A Rush and a Push

It's amazing how much more hung-over I get from wine than from any other kind of alcohol. I had a glass and a half of cabernet sauvignon last night and to-day my brain seems to be on some distant, foggy outcropping of styrofoam.

I was up late and then spent way too much time to-day dealing with my Second Life chess club, which is going to be re-launched in another location we're pretty excited about. The owner of the sims, which is this whole conglomeration of sims called Winterfell apparently after something in the G.R.R. Martin books, seemed very excited about having a chess club, too. But it probably wasn't the best day for me to be talking to people--I think I came off well enough but it felt like a stove I was constantly having to light in my head with one of those cheap cardboard matches I can rarely get to work. And I still need to do some rough drawing for the last chapter of Echo Erosion, the script for which I finished yesterday, a day behind schedule. Truth be told, I would've liked a couple more chapters but there's simply no time or money for it. I'm hoping the last chapter won't seem too crammed. Anyway, thanks to everyone who donated. All two of you. Of five hundred eighty visitors. I guess I'm no Amanda Palmer.

I actually received an e-mail from someone once asking where they could buy my comics because they felt uncomfortable donating. This capitalism thing sure is hardwired.

I'm still drifting in my television watching--I started Firefly again the other day and finally dragged myself to the tenth episode of The Sopranos, "A Hit is a Hit", which turned out to be my favourite episode of the series so far, and not just because Tony's mother wasn't in it. It had some of the best writing of characters I've seen on the show and in television in general. I loved Tony trying to make friends with his Italian merigan neighbour and his wall street player friends. The scene at the golf course where one of them asks Tony how real The Godfather was, causing the neighbour to look panicked, rang so true somehow, as was his neighbour talking about pictures of "a beautiful hit" he saw in an old newspaper. It was silly, but a sort of credible silly to where, on the surface, you think how crass they are about something that's very serious to Tony, contract killing, and then you think--wait a minute, this should seem like a serious subject to everybody. I suppose the idea of wall street marauders being callous isn't new, but it just doesn't seem to get old.

Twitter Sonnet #413

Capital cats contribute buses of
Ridiculous cumulonimbus Tang.
Nickels make a new Nikolai Rostov
For fountains of tremendous Artie Lange.
Weight withholds the oil damage from Zeus.
Eunuch unicycles crack sexlessly.
Double Dragon goatees glimpsed burn the deuce.
Cheese was a chimp who chuckled helplessly.
Ornate nerf necklaces sully a throat.
Octopus pedestrians treat trauma.
Gentle lamb shades light the lamps for a goat.
Faint flora waged wobbly war on fauna.
Mothball ballistae stagnate all decade.
Reptiles rallied the redressed arcade.