The primary theme of the past twenty hours or so has been waiting.

I waited for several things after discovering late last night that there was a house guest wandering the house that I wasn't expecting. A quiet, mildly autistic guy, a friend of my aunt's, who seemed nice. His mother was (or maybe is) staying here as well, but she, like everyone except me, the guy, and the cats, was asleep. I don't mean to belittle someone with a condition he obviously can't help and I feel for him but there was a lot of waiting involved in talking to him. Not that I minded, mind you. It's a theme, is all.

He got sick, which my aunt and I only discovered at 4am, a time which I had waited (you see, waited) for to go to sleep because I was a little jittery with the strange situation. My aunt knocked on the door, saying she needed a ride to work because the guy's mother needed my aunt's car to get the guy to the hospital.

I got dressed, and drove my aunt at 4:30am to work, through fog that made going slightly slow. One could say I was forced to wait (you see, wait!) longer before arriving at the destination. My aunt works at Starbucks, so we waited for thirty or so minutes outside in my car for her co-worker to show and unlock the doors. I had the wonderful Vertigo soundtrack playing and felt slightly like Jimmy Stewart waiting for Kim Novak to come out of her apartment.

I took the long route back, was diverted by a major car accident, and stopped at a gas station to wait for an especially slow pump to fill my car. Then I came back and tried to sleep until 9am (but mostly waited) at which point I had to call my parents and tell them I couldn't go with them to L.A. to-day (as planned) because I needed to wait until noon to pick up my aunt.

I managed some sleep before my alarm went off at 11am, got dressed and all, and found a note saying my aunt wasn't to be off work until 1pm. As I didn't particularly feel like trying to sleep for one hour, I decided to go to Starbucks and wait. I read a lot of Murder of Angels there, which is getting a lot better--and I was enjoying it before. The second half so far seems to be absolutely wonderful.

I was feeling numb and was having difficulty concentrating, though, as I eventually had to wait until 2pm before my aunt was released.

Then there were some other things I had to wait for but I'm sure I've bored you enough (it gets a lot more boring). But needless to say, I'm really glad I uploaded the Boschen and Nesuko chapter early or I'd have been in really bad straits right now. As it is, I feel flattened.

I've put up the new chapter a day early (blogger's being a shit about perfectly simple html tags right now so you'll have to click the link to the right). While others may talk of getting naked, Boschen and Nesuko are wrapping it up.

Interesting presidential debate. It was good seeing the two guys not anchored by podiums, roaming about like vicious dogs (or as close to vicious dogs as two fairly stiff guys in suits can be). Kerry has content on his side but Bush has cleaned up some of the embarrassing facial tics from last time (although not all of them). says he seemed shrill, but maybe that didn't stand out to me because I'm accustomed to all of Bush's mannerisms being repellant.

In the world of critical viewers, Kerry won. But as to who actually will end up benefiting . . . There are, of course, factors of which we are all aware and which I find too depressing to mention right now.

I am a hybrid of: Indie Girl Academic Girl Click on the pictures below to read more: Take the 'What Kind of Girl Are You?' quiz at CookingToHookup.com

Tired. That's the kind of girl I might be in the other reality. A tired one. Colour me faded pink. Salmon. Actually, though, I hate that colour.

So what've I been up to? Not too much. I decided to tackle two pages of web comic yesterday so that I'll have more time to-day to go over things I wanna change before uploading. I also saw The Year of Living Dangerously, which I thought was pretty good. Mel Gibson before he was crazy or American (redundant?), Sygorney Weaver's wonderful odd accent covered by a fascinating false British one, and Linda Hunt playing a male. And all of it in tumultuous Indonesia. Not to mention directed by Peter Weir. You know, I'd really like to get Picnic at Hanging Rock on DVD.

Tired . . .

Yesterday was basically pretty good. I got to work early on my web comic, and was rather happy with how the page turned out. Then I went to Submarina for a sandwich. As I was sitting there eating, a very small girl with glasses walked up to me and asked, "Are you a wish?"

I starred at her dumbly a moment, trying to figure out what she was asking. "I'm sorry," said her mother as she led her away.

"It's quite all right," I said, smiling. But it was only after they'd left that I realised the girl was asking me if I was a witch--she saw me wearing all black with a black hat. She'd probably just been Halloween shopping with her mother and had been told that the black hats on the shelves were what witches wore.

So then I was in a very good mood. I took it to class where I proceeded to get pissed off as a few of the more vocal students praised a badly written poem about Hitler being chosen by God to be a martyr of evil. A couple of the students seemed very enthusiastic regarding the idea about all the social reforms that came about as a reaction to the existence of Hitler.

I tried, sadly, not in my best words, to explain to them what juvenile idiots they were being. What I wish I'd said is, "Sure, good things've happened. Bad things've happened, too. But more good things than bad things? Probably not but we can't really say. All we really can say is that things happened because things happened . . . in which case, no shit. It's common sense, not a revelation. And if you think you can pass off Hitler as some kind of divine lightning rod for good social change, well, you may as well say the same for all the ills you would have it that his example was a remedy for; racism and cruelty. In which case, you're basically saying, 'when we get rid of bad things, we can have good things in their place.' Your argument is based entirely on your teenage desire to shock people with 'logic' and you're unwittingly setting back the standing of real logic in this world."

What I actually said was a more confusing and shorter version than the above before the teacher told me to desist when another student and I began discussing whether or not the idea was fundamentally Judeo-Christian (I don't think it necessarily is).

And last night I dreamt I was made to wait in a doctors office several hours with Hayden Christensen, who was also there for an appointment. Awkward small talk consisted of me trying to say nice things about his performance in Episode II.

Anyway, I needs coffee.

My interest in the presidential race has prompted me to watch a bit of the 24-hour news networks. Damned scary stuff. I mean, I'd heard there was a right wing bias on most of these channels but it was nevertheless astonishing to see it at work. From so-called "fact-checkers" who wilfully misinterpreted or brazenly misquoted Kerry in order to make him wrong, to panels of political journalists who argue the most absurd and irrelevant points.

The other day I watched a show on MSNBC called Scarborough Country consisting of host Scarborough debating with a number of people, most of whom were right-wingers. The two representatives of the left wing were young women whom I suspected may've been either plants or were simply chosen because they were cute and not very bright. Every single one of the right wingers harped on Kerry's display of flip-flopping in the debate and not one of the left wingers thought to point out that Kerry did not display any flip-flopping during the debate. The item Scarborough was primarily alluding to, the fact that Kerry called Hussein a threat while also calling the war a mistake, was never even suggested as not being a contradiction. It was telling that when Al Franken came on for a one on one with Scarborough, Scarborough carefully avoided the issue; Franken was too high profile to be owned by the network.

Ugh.

I watched Anthony Adverse last night, a late 1700s melodrama made in 1936. Every time I see Olivia De Havilland in a movie I like her just a little more. Which is, I guess, the way with great movie stars. It's hard to believe that she's not only still alive, but is currently teaching Sunday school at a church in Paris. A woman born in Japan to British parents, who became an American movie star, and now lives happily in France.

Anthony Adverse was itself a strange mishmash of nationalities and I had trouble figuring out where it took place half the time. The confusion culminated in one scene where Claude Rains, a British actor, said to Edmund Gwenn, who was speaking with a Scottish accent, "Au revoir, senor!"

Last night I dreamt I met a Japanese girl at Parkway Plaza who insisted she was Indian. I flirted with her until her hyperactive older brother showed up and insisted I go for a ride with them. In the back seat of their small car I listened to them tell me about a movie made in the 1930s about some Korean immigrants living alone in the Rocky Mountains.

It's weird how I get these flirt dreams. Must be my Victorian soul (although I do dig this immensely. Anyone who says there’s nothing erotic about ballet is sadly deluded) . . . Last night I watched The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, a pretty good movie starring Gene Tierney as a young widow living in a house haunted by a dead sea captain played by Rex Harrison. George Sanders shows up as The Man the Lady Falls For Instead of the Lead and We're Therefore Supposed to Hate (though I thought he was quite charming). The cinematography's really good with some beautiful darks and lights in clean, high contrast. And of course Bernard Herrmann's score is absolutely great.

Gene Tierney's good and quite pretty although you wouldn't know it from the DVD cover. For some reason, the image pads her normally strong cheekbones until her features are floating aimlessly in a strange peach void. Another funny thing about the DVD cover is that it refers to the movie as an Academy Award nominee of 1942--even though the movie was made in 1947. Some memo-writer has bad handwriting.

Looks like everyone agrees Kerry won the debates. Even the Republicans are saying that Kerry won "on style," which essentially translates to solid victory. Bush seemed like a kid who got called into the principal's office for breaking a window.

I'll be interested in seeing the Vice President debates next week. With the level of control Cheney's purported to have in the White House, it seems almost like the presidental candidate debated the sitting vice president while the vice presidental candidate now has to debate the sitting president.

Anyway, I've got a lot to do this evening . . .

I liked Sky Captain and the World of To-morrow. I walked out of the theatre feeling like a kid.

Its main virtue is its full body slam effect. If that doesn't hit you, I can see plenty of reasons why you wouldn't like it. One of Franklin's main gripes was that the movie stole actual robot and ship designs from other things. This didn't bother me too much because, for one thing, I'm easy-going to a fault, and also because I knew these designs'd never been like this before. Max Fleischer's robots never felt so actually huge and the nostalgic look not only served in its own right, but also as an edifice of alienness. It ain't just designs that are reviewed in the film, there's also Lawrence Olivier. And I think if you can appreciate the reasons for which Olivier is resurrected, you can also appreciate why the designs were. It has to do with ghosts whose meaning has become pure atmosphere.

That's the key to this movie halfway between colour and sepia. It's not about how great movies were back then. It's about hitting the right chords for the audience by any means possible. Alfred Hitchcock said, "I enjoy playing the audience like a piano." And I think that's the foremost rule of storytelling. And, as it turns out, employing these designs simultaneously creates freshness while creating a wonderful atmosphere of ghosts. That they're sometimes employed enormously out of context is even more appropriate, emphasising the feelings of these antiquated goggles, if you will, rather than the statement.

I did have some problems with the film. Although I liked all the actors, I didn't think they were appropriately cast. Part of me thinks Gwyneth Paltrow would've been better as Sky Captain and Jude Law better as Perkins. Law's gorgeous, but I really wanted to see Clark Gable in his place. There's something too vulnerable about Law for the role. Paltrow looked great, too, but I wished she'd been more forceful. But I think that may be an issue of personal taste.

There were a number of problems of plot, such as characters referring to World War I in 1939, when they ought to've been referring to it as the Great War. It kind of bothered me, though at the same time I wondered if it had to do with the innocent mindset of the story's vision--that it infected the writer.

Anyway, though. Good movie.

To-day I've eaten a doughnut and purchased a coffee, which I'm currently drinking. Good morning, world of 7:30pm. I have an appointment to-morrow at 2:30pm--which, in any case, is Thursday so . . . damn, damn.

Something really shocking happened last night but I won't talk about it for a few days. Not until all my notes are together.

I really ought to get some things done. There's nothing I particularly need to do but getting things done seems appropriate . . .

Actually, maybe I oughta go to a movie. I oughta see that Sky Captain people are either worshiping or condemning. I oughta see it so's I can worship or condemn it, too. Or maybe I'll do both! Crossfire, with Setsuled! By Himself, Even!

I've been reading web comics a lot lately. Figured since I'm making web comics I oughta have a look at my contemporaries. I like Scott McCloud, of course. And everyone seems to like Something Positive, which I find decently funny, and suspect I've not been reading it long enough to appreciate its chief virtue, which is that it's updated a lot.

Beyond that, I've been checking out things McCloud links to in his blog, which I won't bother linking to here as anyone reading may as well go and see McCloud's blog themselves . . .

Now I'll go do my thing, whatever that is.

Slept strangely. At around 9:30am I finally had to admit defeat when I was having a half-dream about a strange face. It seemed an old woman with leathery, puckered skin and a mouth on her right temple. This mouth had no lips and thin, needle-like grey teeth. The scary thing about her was that she seemed to know all about me; she knew I was lying there trying to get to sleep and that she was a half dream I was having. And the more I thought about her, the more she cackled at me. She seemed pleased with each new detail I noticed--first the second mouth, then the wiry hair, the bulging eyes, and the long, limb of a nose.

So I woke up, drew something for about four hours, and went back to bed at 2pm. This time I had a dream about living in a very cold valley with big dark trees. I lived in a poorly lit wooden cabin on a pile of rocks and there was a pretty girl sleeping in my bed. She seemed worried and continually wondered why the lights weren't working very well. She told me her boyfriends were looking for her and she didn't want to be found--she wasn't very enthusiastic about that. I looked out the window which, since the house was on the hill of rocks, gave me a good view of the tree tops. There was a heavy mist on them and cartoon witches occasionally bobbed up out of it as they flew by on their brooms.

What've I been up to? Let's see . . . Last night was the Acorn Review class. A week earlier I'd voted "no" on a piece most of the other students had voted "yes" on and the passage of time had made me sorrier that I hadn't put up a stronger argument. It was a poem about white people being told they can't "dress black" or listen to rap. Before, I disliked it because it seemed silly but, after having seen how important most of the students seemed to feel the issue was, I'd been wanting to scream at them, "This isn't a social problem! It's a social quibble! If your worst problem is that people are telling you [as the poem says they are] that if you listen to a song with drum and bass it must have electric guitar . . . Well, count yourself lucky! And while you're at it, laugh in the person's face! How the hell can someone think this is a big deal in a country where some people aren't even allowed to marry who they love because of a prevalent bigotry?! This poem is the voice of the spoiled teenager!"

That's what I wished I'd said. Probably better I didn't as having put up the meagre argument last week, that "the emotion is disproportionate to the subject matter," I could tell I'd already made enemies. Not a good class for making friends, although some of the old campaigners (people who've taken the class multiple times) are starting to seem like okay people to me.

Ugh. I feel like I'm missing something . . . Oh, yeah, food . . .

The newest Boschen and Nesuko chapter is up on my site. Have a look.

It was a pain in the eema this week. I was working on it until at least 4am every night. Hope it doesn't suck. I don't think it sucks but, then, I'm the daddy.

And so I've finished early to-night and I think I'll go watch a movie . . .

A few days ago, someone was making the case that a writer can never be very good if he or she suffers from an almost complete absence of human society and a lack of interest in procuring any. This idea is demonstrably wrong when one thinks of the likes of H.P. Lovecraft or Kafka--or, well, any number of writers. Just last night I was watching the special features on the Naked Lunch DVD and William S. Burroughs mentioned in an interview that writing requires a commitment to solitude. In fact, it seems to me that a sociable writer is more of an exception to the rule than anything else.

But this is probably almost obvious to most of you and I am indeed a little surprised that anyone would attempt to argue to the contrary. The only reason I bring it up is because I got to thinking last night about the relationship between sociable people and fiction. Someone who spends most of their leisure time interacting with groups of other human beings will obviously spend less time with art. And for one for whom art is a lower priority, it's not unreasonable to suspect that their exposure to art is governed by a narrow set of prejudices; if they're going to waste valuable time on art, they will obviously want the piece most likely to yield pleasurable results and, without having taken the time to study art in general or to exercise intellect to reason that one can benefit from an open mind, they're likely only to seek out those pieces that, to their untrained eye, have similarities to those pieces they either enjoyed in the past or, more likely, were instructed to enjoy by their society.

That's also pretty obvious, but I think it pays to think about it in this detail. And by the way, I don't mean to suggest that someone who spends more time with a social group necessarily places art at a low priority. There're a myriad of reasons as to why someone might feel the need to be surrounded by people often. But as this becomes a comfortable situation, one falls in danger of becoming someone whose poor attention to art taints their perception of it.

So the question on my mind last night was . . . what is therefore the value of art to someone who is afraid of solitude? How could I explain the benefit of art to the poor students obnoxiously gabbing their way through movies?

My suspicion is that there is no answer and that we're all mad here. The person who is alone writes for the person who is alone. Perhaps the writer exists as the emissary of fixation, whose job it is to fill the strange aquarium which the average person now and then has need to look in on, to gain a perspective?

Well, I've got a page to draw . . .

Finally got a decent amount of time to-day! I feel oddly giddy and unsure of how I want to spend this time. A thousand different things are occurring to me. I picked up the Criterion edition of Naked Lunch a few days ago so I'll probably watch that. It's got all kinds of features, included commentary from David Cronenberg and Peter Weller as well as a piece written by William S. Burroughs about the film. And more than that even.

It's weird to think back to the days when I thought of Howard Shore primarily as the composer for Cronenberg movies. Maybe Cronenberg will do a fantasy adventure movie?

A lot of my time's been taken spending time with my grandmother, who's still in town. I watched North by Northwest with her--a movie I haven't seen since high school. And of course, I can appreciate a lot more of it now than I did then. Watched it on a huge, widescreen television on DVD--looked absolutely beautiful.

Speaking of movies I first saw as a youth that I can better appreciate now, I watched Who Framed Roger Rabbit last weekend. I can appreciate a lot of the dialogue a lot more now (I now know what a drunken reprobate is, for example). But the more interesting thing is how the animation looks now, after time has passed. Who Framed Roger Rabbit was made years before cgi was commonplace, and absolutely no cgi was used in the movie. And much is done in the movie that to-day no one would even think of doing by any means other than cgi.

I remember as a child marvelling at how extraordinarily fluid much of the animation looked--remember the cartoon at the beginning where we see the jar slowly tipping off the broken shelf? No cgi there--meaning animators had to go through the trouble of mathematically figuring out the appearance of the jar based on the changing perspective as it moved--and with a subtle distortion because it was close to the "camera". It must have taken forever to draw each of those frames--and that was just the jar. How many other virtuoso examples of animation were seen in the film?

You might remember that the older Disney film Oliver and Company actually employed some crude cgi--so it was available. But the director of animation for Roger Rabbit felt that cgi would not have been in the spirit of the movie they were making. We're fortunate he felt this way because now the movie stands as an artefact of a kind of motion picture that we may never see again. It does have a different look from cgi--sometimes it's very subtle but it's definitely there. It's fascinating and almost unnerving, feeling more unpredictable and less cold than cgi. I suppose because somewhere in all our brains, we can see the true, natural three dimensions and are acquainted with them. But the three dimensions in Roger Rabbit are subtly different--in fact, no matter how perfectly calculated, we're inevitably looking at an artist's impression of the three dimensions. As a consequence, the movie seems more like a voice communicating with us.

I feel kind of sad thinking that no animation studio large enough to carry off something like this would now consider it cost-effective to make a movie this way. Even Trail Mix-Up, the newest Roger Rabbit short, employed a bit of cgi. Just not right at all.

Oh yeah . . . And what's the deal with Kathleen Turner not being credited as the voice of Jessica Rabbit? It sounds like her. IMDb says it's her. Very strange. I'm noticing all kinds of uncredited performances these days. Y'know Teri Garr wasn't credited for her role in Ghost World?

"A sea monster ate my ice cream?! A sea monster ate my ice cream!"

So said Scrooge McDuck on Duck Tales this morning.

Where is all my time? I want so much more. I've a lot to talk about . . .

Euh . . . Bloody gods in formaldehyde . . . I feel like . . . complete shit . . .

Grandmother from out of town, in town. Told yesterday to meet relatives for brunch. At 10am. I'm used to going to bed at 6am. I tried my damnedest but couldn't do otherwise. Slept for one hour.

Managed anyway to be human-like for b-runch. It was a buffet at a hotel called Hanalei--Hawaiian themed and stuff. I hate croissants and muffins. Then I noticed all the tiny flies on the croissants. I sat there wondering how many flies I'd eaten. I was managing my brain in my skull like an egg-yolk in a teacup. I had the feeling if I stopped concentrating I'd start screaming meaningless obscenities at people who didn't deserve it. Got back here at noon. Slept 'til five, awakened feeling, as Spangler said, like the bottom of a taxi cab.

By the way, the Amazing Caitlin, who's probably felt worse than this due to sickness in recent weeks, has uploaded the latest Nar'eth manga chapter I did to Nebari.Net. And now, although I can scarcely believe it myself, I'm gonna draw a page of comic . . .

Reading Murder of Angels this morning at Starbucks, I was startled to notice a sticky, black fissure opening up through the centre of the world. And then I realised it was the book's binding giving out. Yes, I love the book well, but actually I think the San Diego sun is at fault in this case.

Last night I watched the truly beautiful 1945 version of The Picture of Dorian Gray. The film won an Oscar for best cinematography and was nominated for best art direction. In this instance, the Academy was spot on. These were definitely the strongest aspects of the film, and in precisely that order. Fascinating shadows, textured edges of ancient walls, exquisitely framed shots of staircases seen through drawing rooms, and even the titular painting was great, holding up to the praise of the narrative. Much narrative in this movie, taken, of course, from Wilde's book. Generally a cop out for a filmmaker, but I didn't mind in the slightest because it's always nice hearing Wilde read. The movie would have been appreciable as an abridged version of the book accompanied by images, but the gorgeous look of the thing elevates it.

Dorian was played by a guy named Hurd Hatfield, who was definitely not a good actor but, astonishingly, was absolutely perfect in the role. In fact, I almost think this was a job for a bad actor, and that a good actor would have made for a lesser movie.

His pretty, androgynous face barely moves throughout the whole movie. Which is, of course, perfect. His look was fabulous--not merely pretty and androgynous, but also slightly gaunt and a bit creepy. He looked like someone an artist would want to do a study of, and also like someone who may have sold his soul. His mask-like face, conveying little, never positively communicated a person who'd sold his soul for vanity or was just an innocent kid. The only problem I really had with him was that he couldn't do a British accent.

The supporting cast, meanwhile, was generally solid, including a very young Angela Lansbury as Sibyl Vane. Gods, it's weird thinking Angela Lansbury is hot.

George Sanders played Wilde's avatar, Henry Wotton, very well. It's with a kind of fascinated chill that I read on IMDb that he committed suicide in 1972, leaving a note that read, "Dear World: I am leaving because I am bored."

Nesuko's ship, the Raithuras, will make an appearance in the next Boschen and Nesuko chapter, so I've been tearing apart my closet looking for the schematics of the thing I made in high school at some point. I considered drawing up some new ones but, the truth is, I don't have as much of a taste for such almost mindless mathematical endeavours as I used to. High-school-me liked putting together plastic models of spaceships and drawing endless maps and schematics. I haven't been in that mindset for so long that I look back at these old things and I marvel that I actually devoted such time to getting precise measurements and adding all kinds of little details. Actually, I think I didn't so much fall out of that mindset as I did transfer it--to writing, especially to the writing of characters. But now I'm hoping me-of-the-past and me-of-the-present can forge a fruitful partnership.

I've found the starboard, dorsal, and cutaway drawings, but I'd very much like to find the one where I detailed the Raithuras's strange, somewhat silly, atmospheric flight system . . .

I had this very vivid dream the other night. In it, Tim and I were at a music store in El Cajon. There was a skinny girl with bright, dyed red hair who was giving me nervous looks. Finally she asked me to draw something on her chest, which I did. I asked her out, she said yes, but still seemed like she had something else on her mind. Tim and I went outside and discovered my car'd been stolen. A large man with a messy pony tail, a Van Dyke, and a pointy scalp, nervously approached and asked me not to go out with the girl because he was in love with her. I shrugged and said, "Okay."

After dreaming of a zombie infested office building where only Indiana Jones could save us all if only I could bring him his whip and hat, I drove to Grossmont Centre to buy Bjork's new album and some liquorice flavoured Altoids. Because both items have black and white packaging, the sounds of Bjork's Medulla shall forever be tied for me with the flavour of liquorice.

It's a good album, although nowhere near as good as Post. It shares the same virtue as her previous album, Vespertine, which is atmosphere. A very different atmosphere, though, and more striking than Vespertine's weather-like busy ambience. Medulla is an experiment to see if she can rely almost exclusively on voice for all of the music. Results are interesting and, while I certainly like it, many of the results are more fascinating and enjoyable than truly good. Meaning, much like Vespertine, Selma Songs, and, to an extent, Homogenic, this is an album not to be listened to twice within a short period.

After Grossmont Centre, the plan was to drive to Mission Valley Centre, buy a sketchbook at Michael's, and settle down at Starbucks with Murder of Angels. Only Michael's was totally out of sketchbooks--or, at least the kind I wanted. So I drove off to UTC, ate lunch, and went to Tim's.

Tim installed Doom 3 and I watched. It is, really, a . . . decent game, I suppose. I found myself unable to get as excited about it as was Tim.

Like most games of its ilk, it is, essentially, what a bunch of guys came up with after wondering what they'd make if they were licensed to make an Aliens game. Aside from a variety of perfectly fine nods to the original Doom, the game clearly takes some pages from the books of Half Life and System Shock 2. Unlike Doom, or Quake, or so on, Doom 3 begins without action, instead establishing your characterless character, the story (heh), the environment, and, most usefully, the controls. It does this in a manner reminiscent of System Shock 2 by having you stroll through the marine base talking to people.

There are some very impressive things going on in this game, and many of its strengths are sadly neglected. I liked how you were able to naturally overhear a conversation between some workers. I only wish there was more to the dialogue than obvious exposition. The great realism hinted at by the impressive engine with its awesomely sophisticated dynamic lighting is harmed significantly by the fact that all of the people talk like animatronic characters on a Disneyland ride. And so, a lot of the potentially frightening action is dampened by the feeling that you're on Splash Mountain. There's a particularly laughable moment just before the exposition sequence ends where your character encounters a scientist who's hurriedly trying to get out word about the escaping monsters. He takes a moment to slow down and ham, "The devil is real! I know. I built his cage," gazing wistfully around the room while, supposedly, things'll go to hell if he doesn't do something fast.

I had a chance to play it myself and, once past the exposition sequence, the game's another shooter. Decently fun, and it was nice having the Doom/Quake shotgun dynamics back, where it's beneficial to get as close as possible to the enemy before firing.

Many of the people you talked to earlier are now zombies, which actually makes them seem more lively.

And then I went home and watched Murder by Death. Great performances, but a bit too hell-bent on being silly. The plot involves spoofs of famous detectives (Dick and Dora instead of Nick and Nora, Sam Diamond instead of Sam Spade, Perrier instead of Parrot, etc.) being summoned to a mansion by someone who wants them to solve the ultimate crime. Or something like that. A lot of it didn't make any sense but I suppose it wasn't meant to. I suppose Neil Simon (the writer) thought that would be a good idea.

Personally, I would have kept the humour that worked (I really liked the scene with the blind butler and the deaf mute woman he thought was the cook) and not tried so hard to make humorous the things that didn't work as such. I think it would have been cool to have the actual detectives try to actually work their way through a similar situation. But then, I suppose I'm missing the point, the boorish point about Simon pointing out all of the nagging, characteristic flaws of the various mystery fictions. This point is, after all, jabbed home at the end by their host who literally ceases to address them as people but instead as characters in stories he's been reading for a long time . . .

Oh, what could have been. The movie had David Niven, Maggie Smith, Alec Guinness (playing the butler brilliantly), Peter Sellers (surprisingly unfunny), Peter Falk, and Truman Capote.

And I spent much of the evening compulsively researching details of the various film adaptations of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, lamenting that nearly all of the remotely worthwhile versions are unavailable. I would very much like to see the 1948 French marionette version that Disney tried to suppress. Even the 1933 version with W.C. Fields as Humpty Dumpty and Cary Grant as the Mock Turtle doesn't seem to be available. Nor does the Jim Henson produced Dreamchild, starring Ian Holm as Lewis Carroll. Well, that one at least has old VHS copies available, but I know they're pan and scan (get this; Gates McFadden, Star Trek TNG's Dr. Crusher, is a puppeteer on that movie). There is currently available an intriguing 1966 BBC TV-movie available. It's got John Gielgud and Peter Sellers. In fact, as far as I can tell, Peter Sellers is the only person to be involved in two Alice productions.

Well. I think that's enough fun and games for me . . .

Meme taken from Poppy Z. Brite's journal;

Five Things You May Not Know About My Time in School Are:

1) My teachers usually liked me.

2) My sixth grade teacher found an excuse to dress one of the more mature looking female students in a slinky gold gown. He also had a kissing booth in the back of the room one day, where he had two female students practise kissing one male student.

3) In fifth grade, I was once sent to the back of the room for coughing. The teacher was angry at me for not covering my mouth with a fully open palm.

4) In first grade, I had a crush on Sarah Visces (unsure of the spelling) because she had short hair.

5) I once saved a paper lunch bag for weeks because it had a picture of Tweety Bird on it. And I didn't even especially like Tweety bird.

Five Things You May Not Know About the Job(s) I Have (or Had) Are:

1) I got paid more than ten dollars an hour for my first job, which was also an extremely easy job.

2) For the job I held the longest, four or five years, my boss was the father of Roman Dirge. It was a job straightening merchandise in the aisles of a value store now called Big!Lots.

3) I used to be an ice cream scooper at Rite Aid, and was frequently told by customers that I was the only Rite Aid ice cream scooper that wasn't rude. I even got called into the office once to be commended by the manager for this.

4) I've applied for work at Victoria's Secret several times. I'm a pervert.

5) I've applied for work at The Disney Store several times. I'm a pervert.

Five Things You May Not Know About My Online Life Are:

1) I used to be on aol.

2) Up until a couple weeks ago, I never had any means to pay for things online.

3) I have a couple web sites up that I can't take down or modify any longer because I don't remember my passwords for the various web services.

4) My friend is a hentai guru.

5) I once had David Bowie comment on something I said on the BowieNet message board. It was a long time ago, and I have a suspicion he doesn't pay attention to his boards any more.

Five Things You May Not Know About Where I Live Are:

1) Tom Waits grew up near here.

2) It's getting almost as expensive to live here as in L.A.

3) Never try to drive to the San Diego Comic-Con. Always take the trolley.

4) We have a Mormon Palace--at least, that's what I call it. They probably call it a church or something. But the place is twice as large, and twice as decadent, as Sleeping Beauty's Castle at Disneyland.

5) Horton Plaza has two Starbucks.

Five Things You May Not Know About My Core Personality Are:

1) I'm easily amused.

2) I'm not at all arrogant.

3) I firmly believe that most of the idiocy I see--in a distressingly large amount of the people I see in the world--is not innate.

4) I live by the "art for art's sake" idea, even when I vaguely suspect it's not very wise.

5) I don't understand the appeal of most social gatherings.

Five Things You May Not Know About My Home Life Are:

1) I live at my grandmother's.

2) I often see opossums in the back yard.

3) I often shave before going to bed.

4) I use a desk my grandfather built that was later, unwisely, chopped in half by my grandmother.

5) I don't know any of my neighbours and I try to ignore them.

Five Things You May Not Know I Would Really Like to Have Are:

1) A space station.

2) My own movie theatre.

3) Shape-shifting abilities.

4) A better laundry detergent.

5) Sovereignty.

Five Embarrassing Fannish Admissions I Have That You May Not Know Are:

Not that I am embarrassed by doing anything fannish, but . . .
1) I make fan-fic manga for Nebari.Net

2) I know everything about how the Enterprise-D works.

3) I have more than a hundred Star Trek tapes.

4) I have Deanna Troy's autograph.

5) I used to want to be Donald Duck. In elementary school, I even used to angrily sing an alternate version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme--"D-O-N-A-L-D! D-U-C-K!!"

Five Things You May Not Know About What I Do On A Typical Day Are:

1) I read a lot of blog entries and posts in the morning, hours before I reply to anything.

2) I walk aimlessly around the mall, thinking.

3) I don't usually get to bed before 5am.

4) I bring the newspaper up.

5) Hmm . . . er . . . I don't watch much television.

Five Things You May Not Know That are Really Important to My Character Are:

1) I'm a slow reader.

2) I have, what many people seem to consider to be, an irresponsible absence of concern for what strangers think of me.

3) I think too many people enjoy being told what to do.

4) I hate salad dressing.

5) I don't lie to people because it really pisses me off when I sense people are lying to me.

I watched Mrs. Parkington last night. A pretty good movie. Greer Garson did a remarkably good job of portraying someone several decades older than herself. But she was absolutely gorgeous as the girl in the mining town.

Last night's episode of Venture Brothers was particularly good. How could I not like a show with gratuitous David Bowie references? And the Major Tom zombie was plain awesome. It's on again to-night at 12:30 if any of ya'll would like to catch it . . .

Now I'll go meet my parents for dinner. Having been awake now for more than an hour, now seems like a good time for dinner . . .