July 01, 2003
After-Action Report: NEARfest '03
Wooch.
Longer version: NEARfest rocks on toast. Two days of prog, ten bands, thousands of CDs with art calculated to produce the "Oooo, shiny!" response in the Yes-and-Crimson set, a breathtaking Roger Dean gallery, and more fat guys with ponytails than you can count. There's nothing quite like it for putting a feller into moog-solo and mellotron overload.
First off, though: Trenton sucks. If I hit you with the suckage of Trenton, you would die. There is very nearly nowhere to eat, and certainly nowhere that isn't vaguely distressing to be in, and you're inclined to inspect whatever they give you. And on the weekend that town is day-ud. Not so good when you unleash a coupla thousand goofy-looking art-rock fans into it for forty-five minutes at a stretch, and besides, walking five minutes from the War Memorial in any direction is so depressing you want to just sit down and give up. Perhaps there is some intriguing nightlife there in some other section of town, well-hidden from view, but until that's unveiled I hereby renounce any impulse I had to refrain from gratuitous Jersey-bashing. Garden State, is it? There's a reason why people laugh when you say that, you know.
Tony and I missed the first act on Saturday - late start getting out of Allentown - so I have no idea if High Wheel was any good or not. The program sums them up as "German heavy symphonic prog," which certainly has possibilities in either direction, but I'll assume they were at least passably good. Didn't hear folks talking about them all weekend, but that's the peril of opening; you never hear about Birdsongs of the Mesozoic from the '01 show either, so there you go.
We did arrive in time for Alamaailman Vasarat, a sextet from Finland who do a sort of instrumental Prog Noir - no guitars, but organ, drums, sax, trombone, and two cellos (and it never occured to me before that you could run a cello through a distortion box; the results are quite awesome). These guys were great. Supposedly the name means "hammers of the underworld," but I'll have to have Maija confirm that one.
Tunnels was perfectly good, but not my thing. A little too atonal-jazz-noodling for my taste - lots of riffing odd stuff up and down the MIDI-Vibes, which loses me after the first thirty seconds or so. Fortunately, I have some awareness of how trained you have to be to sound like you're just goofing off like that, or my assessment would probably be more cynical. As it is, I can nod appreciatively and hold out for the next act.
Which was The Flower Kings. Oh, my. The Flower Kings rawk. Here's what I love about this genre - these guys played for an hour and a half and their set was, like, five songs. They're certainly planted firmly in the epic-length crunchy symphonic-rock school of progressive music, but they have made that very much their own. I think one of the things I tend to like about European prog especially (the Flower Kings are from Sweden) is that they're influenced by more stuff than just Yes and Genesis and bring that musical syncretism into their work; they're not stuck in-genre, they're just playing what they like. That said, this stuff soars and wails with the best of 'em, but even if you don't know Marillion from Kansas, if you're not moved by the end of "Stardust We Are" and singing it in the shower for two days - well, there may be no hope for you.
Headliner for Saturday night was Magma. Not bad, if a bit on the avant-side (French, y'know). Sort of what would happen if there was a Manhattan Transfer rock opera. Dunno if it was headliner material for me, but it was interesting enough, and you can certainly sit and groove to it for two hours.
Sunday morning brought the pleasant (if that's the word I'm looking for) surprise of Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, who have made an awful lot of new fans now, myself enthusiastically among them. They're a sort of apocalyptic industrial nightmare goth prog, which manages to push just about all of my aesthetic buttons at once. Go see them, just for the costumes. I wish I looked that good in a dress and hightops, I'll tell you that.
And then there was Glass Hammer. While I was slightly disappointed they didn't do any of their Middle-Earth stuff, the live performance of their album Lex Rex is tough to complain about. You want classic epic keyboard prog in the fashion of Yes and so forth, look no further. Sure, it's entirely over-the-top, but this is not a genre that has ever been known to stop once it's made its point anyway. And the women doing their backup vocals were hella-cute. (An aside: You can learn almost everything you need to know about prog fans by observing the two reactions engendered in them by putting three attractive women onstage. The first is perhaps best summed up as "Whoa, boobs!" The second, even more unfortunate, is "Yeah, but they couldn't dance in 7/8 time." I kid you not, gentle readers, though I deeply wish I did.)
Oh, and during the Glass Hammer set, Rich Williams of Kansas ambled out onstage to play a song with them. Just, y'know, 'cause he thought it'd be fun. I'd give a kidney to have been there for that conversation, just to hear what the GH guys said after they got done crapping themselves. There's your lesson for the day, kids: if you're an art-rock musician, learn you some Kansas songs, because you never know.
I don't know what it is about tall, skinny German guys and prog, but Kraan was pretty damn good. They were lots of fun, and obviously had a blast doing what they were doing. Danceable and catchy and unpretentious, and very much a breath of fresh air.
Nonetheless, out of all the new finds for me this year, it's Anglagard that more or less owns my soul now. Instrumental Swedish vituoso symphonic stuff with flutes and whatnot. And three mellotrons. Three! I didn't know you could do that without blowing something up. They are awesome. Once again, it's the European bands that really get me; two years ago, it was White Willow, and now it's these guys, for much the same reasons. (Well, okay, then it was at least partially out of falling deeply in love with Sylvia Erichsen, but you get the idea. Not that Anna Holmgren ain't easy on the eyes herself, but assume I'm speaking of lofty aesthetics here.) Go thou forth, and buy Anglagard albums. That is all.
And then, playing fashionably late, the Sunday-night headliner came in the form of the venerable and esteemed Camel. Worth the wait, I'd say. Very much like classic Genesis - immensely listenable, smart but not oh-so-clever, and frequently very beautiful and sweet. Sadly, this is their farewell tour; catch 'em if you can.
And there you have it. I was pretty good, and didn't buy everything that looked in the least bit cool (which is why I'm not still in Jersey, saying "That's twenty for just the blowjob, and nothing up the bum, please"). Besides the obligatory Angalgard and Sleepytime Gorilla Museum CDs, I also got a single from a local band called The Red Masque, which is certainly the right thing to listen to if you want your musical boundaries stretched forcibly wider - but at almost 40 minutes, it's the best four bucks you'll spend, and you really should just for the chance to hear Lynette Shelley sing. She is pretty damn amazing. I also recommend playing it, if you can, while you drive down a dark road in the middle of the night; that was our first exposure, and oh, wow. (I also had the reaction, "If she's not a Current 93 fan, she should be," but, then, I would.)
And that was NEARfest. Woot! Final analysis: "It's even worth going to Trenton." How's that for a t-shirt slogan?
Wooch.
Longer version: NEARfest rocks on toast. Two days of prog, ten bands, thousands of CDs with art calculated to produce the "Oooo, shiny!" response in the Yes-and-Crimson set, a breathtaking Roger Dean gallery, and more fat guys with ponytails than you can count. There's nothing quite like it for putting a feller into moog-solo and mellotron overload.
First off, though: Trenton sucks. If I hit you with the suckage of Trenton, you would die. There is very nearly nowhere to eat, and certainly nowhere that isn't vaguely distressing to be in, and you're inclined to inspect whatever they give you. And on the weekend that town is day-ud. Not so good when you unleash a coupla thousand goofy-looking art-rock fans into it for forty-five minutes at a stretch, and besides, walking five minutes from the War Memorial in any direction is so depressing you want to just sit down and give up. Perhaps there is some intriguing nightlife there in some other section of town, well-hidden from view, but until that's unveiled I hereby renounce any impulse I had to refrain from gratuitous Jersey-bashing. Garden State, is it? There's a reason why people laugh when you say that, you know.
Tony and I missed the first act on Saturday - late start getting out of Allentown - so I have no idea if High Wheel was any good or not. The program sums them up as "German heavy symphonic prog," which certainly has possibilities in either direction, but I'll assume they were at least passably good. Didn't hear folks talking about them all weekend, but that's the peril of opening; you never hear about Birdsongs of the Mesozoic from the '01 show either, so there you go.
We did arrive in time for Alamaailman Vasarat, a sextet from Finland who do a sort of instrumental Prog Noir - no guitars, but organ, drums, sax, trombone, and two cellos (and it never occured to me before that you could run a cello through a distortion box; the results are quite awesome). These guys were great. Supposedly the name means "hammers of the underworld," but I'll have to have Maija confirm that one.
Tunnels was perfectly good, but not my thing. A little too atonal-jazz-noodling for my taste - lots of riffing odd stuff up and down the MIDI-Vibes, which loses me after the first thirty seconds or so. Fortunately, I have some awareness of how trained you have to be to sound like you're just goofing off like that, or my assessment would probably be more cynical. As it is, I can nod appreciatively and hold out for the next act.
Which was The Flower Kings. Oh, my. The Flower Kings rawk. Here's what I love about this genre - these guys played for an hour and a half and their set was, like, five songs. They're certainly planted firmly in the epic-length crunchy symphonic-rock school of progressive music, but they have made that very much their own. I think one of the things I tend to like about European prog especially (the Flower Kings are from Sweden) is that they're influenced by more stuff than just Yes and Genesis and bring that musical syncretism into their work; they're not stuck in-genre, they're just playing what they like. That said, this stuff soars and wails with the best of 'em, but even if you don't know Marillion from Kansas, if you're not moved by the end of "Stardust We Are" and singing it in the shower for two days - well, there may be no hope for you.
Headliner for Saturday night was Magma. Not bad, if a bit on the avant-side (French, y'know). Sort of what would happen if there was a Manhattan Transfer rock opera. Dunno if it was headliner material for me, but it was interesting enough, and you can certainly sit and groove to it for two hours.
Sunday morning brought the pleasant (if that's the word I'm looking for) surprise of Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, who have made an awful lot of new fans now, myself enthusiastically among them. They're a sort of apocalyptic industrial nightmare goth prog, which manages to push just about all of my aesthetic buttons at once. Go see them, just for the costumes. I wish I looked that good in a dress and hightops, I'll tell you that.
And then there was Glass Hammer. While I was slightly disappointed they didn't do any of their Middle-Earth stuff, the live performance of their album Lex Rex is tough to complain about. You want classic epic keyboard prog in the fashion of Yes and so forth, look no further. Sure, it's entirely over-the-top, but this is not a genre that has ever been known to stop once it's made its point anyway. And the women doing their backup vocals were hella-cute. (An aside: You can learn almost everything you need to know about prog fans by observing the two reactions engendered in them by putting three attractive women onstage. The first is perhaps best summed up as "Whoa, boobs!" The second, even more unfortunate, is "Yeah, but they couldn't dance in 7/8 time." I kid you not, gentle readers, though I deeply wish I did.)
Oh, and during the Glass Hammer set, Rich Williams of Kansas ambled out onstage to play a song with them. Just, y'know, 'cause he thought it'd be fun. I'd give a kidney to have been there for that conversation, just to hear what the GH guys said after they got done crapping themselves. There's your lesson for the day, kids: if you're an art-rock musician, learn you some Kansas songs, because you never know.
I don't know what it is about tall, skinny German guys and prog, but Kraan was pretty damn good. They were lots of fun, and obviously had a blast doing what they were doing. Danceable and catchy and unpretentious, and very much a breath of fresh air.
Nonetheless, out of all the new finds for me this year, it's Anglagard that more or less owns my soul now. Instrumental Swedish vituoso symphonic stuff with flutes and whatnot. And three mellotrons. Three! I didn't know you could do that without blowing something up. They are awesome. Once again, it's the European bands that really get me; two years ago, it was White Willow, and now it's these guys, for much the same reasons. (Well, okay, then it was at least partially out of falling deeply in love with Sylvia Erichsen, but you get the idea. Not that Anna Holmgren ain't easy on the eyes herself, but assume I'm speaking of lofty aesthetics here.) Go thou forth, and buy Anglagard albums. That is all.
And then, playing fashionably late, the Sunday-night headliner came in the form of the venerable and esteemed Camel. Worth the wait, I'd say. Very much like classic Genesis - immensely listenable, smart but not oh-so-clever, and frequently very beautiful and sweet. Sadly, this is their farewell tour; catch 'em if you can.
And there you have it. I was pretty good, and didn't buy everything that looked in the least bit cool (which is why I'm not still in Jersey, saying "That's twenty for just the blowjob, and nothing up the bum, please"). Besides the obligatory Angalgard and Sleepytime Gorilla Museum CDs, I also got a single from a local band called The Red Masque, which is certainly the right thing to listen to if you want your musical boundaries stretched forcibly wider - but at almost 40 minutes, it's the best four bucks you'll spend, and you really should just for the chance to hear Lynette Shelley sing. She is pretty damn amazing. I also recommend playing it, if you can, while you drive down a dark road in the middle of the night; that was our first exposure, and oh, wow. (I also had the reaction, "If she's not a Current 93 fan, she should be," but, then, I would.)
And that was NEARfest. Woot! Final analysis: "It's even worth going to Trenton." How's that for a t-shirt slogan?
June 27, 2003
Off to NEARfest
In a couple of hours, I'll be on the road to Allentown, and thence to Trenton for NEARfest '03. Woot! I return Monday afternoon sometime, no doubt aweary and all progged up.
Too long since I've made this drive. It's one I enjoy. Except for the last time I went solo, in October, when it was raining like a motherfucker most of the way (though even then, rolling into Harrisburg in the rain, seeing the lights over the hill while "Bloodstreamruns" played on the stereo, was pretty cool in its own right).
And that's the week, kids. I'll file a report on my return.
In a couple of hours, I'll be on the road to Allentown, and thence to Trenton for NEARfest '03. Woot! I return Monday afternoon sometime, no doubt aweary and all progged up.
Too long since I've made this drive. It's one I enjoy. Except for the last time I went solo, in October, when it was raining like a motherfucker most of the way (though even then, rolling into Harrisburg in the rain, seeing the lights over the hill while "Bloodstreamruns" played on the stereo, was pretty cool in its own right).
And that's the week, kids. I'll file a report on my return.
June 25, 2003
New look for the blog as of today, and a new feature: Comments. Uh-oh.
Talked to the realtor last night, which was weird and scary but exciting too. Underlined, for me, how very not good I am about dealing with change, even changes I want; being a homeowner will be a Very Good thing, but all the factors of uncertainty about the process make me bloody nervous. Can't quite help myself; I suppose it's a natural reaction. And anything that involves my credit report fills me with anxious guilt anyway, so this just really piles on the hell for me. So it goes. I keep telling myself that it'll all be over, one way or another, before all that long - this fall at the latest if we can't break our lease. And possibly much, much sooner if we can.
Also brought home the fabulous new computer (with printer) on Saturday and got it up and running, and it rawks. We can now do miraculous things like print out stuff at home, and make CDs. Spent about an hour and a half last night putting all my King Crimson albums on one disc, and trying to figure out what felt weird about the whole thing until I realized it was because I wasn't getting that nagging vague sense of guilt from doing it at work. Odd what one gets used to.
Oh, and on a related subject - I'm goin' to NEARFest this year. Whoohoo! (Gods bless my brother and his connections in the Lehigh Valley community of musicians.) I was a bit bummed I missed it last year, but no one really fabulous was playing (except for Steve Hackett); this year's got Glass Hammer and the Flower Kings, and I am fuckin' psyched. I'd do a happy dance, but prog fans don't do that.
And speaking of music, last week brought us the Coolest Gift in Questionable Taste I think we've ever gotten, courtesy of Stacy's friend and classmate Sean Ryan. It's a CD of songs about fire in honor of our brush with disaster, and includes such indispensibles as "Burning Down the House" and "Burning for You." It's nice that the whole thing is nearly funny now. Burn, motherfucker, burn.
Talked to the realtor last night, which was weird and scary but exciting too. Underlined, for me, how very not good I am about dealing with change, even changes I want; being a homeowner will be a Very Good thing, but all the factors of uncertainty about the process make me bloody nervous. Can't quite help myself; I suppose it's a natural reaction. And anything that involves my credit report fills me with anxious guilt anyway, so this just really piles on the hell for me. So it goes. I keep telling myself that it'll all be over, one way or another, before all that long - this fall at the latest if we can't break our lease. And possibly much, much sooner if we can.
Also brought home the fabulous new computer (with printer) on Saturday and got it up and running, and it rawks. We can now do miraculous things like print out stuff at home, and make CDs. Spent about an hour and a half last night putting all my King Crimson albums on one disc, and trying to figure out what felt weird about the whole thing until I realized it was because I wasn't getting that nagging vague sense of guilt from doing it at work. Odd what one gets used to.
Oh, and on a related subject - I'm goin' to NEARFest this year. Whoohoo! (Gods bless my brother and his connections in the Lehigh Valley community of musicians.) I was a bit bummed I missed it last year, but no one really fabulous was playing (except for Steve Hackett); this year's got Glass Hammer and the Flower Kings, and I am fuckin' psyched. I'd do a happy dance, but prog fans don't do that.
And speaking of music, last week brought us the Coolest Gift in Questionable Taste I think we've ever gotten, courtesy of Stacy's friend and classmate Sean Ryan. It's a CD of songs about fire in honor of our brush with disaster, and includes such indispensibles as "Burning Down the House" and "Burning for You." It's nice that the whole thing is nearly funny now. Burn, motherfucker, burn.
June 24, 2003
The Big Reveal
It's official.
I will be directing The Tempest this fall at the Chevy Chase Community Center.
I sent in the proposal for this sucker fully a year and a half ago when they had an open call for scripts, expecting nothing. So it was a big shock, to say the least, when the good folks there called me up last week to say they were interested. Wooch! I figured it had just gone the way of all slushpiles, but they were actually really excited about my ideas. I couldn't freakin' believe it.
I still can't. I'm walking on air.
So tonight was my first sit-down with the Committee, such as it is, to talk shop and air out my wacky plans for this thing. And I got to throw around phrases like "Prospero's ambivalent relationship with otherness" and not get a round of blank stares. I felt like a chocoholic with a hundred-dollar Lindt coupon. It was fabulous.
So I audition right before we go to Fiji. Opening night is Halloween. It hardly seems possible to be saying such things, but there you are.
I wonder if these people don't realize that they have just handed the speed-freak the keys to the meth lab, or somehow don't care. Either way, I'm not exactly complaining. I expect I'll be grinning like a moron for some time to come, and checking my conversations to see if they scan, but that's just par for the course. Me and Dirty Willy, together again at last.
And needless to say, I'll be updating as it seems fit.
Huzzah, indeed!
It's official.
I will be directing The Tempest this fall at the Chevy Chase Community Center.
I sent in the proposal for this sucker fully a year and a half ago when they had an open call for scripts, expecting nothing. So it was a big shock, to say the least, when the good folks there called me up last week to say they were interested. Wooch! I figured it had just gone the way of all slushpiles, but they were actually really excited about my ideas. I couldn't freakin' believe it.
I still can't. I'm walking on air.
So tonight was my first sit-down with the Committee, such as it is, to talk shop and air out my wacky plans for this thing. And I got to throw around phrases like "Prospero's ambivalent relationship with otherness" and not get a round of blank stares. I felt like a chocoholic with a hundred-dollar Lindt coupon. It was fabulous.
So I audition right before we go to Fiji. Opening night is Halloween. It hardly seems possible to be saying such things, but there you are.
I wonder if these people don't realize that they have just handed the speed-freak the keys to the meth lab, or somehow don't care. Either way, I'm not exactly complaining. I expect I'll be grinning like a moron for some time to come, and checking my conversations to see if they scan, but that's just par for the course. Me and Dirty Willy, together again at last.
And needless to say, I'll be updating as it seems fit.
Huzzah, indeed!
June 23, 2003
It occurs to me that it was exactly two months ago that I must have given a shout across the "wide gap of time" and sent out the dramaturgickal invocation that has apparently caused... certain events to come to pass. And that's all I'll say about that for now, except to note that I've tapped into a very Suppressed Transmission sort of energy these days. Though in all fairness, perhaps the qualifier "more so than normal" really belongs at the end of that sentence.
Tomorrow night, kids. Hopefully all will be revealed then. In the meantime, keep yer fingers crossed for me.
So Nobilis was frickin' awesome, much as I expected, and worth the trek down into the wilds of Manassas - without getting too much into let-me-tell-you-about-my-character nerdiness, I'm playing the Power of Alternatives, who has literary roots of a sort, even if those roots tap into a vein with an all-too-narrow audience thus far. (Consider me unwrapping a Mars bar and winking slyly in the direction of India.) It's all about the big coats and the World-Walker Gift, baby! We're doing it again in three weeks, which is a Good Thing indeed. And Fred, the Hollyhock God, reminds me of nothing so much as a sort of Venti-sized version of Steven Brust on a Skittles bender. How cool is that?
And Foucault's Pendulum kicks ass. It has the Comte de Saint-Germaine. Go, read it, right now.
We did manage to score a copy of the new Harry Potter this weekend as well. Stacy picked it up at Books-a-Million during her trip to Potomac Mills while I was off doing Simple Divinations and turning into crows and whatnot. It is one big-ass book, not that that's stopped Stacy from devouring three hundred-odd pages of it in the interim. Of course, some of us have had more of a head start than others, and still managed to find time to go have witty cocktail-party conversations with Mike Mignola and shit, but I'm sure we'll all be caught up by the time we make it to New York this summer. Don't think I can't fit my Beating Stick into a carry-on, you know.
And over it all, NEARfest looms. Huzzah!
Tomorrow night, kids. Hopefully all will be revealed then. In the meantime, keep yer fingers crossed for me.
So Nobilis was frickin' awesome, much as I expected, and worth the trek down into the wilds of Manassas - without getting too much into let-me-tell-you-about-my-character nerdiness, I'm playing the Power of Alternatives, who has literary roots of a sort, even if those roots tap into a vein with an all-too-narrow audience thus far. (Consider me unwrapping a Mars bar and winking slyly in the direction of India.) It's all about the big coats and the World-Walker Gift, baby! We're doing it again in three weeks, which is a Good Thing indeed. And Fred, the Hollyhock God, reminds me of nothing so much as a sort of Venti-sized version of Steven Brust on a Skittles bender. How cool is that?
And Foucault's Pendulum kicks ass. It has the Comte de Saint-Germaine. Go, read it, right now.
We did manage to score a copy of the new Harry Potter this weekend as well. Stacy picked it up at Books-a-Million during her trip to Potomac Mills while I was off doing Simple Divinations and turning into crows and whatnot. It is one big-ass book, not that that's stopped Stacy from devouring three hundred-odd pages of it in the interim. Of course, some of us have had more of a head start than others, and still managed to find time to go have witty cocktail-party conversations with Mike Mignola and shit, but I'm sure we'll all be caught up by the time we make it to New York this summer. Don't think I can't fit my Beating Stick into a carry-on, you know.
And over it all, NEARfest looms. Huzzah!
June 19, 2003
I'm reading Foucault's Pendulum these days. Or rather, re-reading; I tried it on about eleven years ago (!!) and had to concede deafeat about a third of the way through to Eco's superior scholar-fu. Now I'm enjoying it immensely, not least because I've had some exposure in the interim to a lot of the weird coolness it deals with (thanks, Ken Hite!) and don't draw a mental blank on, f'rinstance, "gematria" or "Demiurge." It's a really, really fascinating book, and engaging, and frequently funny - though I have to wonder what it says about me that I know where to laugh in Foucault's Pendulum.
I'm about 500 words shy of finishing this month's column, only slightly behind schedule. Some pissing and moaning on the fora seems to have dampened my enthusiasm ever so slightly, though I'm sure it shouldn't. I'd like to think it's cuz I'm too clever for Joe Dungeon-Crawl, but I fear this would be a gross and unfair generalization, and not especially true anyway. But whatever.
Also got some good news of an impending big-project sort of thing this week, but I'll hold off actually talking about it till I have more details. Suffer, minions. :D
We got the first of our coupons for free Ben & Jerry's this week (courtesy of our new long-distance plan with Working Assets), and I fear it is a message: God Wants Me Round. I fear I am in no position to argue, either.
That is all.
I'm about 500 words shy of finishing this month's column, only slightly behind schedule. Some pissing and moaning on the fora seems to have dampened my enthusiasm ever so slightly, though I'm sure it shouldn't. I'd like to think it's cuz I'm too clever for Joe Dungeon-Crawl, but I fear this would be a gross and unfair generalization, and not especially true anyway. But whatever.
Also got some good news of an impending big-project sort of thing this week, but I'll hold off actually talking about it till I have more details. Suffer, minions. :D
We got the first of our coupons for free Ben & Jerry's this week (courtesy of our new long-distance plan with Working Assets), and I fear it is a message: God Wants Me Round. I fear I am in no position to argue, either.
That is all.
June 11, 2003
I'll say this for the new Mountain Dew Live Wire: it tastes marginally less like the result of a mishap at the chemical plant than its predecessor Mountain Dew Code Red. So not too bad really, though I can't imagine feeling too sad when the time comes for its mayfly existence to be over at the end of Summer '03. Unlike the late lamented Shamrock Shake, which I miss all the time, and which tasted, as Andy once put it, "like Fiona Richie sounds."
Andy also once remarked that one of the hallmarks of getting older seems to be a trend in one's conversational subjects towards the increasingly banal. So I'll cut that out right now, lest I allow all wonder to fade from my life entirely, like a Changeling character studiously avoiding Bedlam.
Spent a couple of hours last weekend at the outlet mall in Hagerstown with my in-laws, which, if you've ever met the Laymans, is every bit as skewed and interesting as you'd imagine it to be. I love them dearly, and they have been kinder to me than I probably deserve, but it's always a challenge to not laugh at inappropriate times at the absurdity of it all (and if you don't believe me, you just try and get Carolyn Layman to give you a straight answer about where she'd like to go for lunch sometime; I'll lend you my thumbscrews, and wish you the best of luck). As a shopping trip, however, it was a grand and unequivocal success. I walked away with a new hat, a pair of black XXL Polo t-shirts (something one can never have too many of, for those of you making Christmas lists already) and a copy of Clive Barker's Undying PC game which I paid less than ten bucks for. Stacy's prize of the day was a genuine Waterford crystal lamp, the purchase of which ceased to distress me when I realized it absolved me from all future judgments concerning what I choose to spend money frivolously on. So that, should some future shopping orgy at Dream Wizards cause my wife's will to break, and her to say, "Jesus Christ, how many Exalted supplements do you need?" - I shall smile sweetly, and point, and say, "Honey? Waterford. Crystal. Lamp."
(It is a mighty classy-looking lamp, though.)
Speaking of getting my geek on, the first Nobilis session is a week from Saturday, on the Solstice. Somehow the thought of ringing in the summer by sitting around in Manassas with a couple of other pretentious mythic-minded gamers, building a Chancel and budgeting Miracle Points, seems more than a little fitting.
Oh, and I gave Matt Imajica for his birthday, speaking of things that seem fitting. Mind you, Imajica's one of those books everyone really ought to read, but I'm hoping he especially gets a lot out of it. Between the musings on gender and spirituality, the theme of wonder and strangeness versus the comfortable and mundane, and the sex-changing Eurhetemec mystif, I'm thinking he should be kept in philosophical crunchiness for a while.
Andy also once remarked that one of the hallmarks of getting older seems to be a trend in one's conversational subjects towards the increasingly banal. So I'll cut that out right now, lest I allow all wonder to fade from my life entirely, like a Changeling character studiously avoiding Bedlam.
Spent a couple of hours last weekend at the outlet mall in Hagerstown with my in-laws, which, if you've ever met the Laymans, is every bit as skewed and interesting as you'd imagine it to be. I love them dearly, and they have been kinder to me than I probably deserve, but it's always a challenge to not laugh at inappropriate times at the absurdity of it all (and if you don't believe me, you just try and get Carolyn Layman to give you a straight answer about where she'd like to go for lunch sometime; I'll lend you my thumbscrews, and wish you the best of luck). As a shopping trip, however, it was a grand and unequivocal success. I walked away with a new hat, a pair of black XXL Polo t-shirts (something one can never have too many of, for those of you making Christmas lists already) and a copy of Clive Barker's Undying PC game which I paid less than ten bucks for. Stacy's prize of the day was a genuine Waterford crystal lamp, the purchase of which ceased to distress me when I realized it absolved me from all future judgments concerning what I choose to spend money frivolously on. So that, should some future shopping orgy at Dream Wizards cause my wife's will to break, and her to say, "Jesus Christ, how many Exalted supplements do you need?" - I shall smile sweetly, and point, and say, "Honey? Waterford. Crystal. Lamp."
(It is a mighty classy-looking lamp, though.)
Speaking of getting my geek on, the first Nobilis session is a week from Saturday, on the Solstice. Somehow the thought of ringing in the summer by sitting around in Manassas with a couple of other pretentious mythic-minded gamers, building a Chancel and budgeting Miracle Points, seems more than a little fitting.
Oh, and I gave Matt Imajica for his birthday, speaking of things that seem fitting. Mind you, Imajica's one of those books everyone really ought to read, but I'm hoping he especially gets a lot out of it. Between the musings on gender and spirituality, the theme of wonder and strangeness versus the comfortable and mundane, and the sex-changing Eurhetemec mystif, I'm thinking he should be kept in philosophical crunchiness for a while.
June 04, 2003
So my CBLDF card came yesterday. It features a drawing by comics monolith Jim Lee in censorship-busting red, black and white. The same Jim Lee who, as I understand it, also recently drew a picture of Spyder which I still haven't fucking seen and don't make me come up to New York just to give you a beating because I will dammit so there.
Ahem.
The Marthas got married last weekend and it was great. (If all weddings were like Quaker weddings they wouldn't terrorize me so much. For that and general coolness - go Quakers.) If you weren't among the fortunate to attend, you can see the Marthas in all their bridal radiance, among other things, in the pictures Todd took here. Also, I didn't suck hardly at all playing the Interlude music, and that made me happy.
And it looks like I may be playing Nobilis soon, which is terribly, terribly exciting. I couldn't ask for a better return to doing some actual gaming after far too long a hiatus; Nobilis is so cool I can hardly stand it. And no, none of the character concepts I've been toying with have been the Power of Ambiguity, so don't even ask, you snarky fuckers.
And NEARfest is in just over three weeks. Wooch! I went two years ago and left a born-again proghead, without knowing who the hell anyone playing there was beforehand. Now I actually have coolness to look forward to, being all psyched up about the Flower Kings and Glass Hammer. Next time I may even know what the hell "aeolian scale" means. The goal, of course, is to fill my head entirely with useless things so that I'm completely unable to have a lucid conversation outside a few very select circles. Kinda like a philosophy major of geekdom.
First, though, I need food. So off I go.
Ahem.
The Marthas got married last weekend and it was great. (If all weddings were like Quaker weddings they wouldn't terrorize me so much. For that and general coolness - go Quakers.) If you weren't among the fortunate to attend, you can see the Marthas in all their bridal radiance, among other things, in the pictures Todd took here. Also, I didn't suck hardly at all playing the Interlude music, and that made me happy.
And it looks like I may be playing Nobilis soon, which is terribly, terribly exciting. I couldn't ask for a better return to doing some actual gaming after far too long a hiatus; Nobilis is so cool I can hardly stand it. And no, none of the character concepts I've been toying with have been the Power of Ambiguity, so don't even ask, you snarky fuckers.
And NEARfest is in just over three weeks. Wooch! I went two years ago and left a born-again proghead, without knowing who the hell anyone playing there was beforehand. Now I actually have coolness to look forward to, being all psyched up about the Flower Kings and Glass Hammer. Next time I may even know what the hell "aeolian scale" means. The goal, of course, is to fill my head entirely with useless things so that I'm completely unable to have a lucid conversation outside a few very select circles. Kinda like a philosophy major of geekdom.
First, though, I need food. So off I go.
May 25, 2003
As I write this, debauchery is afoot, if all is going as planned.
"Hi, I'm Martha, and I'm a hot lesbian."
Tee hee.
I'm here at home in my role as Designated Driver On Call, writing this as I listen to some inspiringly spoooOooky music from the Goth Box collection. A little while ago it was Skinny Puppy, which definitely goes on the list for the Unofficial Unknown Armies Soundtrack, along with "I Have a Special Plan for This World" and most of the ouvre of Coil.
It's also raining like a bastard. Eck.
Spyder's MSN Messenger seems to have crapped itself a little while ago, which is very sad. I am alone in a cold universe once again, with only coffee and my sick mind for company, nihil nihil. This is no hour for the sane. Just as well it's me that's up, then.
I could, of course, be using this valuable time to surf for pr0n. I could chalk it up as research, even. Somehow. But no - I blog. I do it all for the fans, of course. I just wanted everyone out there to know what sacrifices I make. Such is my love for you all.
(Don't be fooled, folks. It's 1:30 a.m. and my brain has turned to crab paste. Somehow this means I'm channeling the Avatar of the Martyr. I don't know what the implications of that are, but at least it's keeping me doing something vaguely constructive and keeping the world safe from the image of me asleep on the couch with johnson in hand, Dancers at the End of Time open on my chest and a half-drained white zinfandel beside me, while Time Bandits plays itself out on the DVD to an otherwise still and silent room. Oh, wait. Never mind.)
Um. Or something. We expect normal coherency to return tomorrow. "Disregard previous cookie."
"Hi, I'm Martha, and I'm a hot lesbian."
Tee hee.
I'm here at home in my role as Designated Driver On Call, writing this as I listen to some inspiringly spoooOooky music from the Goth Box collection. A little while ago it was Skinny Puppy, which definitely goes on the list for the Unofficial Unknown Armies Soundtrack, along with "I Have a Special Plan for This World" and most of the ouvre of Coil.
It's also raining like a bastard. Eck.
Spyder's MSN Messenger seems to have crapped itself a little while ago, which is very sad. I am alone in a cold universe once again, with only coffee and my sick mind for company, nihil nihil. This is no hour for the sane. Just as well it's me that's up, then.
I could, of course, be using this valuable time to surf for pr0n. I could chalk it up as research, even. Somehow. But no - I blog. I do it all for the fans, of course. I just wanted everyone out there to know what sacrifices I make. Such is my love for you all.
(Don't be fooled, folks. It's 1:30 a.m. and my brain has turned to crab paste. Somehow this means I'm channeling the Avatar of the Martyr. I don't know what the implications of that are, but at least it's keeping me doing something vaguely constructive and keeping the world safe from the image of me asleep on the couch with johnson in hand, Dancers at the End of Time open on my chest and a half-drained white zinfandel beside me, while Time Bandits plays itself out on the DVD to an otherwise still and silent room. Oh, wait. Never mind.)
Um. Or something. We expect normal coherency to return tomorrow. "Disregard previous cookie."
May 23, 2003
Learned this morning, to my delight, that this most Illuminated of dates is also the day of the Second Defenestration of Prague.
This year marks the 385th anniversary.
The possibilities for commemoration are sorely tempting.
This year marks the 385th anniversary.
The possibilities for commemoration are sorely tempting.
May 21, 2003
The new column's up today.
And then, of course, a morning browse of the fora yielded this, for a humbling dose of "Wooch, wish I'd written that column instead." Dammit.
Ah, well. "There's always something cleverer than you."
And then, of course, a morning browse of the fora yielded this, for a humbling dose of "Wooch, wish I'd written that column instead." Dammit.
Ah, well. "There's always something cleverer than you."
May 20, 2003
Back yesterday from New Orleans, which was fabulous - Bourbon Street is everything they say it is. You can't go wrong with a couple of nights in a city where they dispense your daiquiri from a Slurpee machine.
But just walking around the French Quarter is pretty awesome; New Orleans is a city older than the US by quite a bit, and it wears its history well. It's fitting that gumbo is a signature dish of the city when NO itself is a kind of rich and spicy stew of many things: its pirate heritage, its Southern legacy, its Carnival spirit, its well-loved tourists; Cajun and Caribbean and Voudoun and many other things besides. You're reminded everywhere that plastic Mardi Gras beads and tacky souvenir shops are a gloss over something that is old and dark and wild, growing out of the bayou heat and fed by the sea.
Every bit as much fun as drinking outside in the Bourbon Street revelry was riding in a streetcar through the Garden District; having a crawfish omelet for breakfast in Jackson Square; visiting the modestly spooky shrine of the Voodoo Museum; and catching the burlesque revue at the Shim Sham Club, this last featuring a guest appearance by fetish mistress Dita von Teese ("Hey, I have naked pictures of her somewhere") and marking my initiation into the odd world of seeing women get undressed live - though a pretty damn classy example of that, and excellently done. We left wishing we'd had more time to do more things, which ain't a bad note to depart on.
Spent last night finishing up my column and sending it off; it should run, um, this week or next week, sometime. I wound up liking last month's more than I thought I did after seeing it online, and I'm sort of hoping I'll have a similar reaction to this one later, as I got that "not my most brilliant work" feeling again after it was wrapped. It's sort of a "well, duh" column; so it goes. It occurs to me that a lot of installments of Last Dark Art have been "well, duh" columns. I just have to reconcile myself to the idea that I'm probably not saying anything to the gaming community that it hasn't already said somewhere before.
And, dammit, I still haven't seen X2, or Matrix Reloaded. I am lame, lame, lame.
Day after tomorrow I'm meeting Martha A. for some pre-wedding girl-talk after work. Even after five years, I'm not certain what advice I have to give, if advice is being sought, except possibly "It's hard enough to be pleasant to the same human being every day of your life, so be as good as you can to each other, and do your best to figure out when she needs a hug and when you should leave her the hell alone." But just that fact that I've been singled out for this is pretty warm and fuzzy. Not to mention that I've been asked to provide incidental music at the wedding; lacking the heart to say "You overestimate my talents," I shall suck it up, practice like a fiend for the next two weeks, and consider it an extra honor.
But just walking around the French Quarter is pretty awesome; New Orleans is a city older than the US by quite a bit, and it wears its history well. It's fitting that gumbo is a signature dish of the city when NO itself is a kind of rich and spicy stew of many things: its pirate heritage, its Southern legacy, its Carnival spirit, its well-loved tourists; Cajun and Caribbean and Voudoun and many other things besides. You're reminded everywhere that plastic Mardi Gras beads and tacky souvenir shops are a gloss over something that is old and dark and wild, growing out of the bayou heat and fed by the sea.
Every bit as much fun as drinking outside in the Bourbon Street revelry was riding in a streetcar through the Garden District; having a crawfish omelet for breakfast in Jackson Square; visiting the modestly spooky shrine of the Voodoo Museum; and catching the burlesque revue at the Shim Sham Club, this last featuring a guest appearance by fetish mistress Dita von Teese ("Hey, I have naked pictures of her somewhere") and marking my initiation into the odd world of seeing women get undressed live - though a pretty damn classy example of that, and excellently done. We left wishing we'd had more time to do more things, which ain't a bad note to depart on.
Spent last night finishing up my column and sending it off; it should run, um, this week or next week, sometime. I wound up liking last month's more than I thought I did after seeing it online, and I'm sort of hoping I'll have a similar reaction to this one later, as I got that "not my most brilliant work" feeling again after it was wrapped. It's sort of a "well, duh" column; so it goes. It occurs to me that a lot of installments of Last Dark Art have been "well, duh" columns. I just have to reconcile myself to the idea that I'm probably not saying anything to the gaming community that it hasn't already said somewhere before.
And, dammit, I still haven't seen X2, or Matrix Reloaded. I am lame, lame, lame.
Day after tomorrow I'm meeting Martha A. for some pre-wedding girl-talk after work. Even after five years, I'm not certain what advice I have to give, if advice is being sought, except possibly "It's hard enough to be pleasant to the same human being every day of your life, so be as good as you can to each other, and do your best to figure out when she needs a hug and when you should leave her the hell alone." But just that fact that I've been singled out for this is pretty warm and fuzzy. Not to mention that I've been asked to provide incidental music at the wedding; lacking the heart to say "You overestimate my talents," I shall suck it up, practice like a fiend for the next two weeks, and consider it an extra honor.
May 15, 2003
Far too few hours from now, I'll be hauling my ass outta bed for another trip to the airport, this time bound for N'awlins, where many crawfish and oysters will be surprised to have gone to their reward in Shellfish Heaven for the sake of feeding me. Sick and morbid as it is, the thought of that makes me strangely happy.
Much writing was not done this week, save for the first third or so of this month's column, so Spyder's going to just have to do the IM equivalent of looking at her watch and tapping her foot a bit longer. These things happen; it seems I'm the literary equivalent of a brewer and not a stir-fry chef, and some stuff I thought was done fermenting wasn't. Will rectify as time allows. And perhaps a couple of evenings in the French Quarter will do wonders for inspiration as well.
That's about it. Hopefully I'll post some more in a few days; meanwhile, I got a vacation to go to. Zai jian.
Much writing was not done this week, save for the first third or so of this month's column, so Spyder's going to just have to do the IM equivalent of looking at her watch and tapping her foot a bit longer. These things happen; it seems I'm the literary equivalent of a brewer and not a stir-fry chef, and some stuff I thought was done fermenting wasn't. Will rectify as time allows. And perhaps a couple of evenings in the French Quarter will do wonders for inspiration as well.
That's about it. Hopefully I'll post some more in a few days; meanwhile, I got a vacation to go to. Zai jian.
May 10, 2003
I became a member of the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund today. This was long overdue, and I've been, y'know, Thinking About It for quite some time. But today's the day I said to myself, "I just got paid and I have no excuses."
It's a tremendous blow for free speech to support these guys, who do Good Things in places you might not even know they needed to be done. And they sell tremendously cool stuff too. If you've got the cash to spend, there are worse things to do with it than get yourself a $25 1-year membership or pick up some of their merchandise. And then the next time you go and pick up Lucifer or Max and Lily or Small Favors right off the shelf at your Friendly Local Comics Store, you can feel good about having helped keep them there.
Stacy still sick, but on antibiotics and improving. Been a rough week or two for her. Damn spring. Hopefully we can manage some retail therapy tomorrow, and the recovery will be in full swing.
Now I go unwind. Crappy week. More updates later.
It's a tremendous blow for free speech to support these guys, who do Good Things in places you might not even know they needed to be done. And they sell tremendously cool stuff too. If you've got the cash to spend, there are worse things to do with it than get yourself a $25 1-year membership or pick up some of their merchandise. And then the next time you go and pick up Lucifer or Max and Lily or Small Favors right off the shelf at your Friendly Local Comics Store, you can feel good about having helped keep them there.
Stacy still sick, but on antibiotics and improving. Been a rough week or two for her. Damn spring. Hopefully we can manage some retail therapy tomorrow, and the recovery will be in full swing.
Now I go unwind. Crappy week. More updates later.
May 02, 2003
We were planning on a trip to WV this weekend, which has now been postponed due to lingering illnesses, and seeing as we're sort of booked all month, it's unlikely to happen until June. I think that's probably the longest stretch so far between visits home. Nothing to be done, though. Such is the price of being a couple of in-demand kinda people.
Stacy is home once again today, and about time, too. As she points out, this is partially because I was a bastard at her until she relented, for which I make no apologies. I remember the last time full-on peeneumonia set in, and how much fun that was. I remain unconvinced that anything work-related is that important. (To be fair, I remain unconvinced that anything work-related is very important ever, but that's a whole other set of issues.) And besides, anyone who looks and sounds as rough as my sweet wife does today should be quarantined at home, because a) there's no sense spreading that kind of love around, and b) no one wants to see that shit. So there.
Couple of nights ago I had the pleasure of a Walpurgisnacht dinner with Paul and his girlfriend Melissa, which was actually pretty nice, and a better experience than the last couple of times I hung out with Paul. But I remain in some sense skeptical about the future of my friendship with Paul, if only because he seemed almost resolute in refusing to take a hint about how much better I liked New Happy Paul than Classic Paul with Snarky Commentary. (Melissa, OTOH, is very nice and smart and funny, and I hope for his sake not too good for him. Because all he needs is another reason to get all-out mean from feeling sorry for himself all over again. But I digress.) It's a bit sad that things ended up taking this turn, because I've always liked Paul, usually in spite of himself. But given a choice between being around someone who seems to think of the things I'm into as a number of conversational bullseyes (when any interest is shown at all), and people who make me feel wonderful about myself... well, guess which one I'm going to pick.
(And it's sort of a measure of how things are that I post all this here without fear of consequences, because Paul is much too aloof and cool to do anything like read my weblog, or care much that I have one, except possibly to let me know how nerdy and passe blogging is or some such elitist crap. Which, if you've spent ten minutes with Paul, is the absolute nadir of irony.)
Anyway, I also spent two nights beating my head against the keyboard until 700 words or so of "The Pagurus Game" arranged themselves in a shape I could live with, which is not exactly the kind of pace I wanted to be keeping, but that's the hand I drew this week. Sometimes you gets the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. I think I need another project to decompress into when the main one isn't working for me, just to keep the proper number of balls in the air to satisfy my obsessive and neurotic muse. You wanna know what kind of dork I am? I'm seriously considering writing Exalted fanfic. So that kind of dork. (Yeah, I know. Shaddap.)
This is the morning of the year
A rainy green smile
After a long gloomy
Pale winter night
The shouting of the child
Melts into rustling
When the heavy rain
Rushes from on high
When the May rain comes
All of this shall be washed away
When the May rain comes...
Oh, yeah - happy Beltane, slightly belated.
Something I should've linked days ago here is Maija's Elfwood Gallery, which all and sundry should visit and leave nice comments on so she'll put more stuff up on't. And shame on those asshats who run the site for being tiny-brained about what constitutes "fantasy"; let's all be thankful nobody told Ellen Kushner that shit, or the field would be even more woefully short of effete dandies and salon intrigue than it already is. And besides, I'm convinced it's terribly bad form to try and tell a Finn what fantasy is - those guys practically speak Elvish. That's just asking to be tied to a chair and beaten with the Kalevala until some sense gets in.
Wooch. Okay, I feel better now. Back on my head, then.
Stacy is home once again today, and about time, too. As she points out, this is partially because I was a bastard at her until she relented, for which I make no apologies. I remember the last time full-on peeneumonia set in, and how much fun that was. I remain unconvinced that anything work-related is that important. (To be fair, I remain unconvinced that anything work-related is very important ever, but that's a whole other set of issues.) And besides, anyone who looks and sounds as rough as my sweet wife does today should be quarantined at home, because a) there's no sense spreading that kind of love around, and b) no one wants to see that shit. So there.
Couple of nights ago I had the pleasure of a Walpurgisnacht dinner with Paul and his girlfriend Melissa, which was actually pretty nice, and a better experience than the last couple of times I hung out with Paul. But I remain in some sense skeptical about the future of my friendship with Paul, if only because he seemed almost resolute in refusing to take a hint about how much better I liked New Happy Paul than Classic Paul with Snarky Commentary. (Melissa, OTOH, is very nice and smart and funny, and I hope for his sake not too good for him. Because all he needs is another reason to get all-out mean from feeling sorry for himself all over again. But I digress.) It's a bit sad that things ended up taking this turn, because I've always liked Paul, usually in spite of himself. But given a choice between being around someone who seems to think of the things I'm into as a number of conversational bullseyes (when any interest is shown at all), and people who make me feel wonderful about myself... well, guess which one I'm going to pick.
(And it's sort of a measure of how things are that I post all this here without fear of consequences, because Paul is much too aloof and cool to do anything like read my weblog, or care much that I have one, except possibly to let me know how nerdy and passe blogging is or some such elitist crap. Which, if you've spent ten minutes with Paul, is the absolute nadir of irony.)
Anyway, I also spent two nights beating my head against the keyboard until 700 words or so of "The Pagurus Game" arranged themselves in a shape I could live with, which is not exactly the kind of pace I wanted to be keeping, but that's the hand I drew this week. Sometimes you gets the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. I think I need another project to decompress into when the main one isn't working for me, just to keep the proper number of balls in the air to satisfy my obsessive and neurotic muse. You wanna know what kind of dork I am? I'm seriously considering writing Exalted fanfic. So that kind of dork. (Yeah, I know. Shaddap.)
This is the morning of the year
A rainy green smile
After a long gloomy
Pale winter night
The shouting of the child
Melts into rustling
When the heavy rain
Rushes from on high
When the May rain comes
All of this shall be washed away
When the May rain comes...
Oh, yeah - happy Beltane, slightly belated.
Something I should've linked days ago here is Maija's Elfwood Gallery, which all and sundry should visit and leave nice comments on so she'll put more stuff up on't. And shame on those asshats who run the site for being tiny-brained about what constitutes "fantasy"; let's all be thankful nobody told Ellen Kushner that shit, or the field would be even more woefully short of effete dandies and salon intrigue than it already is. And besides, I'm convinced it's terribly bad form to try and tell a Finn what fantasy is - those guys practically speak Elvish. That's just asking to be tied to a chair and beaten with the Kalevala until some sense gets in.
Wooch. Okay, I feel better now. Back on my head, then.
April 29, 2003
Against all odds and good sense, I am at work today. Yesterday I was not, having contracted some kind of Spring-type bug that, vampire-like, sapped my strength and will to be a productive member of society. Feh. So here I am, listening to Current 93's Crooked Crosses for the Nodding God, pondering what kind of minimal productivity I can get away with and call the day a marginal success.
Stacy, however, is home today, it being her turn in the game of Invalid Tag. Though the truth is we've both been feeling iffy since the weekend, not that that stopped us from having our long-awaited pajama cocktail party with Caren and the Marthas and Matt and the Mysterious T---. Which goes to show you just how much we won't let good old-fashioned sense get in the way of having a fabulous time with some vodka and brie.
(As an aside, it's more fun than I'd suspected to have an anonymous new member of our circle; being able to drop a half-veiled reference to T--- makes me feel all Victorian, like a chronicler of some properly spooky Sheridan le Fanu weirdness. I may continue to do so even should the necessity disappear. It seems a fitting welcome to Matt's lovely consort, who is also, in his own right, delightful. [/James Lipton])
Frighteningly enough, "The Ballad of Bobby Sunshine" is almost exactly capturing my current mood. Beausoleil, soleil soleil soleil Beausoleil, Beausoleil... Like a Woodstock revival staged on the outskirts of Hell. Brilliant.
Don't mind me, folks.
I ought to buckle down again tonight and do some serious work on the second part of "The Pagurus Game," since Part the First met with such acclaim on the List, even among those who balked at the bits that earned it a full-on PG-13 rating. (I may have to take that ball and run. These young pups have no idea how much I was holding back, not having had the pleasure of the dubiously-tasteful softcore in A Thousand Thrones. Sigh. It's probably sick of me to take such delight in pushing the buttons of such folk, but, y'know, someone's got to set to cleaning up the damn mess that sanctimonious reformed-whore C.S. Lewis made. Or maybe it's just that my inner Spider Jerusalem has been awakened and is even now clamoring for cigarettes and a bucket of Long Pig. Whatever; I'm having too much fun to care.) It's been interesting turning back the clock from the time of 1KT and seeing what kind of trouble Jenny got up to with hunting down qlippoth back in the day, and it's very cool to have Murdoch playing a part in things again. Not to mention that it's just hard to go too wrong with nasty toothy monsters from the Abyss, which is certainly a suitable in-genre substitute for the "two men with guns" formula for those when-in-doubt moments that threaten to hang up the plot on some convoluted conversation or other. (And for all those who I haven't completely lost yet, Pagurus, in case you were wondering, is the name of the genus of arthropods to which hermit crabs belong; "qlippoth" is Hebrew for "shells." And that's all I'll say at this point.)
Not much else to say. It was a good weekend aside from all the getting-sick nonsense; Jim's Big Ego gave good show, as usual, on Friday night (and Jim said afterwards that the crowd at Jammin' Java was bigger than they'd expected, which is certainly potential good news for us Beltway Egomaniacs); I hope they made it okay to Tennessee or whatever godsforsaken place they were off to the next day. And Spyder and Vishal and I managed our first IM menage-a-trois on Sunday morning, which was about as surreal as you'd expect; Elephant Porn was sort of the top of the downward spiral, if that gives you any indication. 'S good to have friends who are at least in the same ballpark of fucked-up as you are.
Urk. Buffalo Chicken Wrap for lunch was possibly not a choice made in wisdom. Some disagreement going on in there even now. I'll sign off on that note, and let you all know how it works out.
Stacy, however, is home today, it being her turn in the game of Invalid Tag. Though the truth is we've both been feeling iffy since the weekend, not that that stopped us from having our long-awaited pajama cocktail party with Caren and the Marthas and Matt and the Mysterious T---. Which goes to show you just how much we won't let good old-fashioned sense get in the way of having a fabulous time with some vodka and brie.
(As an aside, it's more fun than I'd suspected to have an anonymous new member of our circle; being able to drop a half-veiled reference to T--- makes me feel all Victorian, like a chronicler of some properly spooky Sheridan le Fanu weirdness. I may continue to do so even should the necessity disappear. It seems a fitting welcome to Matt's lovely consort, who is also, in his own right, delightful. [/James Lipton])
Frighteningly enough, "The Ballad of Bobby Sunshine" is almost exactly capturing my current mood. Beausoleil, soleil soleil soleil Beausoleil, Beausoleil... Like a Woodstock revival staged on the outskirts of Hell. Brilliant.
Don't mind me, folks.
I ought to buckle down again tonight and do some serious work on the second part of "The Pagurus Game," since Part the First met with such acclaim on the List, even among those who balked at the bits that earned it a full-on PG-13 rating. (I may have to take that ball and run. These young pups have no idea how much I was holding back, not having had the pleasure of the dubiously-tasteful softcore in A Thousand Thrones. Sigh. It's probably sick of me to take such delight in pushing the buttons of such folk, but, y'know, someone's got to set to cleaning up the damn mess that sanctimonious reformed-whore C.S. Lewis made. Or maybe it's just that my inner Spider Jerusalem has been awakened and is even now clamoring for cigarettes and a bucket of Long Pig. Whatever; I'm having too much fun to care.) It's been interesting turning back the clock from the time of 1KT and seeing what kind of trouble Jenny got up to with hunting down qlippoth back in the day, and it's very cool to have Murdoch playing a part in things again. Not to mention that it's just hard to go too wrong with nasty toothy monsters from the Abyss, which is certainly a suitable in-genre substitute for the "two men with guns" formula for those when-in-doubt moments that threaten to hang up the plot on some convoluted conversation or other. (And for all those who I haven't completely lost yet, Pagurus, in case you were wondering, is the name of the genus of arthropods to which hermit crabs belong; "qlippoth" is Hebrew for "shells." And that's all I'll say at this point.)
Not much else to say. It was a good weekend aside from all the getting-sick nonsense; Jim's Big Ego gave good show, as usual, on Friday night (and Jim said afterwards that the crowd at Jammin' Java was bigger than they'd expected, which is certainly potential good news for us Beltway Egomaniacs); I hope they made it okay to Tennessee or whatever godsforsaken place they were off to the next day. And Spyder and Vishal and I managed our first IM menage-a-trois on Sunday morning, which was about as surreal as you'd expect; Elephant Porn was sort of the top of the downward spiral, if that gives you any indication. 'S good to have friends who are at least in the same ballpark of fucked-up as you are.
Urk. Buffalo Chicken Wrap for lunch was possibly not a choice made in wisdom. Some disagreement going on in there even now. I'll sign off on that note, and let you all know how it works out.
April 25, 2003
So the first part of my new Jenny Haniver story (working-titled "The Pagurus Game" for a number of reasons that seemed appropriate at the late hour I settled on it) went up on Fantasybits the other night, and nobody asked what the hell I was thinking writing that crap, so that's good. It marks the beginning of a new phase of working in this setting, namely one where I'm settling on the first-person voice I probably should have been using all along. And if the JH canon starts to feel a bit more "Vlad Taltos" for it, well, so much the better.
I'm taking Matt's story about finding his student reading my column the other day as a very good sign indeed, not only of the We-Are-Everywhere syndrome I'm starting to notice these days, but also of the possibilities of a future where the truly geeky are rising to positions of influence. I'm thinking that a tomorrow where people in government would rather be playing Mage or similar is probably an excellent alternative to the mess we've got now. (Incidentally, I never thought to ask if Matt found out what he'd written for the Wolf. I suppose Clanbook: Ventrue would be too great an irony to hope for from an up-and-coming student of diplomacy, but you never know.) [/gamerspeak]
Back in the mundane world, all and sundry should send warm and fuzzy thoughts to Spyder, who's having her wisdom teeth out tomorrow. The words "dry socket" will not be mentioned here. (Especially not when you can find out all you'd want to know, and more, elsewhere.) OTOH, I am just evil enough to regret that I'll be missing another round of amusing speech patterns courtesy of a friend in distress. Having ridden home on the post-dental-work Short Bus myself, it's hard not to take some small amount of schaudenfreude satisfaction in that sort of thing, in a loving sort of way. Or maybe I've just been friends with Jeff too long. But at least I'll have some good company in Hell.
I'm taking Matt's story about finding his student reading my column the other day as a very good sign indeed, not only of the We-Are-Everywhere syndrome I'm starting to notice these days, but also of the possibilities of a future where the truly geeky are rising to positions of influence. I'm thinking that a tomorrow where people in government would rather be playing Mage or similar is probably an excellent alternative to the mess we've got now. (Incidentally, I never thought to ask if Matt found out what he'd written for the Wolf. I suppose Clanbook: Ventrue would be too great an irony to hope for from an up-and-coming student of diplomacy, but you never know.) [/gamerspeak]
Back in the mundane world, all and sundry should send warm and fuzzy thoughts to Spyder, who's having her wisdom teeth out tomorrow. The words "dry socket" will not be mentioned here. (Especially not when you can find out all you'd want to know, and more, elsewhere.) OTOH, I am just evil enough to regret that I'll be missing another round of amusing speech patterns courtesy of a friend in distress. Having ridden home on the post-dental-work Short Bus myself, it's hard not to take some small amount of schaudenfreude satisfaction in that sort of thing, in a loving sort of way. Or maybe I've just been friends with Jeff too long. But at least I'll have some good company in Hell.
April 23, 2003
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
Happy birthday, Will Shakespeare. (Probably.)
So we made it back on Sunday, and did not drop out of the sky except in the accepted non-lethal fashion, nor were we swallowed by the great sprawling wilderness that is northern NY. All was well, both there and in transit, save that wee Nicholas was a bit sick and so spent the time we were around being angelically subdued. (I've never seen a sick kid be so bloody happy. It'd be downright unsettling if he wasn't so damn cute. If my own offspring turns out half as delightful as my cousinlet on an off-day, I'll be a lucky da indeed.)
Back at the homestead, I've spent the last two evenings churning out the first 1K words or so of a new Jenny Haniver story, which I hope to post to The List tonight. It's looking like a sequel of sorts to both "The Invitation" (which went up like a year ago) and The Vasty Deep (which is not yet actually finished), so that'll be fun. Especially since there's now a whole new crop of FB neophytes who have yet to be exposed to my quirky brand of Gothy Urban Fantasy. I have to wonder how some of them young'ns will cope with a story that got no elves in it, but with Savant out on sabbatical these days, I sort of feel it's up to me.
"Thoughtless, that I am, I am pretentious"
And there's a new Last Dark Art hot off the e-presses today. I have sort of mixed feelings about this one, to be honest; I don't think it's my best work in the series, despite having spent more time than usual fussing with it. Enh. Sometimes what sounds like a good idea in my head isn't half as clever when it's out on the page, and I end up flailing madly around in my attempt to flesh it out. Whatever. I didn't have another concept ready, and the alternative was to cheat and just write "A system is a language of story. Discuss" and let the posters run with it. This way, if I've said something grossly stupid, at least there'll be some activity in the Forum.
Dip me in d20s and toss me to the geeks. I'm ready. I'll take 'em all on.
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
Happy birthday, Will Shakespeare. (Probably.)
So we made it back on Sunday, and did not drop out of the sky except in the accepted non-lethal fashion, nor were we swallowed by the great sprawling wilderness that is northern NY. All was well, both there and in transit, save that wee Nicholas was a bit sick and so spent the time we were around being angelically subdued. (I've never seen a sick kid be so bloody happy. It'd be downright unsettling if he wasn't so damn cute. If my own offspring turns out half as delightful as my cousinlet on an off-day, I'll be a lucky da indeed.)
Back at the homestead, I've spent the last two evenings churning out the first 1K words or so of a new Jenny Haniver story, which I hope to post to The List tonight. It's looking like a sequel of sorts to both "The Invitation" (which went up like a year ago) and The Vasty Deep (which is not yet actually finished), so that'll be fun. Especially since there's now a whole new crop of FB neophytes who have yet to be exposed to my quirky brand of Gothy Urban Fantasy. I have to wonder how some of them young'ns will cope with a story that got no elves in it, but with Savant out on sabbatical these days, I sort of feel it's up to me.
"Thoughtless, that I am, I am pretentious"
And there's a new Last Dark Art hot off the e-presses today. I have sort of mixed feelings about this one, to be honest; I don't think it's my best work in the series, despite having spent more time than usual fussing with it. Enh. Sometimes what sounds like a good idea in my head isn't half as clever when it's out on the page, and I end up flailing madly around in my attempt to flesh it out. Whatever. I didn't have another concept ready, and the alternative was to cheat and just write "A system is a language of story. Discuss" and let the posters run with it. This way, if I've said something grossly stupid, at least there'll be some activity in the Forum.
Dip me in d20s and toss me to the geeks. I'm ready. I'll take 'em all on.
April 17, 2003
I sort of dropped out of all circles of correspondence this week, partially out of short-week syndrome, partially due to working on The Last Dark Art #6 (which, contrary to last week's post, will run next week if the gods are good), and partially out of sheer fatigued slackitude. So if I owe you a hello, or an email, or some IM time, or a nod that I'm not dead, and you're feeling slighted - don't. I will spread the love to each as time allows.
Tomorrow we get up bright and frickin' early to go to BWI and fly to fair Buffalo, New York, from whence we'll drive almost immediately to Rochester for Easter-weekend fun with my cousins. It'll be my first time on a plane in, oh, twelve years. And then I get to do it again in a couple of weeks when we go to the Big Easy, and hopefully again in the fall, to Ireland; suddenly my life has more flying in it than a Miyazaki film. I don't have any particular irrational fear of flying, other than a sort of deep-seated primordial twinge at the wrongness of being so far disconnected from the earth, but it's sort of weird to be doing so much of something all in the space of a few months that's been not at all a part of my life for over a decade. But whatever. I move only haltingly and with difficulty from my comfort zone, which is probably the biggest key to understanding my essential nature I can offer anyone.
In any case, I've been preparing myself for harassment-by-security-for-looking-like-an-anarchist, and reducing the number of metal things on my person to that which can be scooped up in one hand and put in a little basket. Thus I do my part to keep the world, if not safer, at least running more efficiently. (Can't win 'em all.) I only hope that the airport officials don't consider having a copy of Exalted in your shoulder-bag as marking you out as some sort of dangerous weirdo deviant in need of a frisking; not that I'm paranoid, just that you never know.
In other news, both Matt and Caren now have blogs as of this past week, thus expanding the Circle of Exhibitionism in the Greater DC Area. Which already long included Martha (the Good), to whom I linked a couple of weeks ago without giving the attention or notice she is properly due - a thing I remedy now.
I was sure all hopped up on caffeine this morning ("oneoneoneoneAH! oneoneoneone TWO!"), but it's sort of passed now. Sigh. I'm just hoping that not having to go to work tomorrow will compensate for having to get up at an ungodly fucking hour anyway; I'm sure I'll need to be having teh java by the time we hit Buffalo, if not long before. Braaaaiiiiiiin!
And that's all I got. More when I return.
Tomorrow we get up bright and frickin' early to go to BWI and fly to fair Buffalo, New York, from whence we'll drive almost immediately to Rochester for Easter-weekend fun with my cousins. It'll be my first time on a plane in, oh, twelve years. And then I get to do it again in a couple of weeks when we go to the Big Easy, and hopefully again in the fall, to Ireland; suddenly my life has more flying in it than a Miyazaki film. I don't have any particular irrational fear of flying, other than a sort of deep-seated primordial twinge at the wrongness of being so far disconnected from the earth, but it's sort of weird to be doing so much of something all in the space of a few months that's been not at all a part of my life for over a decade. But whatever. I move only haltingly and with difficulty from my comfort zone, which is probably the biggest key to understanding my essential nature I can offer anyone.
In any case, I've been preparing myself for harassment-by-security-for-looking-like-an-anarchist, and reducing the number of metal things on my person to that which can be scooped up in one hand and put in a little basket. Thus I do my part to keep the world, if not safer, at least running more efficiently. (Can't win 'em all.) I only hope that the airport officials don't consider having a copy of Exalted in your shoulder-bag as marking you out as some sort of dangerous weirdo deviant in need of a frisking; not that I'm paranoid, just that you never know.
In other news, both Matt and Caren now have blogs as of this past week, thus expanding the Circle of Exhibitionism in the Greater DC Area. Which already long included Martha (the Good), to whom I linked a couple of weeks ago without giving the attention or notice she is properly due - a thing I remedy now.
I was sure all hopped up on caffeine this morning ("oneoneoneoneAH! oneoneoneone TWO!"), but it's sort of passed now. Sigh. I'm just hoping that not having to go to work tomorrow will compensate for having to get up at an ungodly fucking hour anyway; I'm sure I'll need to be having teh java by the time we hit Buffalo, if not long before. Braaaaiiiiiiin!
And that's all I got. More when I return.
April 11, 2003
Not much going on here, other than it's been a sad wet cold week in Our Fair City, and I'm ready for spring now, please.
Spent much slack this week tooling around the forums at RPGnet, which are like unto crack and have cost the University no small amount of my personal man-hours in the handful of days since I signed up there. The only thing I'm close to as addicted to these days is my portable Walkman MP3 player, which rocks my socks just because I can carry around my entire King Crimson library without having to worry about the hundreds of dollars I'd be out if I sat on my CD case. Perhaps someday the novelty of both will wear off, but for now I lack perspective.
I've spent the last week intending like hell to get some real writing done, and it has failed to manifest. Perhaps it's a result of overextension. I've brewed up all these excellent projects for myself, and what I really need to do is knuckle down and turn The Vasty Deep into a publishable (and, well, finished) manuscript in the interest of being able to spend all my time in my pajamas someday. And I think once I at least have a complete work there, all of the rest will flow.
Also I need to write this month's Last Dark Art to run next week, but that's another slice of pie entirely.
Going to be a busy run of weekends for a bit, too. Not that that's bad, just... busy. So it goes.
But for now, I shall retire to the sofa and catch as much of the midnight showing of Farscape as my daily fatigue allots me. I am a-weary, and require unwinding and sexy space opera. Too little of either on a regular basis makes Dan a sad panda indeed, it seems. And in the interest of avoiding further incoherencies, adieu.
(Oh, yeah, Maija: I did get your pictures, which were lovely, and haven't sent you my regular fanboy commentary because I had the notion I shouldn't until I set aside time to give them the attention they deserve yadda yadda and wound up procrastinating that just like every other damn thing in my life. Which is all shorthand for "because I'm a big lame idiot." I send you my apologies now, and assurances that I shall make amends soon. When I make it to Finland someday, you can kick me in the shins and I will not resist even a little.)
Spent much slack this week tooling around the forums at RPGnet, which are like unto crack and have cost the University no small amount of my personal man-hours in the handful of days since I signed up there. The only thing I'm close to as addicted to these days is my portable Walkman MP3 player, which rocks my socks just because I can carry around my entire King Crimson library without having to worry about the hundreds of dollars I'd be out if I sat on my CD case. Perhaps someday the novelty of both will wear off, but for now I lack perspective.
I've spent the last week intending like hell to get some real writing done, and it has failed to manifest. Perhaps it's a result of overextension. I've brewed up all these excellent projects for myself, and what I really need to do is knuckle down and turn The Vasty Deep into a publishable (and, well, finished) manuscript in the interest of being able to spend all my time in my pajamas someday. And I think once I at least have a complete work there, all of the rest will flow.
Also I need to write this month's Last Dark Art to run next week, but that's another slice of pie entirely.
Going to be a busy run of weekends for a bit, too. Not that that's bad, just... busy. So it goes.
But for now, I shall retire to the sofa and catch as much of the midnight showing of Farscape as my daily fatigue allots me. I am a-weary, and require unwinding and sexy space opera. Too little of either on a regular basis makes Dan a sad panda indeed, it seems. And in the interest of avoiding further incoherencies, adieu.
(Oh, yeah, Maija: I did get your pictures, which were lovely, and haven't sent you my regular fanboy commentary because I had the notion I shouldn't until I set aside time to give them the attention they deserve yadda yadda and wound up procrastinating that just like every other damn thing in my life. Which is all shorthand for "because I'm a big lame idiot." I send you my apologies now, and assurances that I shall make amends soon. When I make it to Finland someday, you can kick me in the shins and I will not resist even a little.)
April 03, 2003
I spent about the last two days being depressed something awful, for reasons I can't quite explain. Possibly this week has had too much of the mundane in it. And I'm just feeling tired and burned-out and needing some kind of change in my life that I have control over. Enh.
I was so bummed out that by the time I walked to my appointment with TheRapist this afternoon, I barely even registered the plentiful eye-candy that Spring has populated our fair campus with, which seems a telling enough yardstick of having things in my head be fucked up pretty good. A helpful session this time, though, and I had a much better trip back. Ah, college. One of these days I'm going to have to sift back through the last couple of years and figure out exactly when it was I became a dirty old man.
Tonight Stacy's gone up to see an Orioles game with Greg and Charles, giving me a coupla hours of comics-and-spooky-music to burn. Not bad, and worth giving up the nachos and Boog sandwich for, even though it might nearly have been worth it to go and watch Greg get his geek on for the Great Game. Nearly. But, dammit, I got the new Lucifer waiting for me.
In other wow-cool news, I learned last night that ex-Crim bassist and Chapman stick god Tony "Papa Bear" Levin was at the DC peace march last month, which makes me even prouder to be a big old proghead than ever. And he took pictures. Wow - I remember a lot of those signs. That makes a second time I've been within a mile or two of Tony Levin, counting NEARfest '01, though I wonder if I'd've registered it was him at the march. Probably not - in all likelihood, my brain would've processed something like "Wow, that guy looks like Tony Levin" and moved on. A shame - that had the potential to be nearly as cool an encounter as Martha L. getting to shake hands with Jeanine Garofalo the week before.
Oh, it's past five. Time to go the fuck home.
I was so bummed out that by the time I walked to my appointment with TheRapist this afternoon, I barely even registered the plentiful eye-candy that Spring has populated our fair campus with, which seems a telling enough yardstick of having things in my head be fucked up pretty good. A helpful session this time, though, and I had a much better trip back. Ah, college. One of these days I'm going to have to sift back through the last couple of years and figure out exactly when it was I became a dirty old man.
Tonight Stacy's gone up to see an Orioles game with Greg and Charles, giving me a coupla hours of comics-and-spooky-music to burn. Not bad, and worth giving up the nachos and Boog sandwich for, even though it might nearly have been worth it to go and watch Greg get his geek on for the Great Game. Nearly. But, dammit, I got the new Lucifer waiting for me.
In other wow-cool news, I learned last night that ex-Crim bassist and Chapman stick god Tony "Papa Bear" Levin was at the DC peace march last month, which makes me even prouder to be a big old proghead than ever. And he took pictures. Wow - I remember a lot of those signs. That makes a second time I've been within a mile or two of Tony Levin, counting NEARfest '01, though I wonder if I'd've registered it was him at the march. Probably not - in all likelihood, my brain would've processed something like "Wow, that guy looks like Tony Levin" and moved on. A shame - that had the potential to be nearly as cool an encounter as Martha L. getting to shake hands with Jeanine Garofalo the week before.
Oh, it's past five. Time to go the fuck home.
March 31, 2003
Ah, melancholy. I'm finding I have some upon me tonight. My long weekend's over. Sigh.
But we all had a lovely time. Spyder fit in with the gang like she'd been among us for years, which made me happy happy - obviously we're in the same karass or similar. Too much fun, too little sleep, and a handful of new things will haunt me forever, not the least of which is the Wheel of Sheep (don't ask), but it was absolutely the get-together I'd been hoping for and looking forward to. I am sad it's over. Time to start thinking about the next one, perhaps.
But there are worse things than having so many cool people in your life that it's hard to keep up with it all.
Okay. As Keith Center says: "No more sad!"
Not much more to add. I'm tired and I sooooo don't want to go to work tomorrow, but so it goes. I have lots of new excellent cool stuff to play with now (not least of which is the cable modem that's been rocking our world since last night, but also Invader Zim CDs, the spoils of a trip to Big Planet, and Things in Jars), so I think I'll sign off and carve out some me-time before sleep claims me. Whoohoo! Life is rich and good.
And tomorrow is April 1st. Good fooling, all. And so, goodnight.
But we all had a lovely time. Spyder fit in with the gang like she'd been among us for years, which made me happy happy - obviously we're in the same karass or similar. Too much fun, too little sleep, and a handful of new things will haunt me forever, not the least of which is the Wheel of Sheep (don't ask), but it was absolutely the get-together I'd been hoping for and looking forward to. I am sad it's over. Time to start thinking about the next one, perhaps.
But there are worse things than having so many cool people in your life that it's hard to keep up with it all.
Okay. As Keith Center says: "No more sad!"
Not much more to add. I'm tired and I sooooo don't want to go to work tomorrow, but so it goes. I have lots of new excellent cool stuff to play with now (not least of which is the cable modem that's been rocking our world since last night, but also Invader Zim CDs, the spoils of a trip to Big Planet, and Things in Jars), so I think I'll sign off and carve out some me-time before sleep claims me. Whoohoo! Life is rich and good.
And tomorrow is April 1st. Good fooling, all. And so, goodnight.
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