Yeah, I’m bad
I get bored easily, which is why I rarely finish my games. Oblivion, Beyond Divinity, The Witcher, and so many more . . . all lie moldering on their virtual shelves. I’ve finished a few games, like Diablo and Diablo 2, Fallout 2, and Oddworld (about a dozen times), but so many more remain untouched. Waiting. You know, like those lonely toys in Toy Story.
I suppose I could reinstall Oblivion, but naaaah. I want to be this dude.
I remember playing the original Prince of Persia back in ’90, my internship year. Best I can recall, it was a linear scroller, heavy on the button-mashing, an exercise in eye-fingertip coordination. Lots of jumping and grabbing and leaping and hacking and smashing. I’ve been meaning to check out the newer versions of the franchise, but only got around to it today when I found the Sands of Time trilogy for twenty bucks.
A trilogy, a whole trilogy. Probably 60 hours of gameplay! Never mind that I’ll probably tire of it after two hours; for now, I’m a sword-wielding wall-walking somersaulting Prince of Persia.
I wish Diablo 3 would come out.
D.
Cuz it’s like secret
All I want to know is: what’s the release date for Diablo 3?
There are all kinds of nifty things on the official Blizzard site, like a cool cinematic and a map that finally puts Lut Gholein and Tristram — well, on the map. I mean, what kind of doofuses must ye be to not realize fantasy lovers like MAPS? (Note to Tammy: next book needs a map.)
There’s a gameplay video, too. I see that the Barbarian has a new skill: he can stomp his enemies into blood pudding. Cool!
But no word as to the release date. Blizzard, don’t you understand I really need more games I have no time to play?
D.
Tofu burger, anyone?
Shades of The Freshman: Exotic Meats.
I think I could live my whole life without tasting lion meat, but 6-count shrimp? I’m tempted.
D.
Eggs
I went to a K-6 elementary school. The day we graduated, I went on a bike ride with two of my closest pals, Dan Baudino and Frank Howarth. (I’m ever hopeful these folks will google themselves and find me. Over the years, I haven’t had much luck tracking them down on the ‘net.) We rode down to Arcadia Park and beyond. There was an egg factory over on Baldwin Ave, if I remember correctly; it was one of those places where eggs were sorted into medium, large, and extra large cartons. We had no business being there but just the same, the workers let us watch.
To be continued . . .
Okay, I’m back.
I’m on call tonight, which means I’m shacked up here in Martinez (roughly equidistant between the two hospitals I cover) with my computer and my new Christopher Moore, A Dirty Job, hoping I’m not jinxing myself by taking off my tie and shirt, kicking back, and booting up the laptop.
So. Eggs.
Fantasy Baseball
It’s a damn good thing my subconscious doesn’t rule my life, because it comes up with some of the most hare-brained schemes.
This morning, I woke up convinced I had a multimillion dollar idea, if only I could find a venture capitalist willing to stake me. The concept is a marriage of batting cages and fantasy baseball. Picture this: the customer (and maybe some of his pals) would go online and put himself on a fantasy baseball team. There he is with his teammates Hank Aaron and Babe Ruth and Willie Mays and that about exhausts my knowledge of famous ballplayers. Sandy Koufax, I suppose. And Mannie Mota.
On the designated day, he shows up at the batting cage. The system tests him out first — how well can he hit? How fast can he run the bases? Because this cage would have have a whole damn infield. Meanwhile, his friends would do the same. The system would handicap itself in accordance with the players’ skills; it wouldn’t be much fun batting against Nolan Ryan* if you have zero chance of hitting Ryan’s fast ball, now would it?
You’d have to have one humongous flat screen TV up somewhere (protected from pop flies, of course) where the computer would show the simulated action. And then the game is on, you and your pals taking turns with famous players, working your way through a nine-inning game. Or four innings. Whatever!
The problem with this plan, aside from the fact I don’t know jack about baseball (but how weird is it to wake up thinking, “What is the infield fly rule?”) is what do you do when it’s no longer your team’s turn at bat? How do you play a defensive position with virtual infielders? On the other hand, if it’s a couple of friends playing on opposite sides, maybe the one guy sits it out drinking his beer and watching the big screen while his pal comes up to bat.
It took most of the morning to shake this weird notion. And why is my subconscious bothering with baseball, anyway?
D.
*I had to look that one up.
The muse stirs
I was listening to NPR this morning . . . something about Obama and Afghanistan and Iraq. And the muse stretched and yawned:
Imagine an America even more polarized than our own, where the wealthy have no use for the underclass unless they are also a servant class; and imagine an America which has decided to spread its “permanent interests” from Pakistan to Saudi Arabia. Military is too expensive, so the US decides what’s really needed in those areas are citizens. And so the wealthy class have transferred a couple hundred million US citizens to the mountains of Afghanistan and the oil fields of Iraq and points beyond. But that’s not the fun part.
I’ve worked out a clever system of taxation whereby the non-filthy rich either have to emigrate or stay at home as permanent indentured servants. Of course, there are a few who live in the cracks, refusing to pay the National Tax and refusing to emigrate, and our protagonist would necessarily be one of these. An outlaw, equally disdainful of the uber rich and the proles who do their dirty work. Someone who takes from the rich and gives to himself. Who chuckles whenever he gets a post card from his older brother, an invitation to join him in the golden poppy fields of ‘Stan. Who (as needs must happen in a piece like this) starts out in a world of trouble and only sinks further and further into the shite.
A story like that lives on its setting and doesn’t take much of a plot to drive it onward. It’s a rich world, or at least I have a feeling it could be if I gave the muse the time she needs to create it for me. But there’s the rub: time.
If only I could drive and write at the same time. Heaven knows I have plenty of car-time. Dictation, perhaps?
D.
We’re part of the problem
One of the side effects of not knowing where I’ll be five months from now: we’re not spending any money. Oh, we’re paying our rent, mortgage, and other bills, and we’re still shopping for groceries, but we’re not spending. We’re saving. It seems like the prudent thing to do, all things considered, since we may be living off these savings come September.
A couple of things could turn this around. We could sell our house in Oregon, or I could get a permanent job. Preferably both. And then we could spend, spend, spend! My top priorities would be a new bedroom set for us and a new mattress for Jake. Bookshelves, too! I want my books back . . . I’m tired of knowing they’re all boxed up, longing for me to look at them and think, “DAMN that’s a load of books.” I’d like my own home, too, so I can bring the frog tank indoors (there’s no room for it in this rental). Then I could put the frogs into the frog tank.
Yeah, yeah, I know that doesn’t make much sense. Why have a frog tank without frogs? Well, we have to keep the tank in the garage cuz that’s the only place we have room for it, and it gets too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer for the frogs to do well out there. Consequently, we keep the frogs in little cages indoors (and they’re doing just fine, thanks, but I’d rather have them in a big tank so that I can enjoy them).
I’m operating tomorrow. Only a couple of cases, and simple ones at that, but it feels good nonetheless. I miss my old patients — have I said that lately? I wonder how they’re getting on without me.
I should probably think about getting some sleep.
D.
Progress of sorts
Folks are calling my references. That’s gotta be a good sign, right? With any luck, I’ll soon have two interviews lined up down south, two more up north (one in Portland, one in Olympia).
Keeps yer toes crossed for us . . .
D.
Brilliance in advertising
The second scream at the end is precious.
How can you not make a hilarious commercial for — ah, but that would be telling.
You would think banned commercials would be uniformly amusing, no? Flashes of genius suppressed because some TV exec convinced himself a certain demographic would be offended . . . the naughty, the outrageous . . .
Or the plain old jaw-droppingly terrible ad. The kind that loses you business — lots of it.
Enjoy.
D.