tighten whenever I heard a synthesizer on the album. Elliott was definitely not a proponent of overly produced music.

There are some serious bright spots on the album. Amelia does a wonderful job with "Between the Bars" adding her own special chord changes and depth but retaining the resonance of the song. Blake's "Rose Parade" is almost identical to the first one, and in this case it's not such a bad thing.

Maybe my point is that we (and by we I mean the collective Elliott Smith community) miss Elliott's wistful, breathy voice and thoughtful lyrics. With the overabundance of crap being touted as music nowadays, his impact is that much more startling. Do yourself a favor and pick up his albums. They are worth the experience.

Seriously Hilarious!

This video is absolutely necessary to capture the bizarre feel of being on WoW. PALS for life 4 ever!

Thanks Dave.

Exactly!

I was totally geeked out by this description of what might have been in the Star Trek universe. Perhaps the best part is Merrick's impassioned explanation of what went wrong with Star Trek:

"TREK’s diminishing audience happened because fans and laymen alike were sick of lifeless, bland, and safe storytelling that took no chances, and never came to life. Series and movies became visually flat, kinetically dull, and aurally muted (compare the way music is used in THE WRATH OF KAHN to any “sonic wallpaper” score in VOYAGER or ENTERPRISE). The camera became increasingly locked down...colors became more and more drab.

Above all, TREK derailed when it ceased to be about “all of us”, and became insular in its scope and ambition. It looked in on itself for inspiration, instead of reaching out to our world. And, most importantly, reaching out to our spirits."

So true.

We've Come to This

Our president is so simple that he makes national news when he uses a big word. This, of course, caused quite the kerfuffle.

Okay, Apparently I am Crazy Cat Man

She's small, perhaps weighing a grand total of 6 pounds, and she's got this cute little nose that she can wrinkle in the most adorable way possible. When I sit down, she throws herself next to me and places her head on my leg. I can't eat without her poking her face in to see if she can steal some. She follows me around the apartment relentlessly, hoping to get my attention. She may not be my cat, but she has definitely decided that I am her human.

And in the course of four days, she has taken over my apartment entirely. She has completely made my own cats subservient to her. It's her bed, her kitchen, her food, her human. They are completely in awe of her. This afternoon I plan on hanging signs, hoping to find her owner. Otherwise, I'm not sure how else I'm ever going to rid myself of The Queen of all Cats:

I Am Not Crazy Cat Man

Yes, I have two cats. I understand the social stigma of a single male having two cats around his tiny apartment. My cats are different though. They are fantastic in their unique un-catlike qualities. I wouldn't give them up for anything.

So it was with great apprehension that I discovered a freezing and starving cat sitting next to my door when I came home last night. She was a beautiful calico cat. What struck me was that she was willing to have me come and pet her. I knew then that she wasn't a feral cat. She was either lost or abandoned.

After a bit of a struggle, I managed to grab the cat and bring her into my apartment. She was nervous. I was nervous as well, not knowing how my cats would react. It wasn't good. There was lots of hissing and crying and most of it wasn't from me.

Needless to say, she's now sitting in my bathroom, waiting to see what I'll do with her. I'm thinking I might bring her to the shelter, where she can get properly treated and adopted. She's an adorable and well-mannered little thing, but I just can't deal with the stigma of being a single guy with three cats.

I Am Not Who I Am: Another Short Story

I am, I think. Or maybe not. I'm not sure.

We all have a story about where we came from, who we are and such. Every sentient creature, anywhere, desires to know their origin. Most are simple and also stunningly complex. Mine is just bizarre.

I was brought to life by a breath, a noise, perhaps a whisper. There are times when creativity coagulates into a pure form, a cohesive unit. This is where I came from.

To be more broad, I was a fictional part of a tale. The speaker called to me in order to spice up his story. He wanted to make it more important. Initially, I had a purpose and that alone satisfied me.

I am a jerk, or better yet I was a jerk. In the initial telling, I existed solely to annoy. I popped in to make the teller seem more virtuous by comparison. I was his moral foil. This definition was fine with me.

Problems arose when the tale became more elaborate. It was told many times with much embellishment. I gained new personality flaws; I was angry, whiny, loud and bullying. As the story grew, so did I, developing a rounder personality.

I no longer wanted to be me. My existence was founded on the idea that I was a terrible person for no reason. It's awful to be a mean person and not know why.

So I went out and found those emotions. I looked at what made a person belligerent or just plain angry. A new emotion arose, one that I found to be mine. It was at this moment that I became real.

So here I am. I'm sick of being what the storytellers want me to be. I know there's something more to me than the story suggests, and it's my turn to go out and prove it. The story may be the beginning, but it will certainly not be the end

They Don't Always Land on Their Feet

Wendell is a klutz. He is perhaps the most awkward animal I've ever seen. He moves in a way that makes me seem graceful. I'm not graceful, I'm a klutz as well. Together we knock over more lamps than I care to share.

So it was with terror and hilarity that I watched Wendell's antics this morning. He was lying on the bed, stretched out in his wonderful morning laziness, when he looked up at me and rolled over to have me rub his belly. He miscalculated and went flying to the floor on his back, paws desperately trying to grip something. My feelings went through how cute it was to very quickly realizing that he might be hurt. I ran over to his side, and saw the glint in his eye, the one I get so very often when I trip over my feet. Wendell looked embarrassed, a rare sight for a cat.

Of course, just like his daddy, he picked himself up and strutted out of the room as if that was what he wanted to do all along. They grow up so fast.