Chasing the Muse

Better Off Read- Trollhunter (with Diamanda Hagan and The Omega Geek)

2012-01-24T01:37:00.000-05:00

Hey kids, its Monday! (...errr...Tuesday...its still Monday in Los Angeles, Denver, and Vancouver!) So you know what that means:

ITS TIME FOR ANOTHER MAGFEST CROSSOVER! (YAAAAAAAAY!)

So while I was at MAGFest I got together with a pair of wonderful ladies you might know: Diamanda Hagan and The Omega Geek. We hung out, we drank, and we filmed a review of Norway's contribution to the "found footage" genre of films...

TROLLHUNTER

Vlog- Underworld: Awakening

2012-01-22T01:21:00.001-05:00

Hey folks! I ran off to see Underworld: Awakening today...so then I went and made a vlog of it. Spoilers, obviously. Enjoy.

WRA: Lets Read! "The Bumble Beast" by Harriet Grey

2012-01-16T17:41:00.001-05:00

A few days after Christmas, I sat down with my girlfriend, Sailor Gallifrey, and set out to read, from cover to cover and in one take, a mystery book donated to me by my logo designer and title card artist, Featherweight.

That book turned out to be The Bumble Beast by Harriet Grey, a novelization of a classic Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers season 1 episode, "The Grumble Bee". Its...its not very good.

So sit back, relax, and watch as we read (and intersperse some episode footage) this novel in a two part take. So without further ado:

WARNING! READERS ADVISORY

Presents

LETS READ!: THE BUMBLE BEAST by Harriet Grey

PART 1

PART 2

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MAGFest X Vlog

2012-01-14T12:01:00.001-05:00

Happy New Year, everyone! And...yes, I realize that I haven't had a new episode out since Christmas, but I was taking a break while visiting family over the holidays. And...what's that other thing I did last week...oh that's right *grin*

MAGFEST!!!!

That's right, true believers, I spent 4 glorious days last week relaxing in National Harbour, Maryland with my fellow reviewers and a few thousand other nerds. I filmed two crossovers which you should see in the next few weeks (reviewing Trollhunter with Diamanda Hagan and the Omega Geek, and Extreme Ghostbusters with Andrew Dickman in a special double-length episode of What We Watched). But I also did a lot of photography and a little big of vlogging while I was there.

So sit back, relax, and allow me to immerse you in but a fraction of my MAGFest experience.

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CHRISTMAS SPECIAL: "Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal" by Christopher Moore (Warning! Readers Advisory!)

2011-12-26T01:12:00.001-05:00

HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Just in time for the holidays, its the Warning! Readers Advisory! CHRISTMAS SPECTACULAR! This year, I eschew the ills of Twilight and instead focus on a far more pleasant and beloved classic. Digging into the roots of this happy holidays, its:

LAMB: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore

"Changeless" by Gail Carriger (Warning! Readers Advisory!) (book review)

2011-12-20T15:49:00.001-05:00

WRA returns! This time with a review of the sequel to Gail Carriger's Soulless!

This...is CHANGELESS!

Witchboard (Better Off Read)i

2011-12-10T01:59:00.001-05:00

Today on Better Off Read, we look at the 1980s phenomenon of the haunted Ouija board movie! Oh yes, get your planchettes and stop pushing the pointers, kiddies, because today we're gonna take a trip in the 1986 "horror" film:

WITCHBOARD

The Shadow (WRA Ep- 34)

2011-11-29T13:29:00.001-05:00

Today on Warning! Readers Advisory!, we look at a GOOD pulp movie after the disastrous results of reviewing SF Shinseiki Lensman. Instead, we're going to take a shot at the 1994 film THE SHADOW starring Alec Baldwin, and see if the weed of this film bears bitter fruit.

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Derek the Bard reads "Its a Book" by Lane Smith (Warning! Readers Advisory!)

2011-11-24T00:39:00.001-05:00

In this very special episode of Warning! Readers Advisory!, Derek the Bard reads from his favourite children's book,

Its a Book by Lane Smith

You can SUBSCRIBE to Warning! Readers Advisory! over at Chasing the Muse.

You can now subscribe to Warning! Readers Advisory! and other great Chasing the Muse shows

2011-11-18T22:55:00.003-05:00

So...my new snazzy show page has been updated on Blip TV. This means that you, my friends, can now SUBSCRIBE to Chasing the Muse.

So please, subscribe and support the show. You will receive updates when new episodes go live, and you'll be helping my overall numbers.

I thank you.

Ep 33- "The Spider and the Slaves of Hell" by Norvell Page (Warning! Readers Advisory)

2011-11-15T00:03:00.000-05:00

Tidying things up with another pulp adventure, this week Warning! Readers Advisory! kicks it in 1939. It is a dark time, when The Spider, Master of Men, takes on the insidious forces of a mad bomber and his pack of wolves in...

The Spider and the Slaves of Hell!

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Short: Ain't NASA-carily So (What We Watched)

2011-11-10T17:53:00.001-05:00

In What We Watched, Derek the Bard takes a look back at the weird cartoon shows of his childhood. Today we're looking at a single weird episode...mainly because the Bard was too busy this week to get the full review of Bravestarr up. So instead, lets look at The Real Ghostbusters in

Ain't NASA-carily So

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Monsters (Better Off Read) HALLOWEEN SPECIAL!!!

2011-11-01T00:44:00.001-04:00

So, for Halloween, I teamed up with The Film Renegado to review a terrible creature-feature set in Mexico. A film that proves why if you don't have the big budget to pull it off, you probably shouldn't try to make a big monster movie. This is...

MONSTERS

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What We Watched: Toxic Crusaders

2011-10-30T13:31:00.000-04:00

In What We Watched, Derek the Bard takes a look back at the weird cartoon shows of his childhood. This week, we take a look at the 1991 Troma Entertainment series:

TOXIC CRUSADERS

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Watch Warning! Readers Advisory!, Better Off Read, and What We Watched over at Chasing the Muse.

Skies of Yellow Death (WRA Ep- 32)

2011-10-22T13:32:00.001-04:00

WRA returns, 5 days later but none the worse for wear, with this classic pulp novel: G-8 and His Battle Aces in SKIES OF YELLOW DEATH!

What We Watched: INHUMANOIDS

2011-10-12T13:51:00.001-04:00

In What We Watched, Derek the Bard takes a look back at the weird cartoon shows of his childhood. This week, we take a look at the 1986 Sunbow series:

INHUMANOIDS

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Watch Warning! Readers Advisory!, Better Off Read, and What We Watched over at Chasing the Muse.

The Asylum's Sherlock Holmes (WRA Ep- 31)

2011-10-04T14:29:00.000-04:00

In this episode of Warning! Readers Advisory!, Derek the Bard tackles the cinematic abortion that The Asylum likes to call:

SHERLOCK HOLMES!

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Watch Warning! Readers Advisory!, Better Off Read, and What We Watched over at Chasing the Muse.

The Toxic Avenger (Better Off Read)

2011-09-27T02:50:00.001-04:00

So way back at FanExpo 2011, I FINALLY picked up a copy of The Toxic Avenger. Well, I finally got around to reviewing it.

So give it up for everyone's favourite hideously deformed monster of superhuman size and strength, TOXIE!

What We Watched: Conan the Adventurer

2011-09-20T13:02:00.001-04:00

In What We Watched, I examine the WEIRD TV shows that I watched as a child. So BY CROMM, today we're going to look at a cartoon show about barbarians, wizard, and asskicking:

Conan the Adventurer.

WRA Episode 30- Soulless

2011-09-13T14:36:00.001-04:00

This week we return to Warning! Readers Advisory! after a one-week hiatus.

So sit, back, relax, and take a gander as Derek the Bard dares to ask if Gail Carriger's best selling novel, Soulless, has some soul as a decent bit of supernatural steampunk.

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What We Watched: Visionaries Knights of the Magical Light

2011-09-02T02:19:00.000-04:00

In What We Watched, I examine the WEIRD TV shows that I watched as a child. In the first episode of the show, we take a look at one of my favourites:

Visionaries: Knights of the Magical Light.

2011-08-25T12:46:00.001-04:00

Well. This took a few more days than usual to get up, but I am satisfied with the result! So without any further introductions, score the theme music...

(Almost) live from Toronto its...THE BETTER OFF READ GAME!

Today's contestant comes to us from Director George Clooney and stars Sam Rockwell as game show creator, Chuck Barris! Please welcome to our show:

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind!

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WRA Episode 29- Starship Troopers

2011-08-17T01:28:00.001-04:00

Yeah. The movie. Le sigh. Heinlein...oh god, man, look what they did.

WRA Episode 28- Vampires In Their Own Words

2011-08-09T23:30:00.001-04:00

Well, I came across this charming little piece of non-fiction titled Vampires: In Their On Words, which purports to be "An Anthology of Vampiric Voices". Edited by Michelle Belanger, 24 people who think they're vampires come forward to talk about how they're...err...vampires.

This isn't a fictional novel. Oh no. These are real people who think that they need to drink blood and life energy to survive.

So, armed with the book, I went to ConBravo! 2011, and found many an unsuspecting nerd (including a few you might recognize) to read from the book for me in order to demonstrate its crazy.

Ladies and gentlemen...Vampires: In Their Own Words.

WRA Episode 27- Fable: Teeth of Beasts

2011-07-27T00:46:00.001-04:00

No Bard? No problem! Innis, Nachzehrer, Great Cthulhu, and the Red Chef take on this piece of cinematic garbage while the Bard is off in Bermuda!

BOR - The Edison Death Machine

2011-07-27T00:43:00.001-04:00

Well, after a few weeks of hell at work I sat down and did another movie review while I prep for ConBravo! this weekend, where I'll be filming my review of Vampires: In Their Own Words (an anthology of vampiric voices).

This time, I'm reviewing a low grade horror movie that goes under the name The Edison Death Machine. Because why should I review a conventional zombie flick?

WRA Episode 26- SF Shinseiki Lensman

2011-06-27T21:16:00.001-04:00

Remember when I review Galactic Patrol?

In the 1980s they made an anime of it. They called this travesty of animation SF Shinseiki Lensman.

There are days I hate being me.

Better Off Read - Generation X

2011-06-19T14:38:00.001-04:00

Due to a cameo for the next episode being late, I took a skip week and instead reviewed this particular comic book adaptation from 1996.

This is Generation X.

WRA Episode 25- Galactic Patrol

2011-06-09T21:33:00.001-04:00

Hey y'all! New episode is up, and its awesome! This is my favourite pulp science fiction novel, Galactic Patrol!

WRA Episode 24 - Operator 5 and Death's Ragged Army

2011-05-25T13:49:00.001-04:00

Well, it took me a week to get it read, scripted, filmed, and put together (as I literally had to change gears and use a different book than I was originally scheduled to review)...but the new episode of Warning! Readers Advisory! is finally up.

Last week we looked at a classic Doc Savage story from 1932, but now we're skipping 4 years ahead to the eve of World War II as we join Secret Service Operator #5, America's Undercover Ace, as he fights to repel the dreadful forces of the Purple Empire in America's Second War of Independence! (...no, not shitting you, that's the phrase the book uses)

So without further ado, I present for the approval of the Midnight Society:

OPERATOR 5 AND DEATH'S RAGGED ARMY!

WRA Episode 23 - Doc Savage and the Meteor Menace

2011-05-11T21:43:00.000-04:00

I kick off Pulp Month with a review of one of my favourite pulp novels, the third adventure of the Man of Bronze:

DOC SAVAGE AND THE METEOR MENACE!

WRA Episode 22 - Necroscope

2011-05-11T21:40:00.000-04:00

Forgot to post this when it came out two weeks ago. Enjoy!

WRA Episode 21- License to Kill

2011-04-14T15:22:00.002-04:00

And we're up with the 21st episode of WRA (OMG, I'm at 21 episodes, this is so awesome!), in which I review the 16th James Bond movie, the first not to even be ostensibly based on the books...

LICENSE TO KILL

WRA Episode 20- Troy

2011-04-03T00:47:00.002-04:00

Well, better late than never. This is Troy. I really don't want to say anything more about it. Its a piece of shit.

WRA Episode 19- Orphans of Chaos (part 2)

2011-03-09T13:12:00.001-05:00

The second half of the Orphans of Chaos two-parter sees the Bard facing off in a duel against the fiendish Dorian Grey (played by Reuben David), as well as digging into the madness and perversity of this book in a last ditch effort to escape the In-Between Place, the Place Which Is In-Between.

WRA Episode 18- Orphans of Chaos (part 1)

2011-02-28T22:03:00.000-05:00

Part 1 of 2. Oh yeah. More awesome comes next week!

WRA Episode 17- The Scent of Shadows

2011-02-21T19:03:00.001-05:00

WRA returns with a book so stupid I can't even think of a witty tag for it.

Fuck this book.

WRA Episode 16 - Death's Daughter

2011-02-07T12:33:00.000-05:00

I wanted to do something awesome for the 500th post on Chasing the Muse. But I couldn't think of anything. This last week has been pretty shitty. Computer broke, had to fix it, had birthday by working 13 hours, had OK weekend.

But anyway, you want me to talk about Death's Daughter by Amber Benson!

Well, this time I'm joined by special guest, Diamanda Hagan to review this book. Go check out Diamanda's other videos. They are FANTASTIC. She does some great work, and really...you should all watch her.

So without further ado...DEATH'S DAUGHTER!

WRA Episode 15 - Crooked Little Vein

2011-01-25T11:35:00.001-05:00

Take a walk inside the head of Warren Ellis in his magnum opus of filth and mystery, a little book called Crooked Little Vein.

WRA Episode 14 - Working for the Devil

2011-01-18T11:48:00.001-05:00

WRA Episode 13 - The Man With The Golden Torc

2011-01-13T00:16:00.000-05:00

I can`t believe I forgot to post this on Monday! The latest episode of WRA, dealing with Simon R Green`s traversty, `The Man with the Golden Torc`.

WRA Episode 12 - Top 5 Favourite Books

2011-01-03T23:24:00.000-05:00

These are a few of my favourite things....

WRA Episode 11- Twilight

2010-12-25T16:43:00.002-05:00

And now, WRA presents just in time for the holidays...

A Christmas Special.

WRA Episode 10- Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

2010-12-21T17:35:00.001-05:00

WRA Episode 9- State of Decay

2010-12-13T12:11:00.001-05:00

WRA Episode 8- Library Books

2010-12-06T21:17:00.002-05:00

For those who used to RP with me in the old Toronto Changeling game...Innis is back!

Yes, I hire a "freelance villainy consultant" to help me deal with the subject of damage to library books.

Eat zeta-rays!

WRA Episode 7- Bloodstone

2010-11-30T14:47:00.001-05:00

WRA Episode 6- The Last Guardian

2010-11-23T01:55:00.001-05:00

Behold! An Atlantean extravaganza! Lizardmen! Space marines! Super-floozies! The Shining City has them all! So come, witness the fail of The Last Guardian!

WRA Episode 4- Wolf in Shadow

2010-11-15T15:26:00.002-05:00

Ironically, the first episode I ever scripted. I have 3 different takes of this entire episode, over three different runs of sets and costumes for the show. Perhaps one day I'll release the other two (which are significantly longer...as in about twice the length and half as funny).

WRA Episode 4- Ghost of a Chance

2010-11-11T11:58:00.000-05:00

We are experiencing technical difficulties...

2010-11-09T03:03:00.002-05:00

By which I mean that MovieMaker has decided to be a whiny bitch and stop publishing movies properly. I'm working to rectify the situation through another program which may result in a significantly higher production value for the show. ...Three episodes in.

See, my grand scheme was actually to produce the first 11 episodes in Windows MovieMaker while I learned the ins and outs of CS4, then *BANG*, slam in the 12th episode (closer for Season 1) with some expertise in the program and some awesome effects.

It seems that fate had other things in mind for me. With that said, episode 4, Ghost of a Chance is recorded and in theory already edited together. Once I get CS4 running (probably tomorrow) I'm hoping I can get it out fairly swiftly. I may skip over the library issues segment for November and jump right into the Jon Shannow novels, as I have a few ideas for them that I actually want to get out there right away.

So yeah, watch this space over the next few days, and hopefully I should have the new episode up which features more Nachzehrer and a special appearance by Great Cthulhu himself.

Be seeing you.

Somewhere you all should visit

2010-11-01T21:35:00.002-04:00

Ok, so I just got involved in something and I think you should all go take a look. I was convinced to get involved with Red Ribbon Reviewer, where video reviewers will wear red ribbons in all their videos in December to help raise awareness about HIV and AIDs.

Take a gander. Its also a great site for links to all your favourite reviewers on the net, including a bunch of folks at That Guy With The Glasses, Diamanda Hagan, and...err...myself. Heh. *cough* Anyway.

No new video this week. Class is eating my brain. However, will have a new library issues episode up next week, and I'll try to get the Ghost of a Chance review up in one form or another as a middle-of-the-week thing. Dunno how many of you watch my show, but I really encourage you to do so. Mainly because I want to get people to watch and enjoy, and give their opinions on the whole thing.

Excelsior!

Warning! Readers Advisory! Episode 3- Touch the Dark & Claimed by Shadow

2010-10-25T20:21:00.002-04:00

Warning! Readers Advisory! Episode 2- Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter

2010-10-19T04:13:00.003-04:00

How many vamps could a vamp hunter sex if a vamp hunter could sex vamps?

Warning! Readers Advisory! Episode 1- ALA Banned Books Week 2010

2010-10-12T13:38:00.001-04:00

Software issues

2010-06-21T19:25:00.001-04:00

Yeah. So apparently my current video editing program goes mad at the revelation that .mp4 is a file format. Unfortunately, that's the only format my DVD burning program can produce. So...I either need to get a different program for that, or a different program for video editing.

Preferably both. I really *SHOULD* just get new programs for both functions to allow more versatility and...y'know...actually decent looking videos.

So Warning! Readers Advisory! will be delayed even longer while I hit the problem repeatedly with a hammer until something shakes loose.

You know what I need?

2010-06-14T23:46:00.002-04:00

I need to find some way to turn a flip phone into the awesome phone they use on the Global Frequency pilot.

...which then appeared several years later as Lex Luthor's remote control on Smallville. Yes. I pay attention to these things.

See, I've been using the Global Frequency ring tone for...oh...the better part of three or four years now. Since back when I first got my Razr. Well, I'm back to a flip phone again. So...hrrrm.

I have many pieces of technology. I have been preparing them for some time, just for making a prop. What shall I make? I know not, but I desire to have myself an awesome phone. We shall see.

Oh...on the prop front, I'm slowly building the costumes for the later episodes of WRA. I've edited down the script for the first episode, and filming will commence on Wednesday. Hopefully it'll be out next week. Also found someone to lend me a copy of Twilight so I don't have to be embarassed by buying it. I expect the awful. I hurt myself for you, dear readers. I am an intellectual geek, biting off the head of the literary chicken with a chaser of crushed fictional glass.

Excelsior!

The Absurdity Test

2010-06-14T23:36:00.003-04:00

(please note, this is largely intended for humour purposes)

In research the topic of personal information is a touchy one. On one hand, a study may be predicated on some very important or sensitive personal information from its participants. Sexual preference, political views, involvement in criminal organizations and the like are hot button issues and ones which drastically increase both the vulnerability of those involved in the study, and the risk to them.

Vulnerability is generally defined as being how socially vulnerable the participants are. Its rated as Low, Medium, and High, with Low being your average man or woman on the street, medium being those who may have sensitive or damaging information but are probably OK, and high vulnerability being people like minors, the mentally disabled, and the criminally insane.

Risk is the actual risk that is posed to the participants by their involvement in the study. Low risk studies look at things that the participants are already doing, or might do, in their day to day lives. Studies about reading habits, preferred meals, and the like are low risk. Medium risk are things that participants don't generally do that might get them in trouble in certain circles or certain circumstances, but if they're low vulnerability are probably OK. High risk studies are things like drug deals and the number of accidents that occur by way of juggling chainsaws.

Now, one can reduce the risk to participants by making them as anonymous as possible. As such, I have created the Absurdity Test. The Absurdity Test is a basic metric of exactly how anonymous your survey is. It is a simple question you have to ask yourself. If the answer to this question is "No", then chances are your survey is about as anonymous as it gets. Here is the question:

"Would I know the difference between a dozen 15 year old mentally disabled illegal immigrant serial killers taking this survey, and a dozen geriatric patients from the retirement home down the road?"

Its absurd, certainly. But if there is no way to tell the difference, then the information you're taking in is absolutely anonymous. Congratulations. Now you just need to figure out how worthwhile that data is...but at least you can assure your research ethics review board that there is no way that the participants could be harmed by taking part in the survey.

Warning! Readers Advisory! (credits)

2010-05-31T22:24:00.000-04:00

Script complete!

2010-05-29T23:50:00.002-04:00

Five thousand words later, the first script for Warning! Readers Advisory! is complete.

Having played around with both my cameras, and being resolved to buy an actual video camera this summer (as opposed to just the digital cameras I'm using right now), I think I should be ready for filming this week.

My biggest thing is blocking out the script now that its written. I'm pretty spontaneous physically, and I don't think I've done a single Epic Background Fail in the last year that worked off more than the most vague framework of a script (though I edit the EBFs pretty heavily prior to posting them over on Archive.org, removing my tendency to use the words "uh", "um", "well", "yeah", and "see"), so doing this via a full script is a bit new to me.

Predicted play time for the review should be about 20-25 minutes, mainly due to adding a few minutes worth of scattered video clips to spice things up. I'm going to just use what I've got right now for the first review and see what response is from that, then refine my technique.

The big thing that I'm going to be avoiding doing in the future is blow-by-blow accounts of the plot of the books. I'm doing that somewhat with the Jon Shannow novels just to capture the sheer wackiness of their design, but hopefully with book series like Anita Blake, Elric, and Chronicles of Chaos I'll be able to do more of a prospectus of the lines as a whole rather than individual books. Play up key plot points, etc. Those reviews should hopefully be more around the 15-20 minute range, moving more towards the 15 if I can keep them nice and tight.

Folks who have heard my stuff in the past know that I talk fast. Not all of that is video editing, although if I don't practice at least somewhat I tend to have a lot of pauses between sentences. Not quite Shatner-style, but I really need to kick my spontaneity gland back into overdrive for this stuff and get my pacing back in line.

I realize I'm talking about stuff-to-come a lot, but I admit that a lot of that is due to wanting to drive myself forward. I find writing public to be freeing...it forces me to do what I say I'm going to do, and that gives me focus. Lets me push forward.

In the spirit of public announcements, The Black Library is taking submissions until the end of July. Y'know what? I think I'm going to submit something. First three chapters (minimum 10k, the way I block out chapters probably more like 15), six page chapter breakdown, and a 1000 word plot synopsis. I can do that. I'm going to do it. I may not have a great shot, but I am filled with confirmation from Karl that I can, in fact, write. So I'm gonna go give it a shot!

Well, that's about it for today. Video forthcoming (I'll post the opening credits first so people can at least have something pretty to see, shooting for those will occur this week), work on book forthcoming. I guess my submission will cut into my writing time for Bored Immortal Seeks Same and my editting of Requiem for a Fictonaut, but I really want to get this done and in.

And that is all. I'm done.

Excelsior!

Towel Day - A Tribute to Douglas Adams

2010-05-26T00:26:00.001-04:00

I have discovered video. So...why the heck not?

Chasing the Muse...now in video!

2010-05-25T11:04:00.002-04:00

Chasing the Muse can now be found in video format on Blip!

I sat down, considered things, and rolled out a video for Nash last night in which I announced my plans for The Deadliest Badass and Warning! Readers Advisory!. Still fiddling around with things, need better equipment and software. Still, its a step in the right direction.

So stay tuned for more stuff since...well, once I figure out how to do some screen captures and fiddling with images (finally, a use for my other laptop that basically just runs Photoshop) I think I'll start producing content for WRA. Some of my prospective participants have been emailed about TDB, and I hope to hear back from them soon so we can start talking plans.

I try to never do anything small. Even if I fail, I fail spectacularly and in ways that are entertaining to passersby. If you're going to shoot for the stars, aim in a direction that blows up something expensive in case you miss.

Excelsior!

...when the hell did it become May?

2010-05-24T00:00:00.005-04:00

...was my last post really in December? Jeebus.

Well. Umm...ok. recap.

When last we saw our intrepid hero he had finished a semester of library school, joined the Masons, written a novel, engaged in an EPIC quest to somehow discover the magic of video, and somewhere along the way decided that catering large parties in far off cities was a good plan.

How are things going now?

Not bad, I tell you what. Almost done my third semester at the iSchool, and things are looking up there. Was able to (happily) put away my student activism cap in the second semester, as things got better rapidly. Did a practicum that involved interning at the only science fiction special collection in public hands in North America, which was *AWESOME*.

Got back into playing Warhammer 40k, which has resulted in an awesome Imperial Guard army called The Last Canadians, which are now mostly painted (a few infantry I'll probably never field and a bunch of tanks I just look at and groan with the idea of the effort that will be required), and a Dark Eldar army which are...mostly not painted. Will start up in Fantasy again once the new book comes out, probably gonna do Vampire Counts. Plans for making my Heroes and Lords sparkle was vetoed by pretty much everyone I pitched the idea to. Nobody has a sense of humour anymore.

(speaking of humour, I'm still apparently teaching Blogger how to properly use the Queen's English and not the ridiculous Deweyisms that strip out the silent letters)

Video! Well, as my listeners know (well, ok, I haven't done a show in a while, been too busy with school) I am your radiotelesymphonic god, airing on Radio Dead Air with "Epic Background Fail". However, I am on the quest to crack the magic of video. For too long have I stared at the folks over at ThatGuyWithTheGlasses.com like the monkeys from 2001 staring at the monolith. Occasionally I'll throw a rock at the screen and wonder why the people don't notice. Well, with the kindly offered assistance of Mike Dodd (This Week in Geek) I will be attempting to discover this amazing technology, and then shall engage in my most ambitious telesymphonic project yet:

The Deadliest Badass

See, for too long have people used the Camarilla wikis to make grandiose statements about their PCs. They have developed reputations based entirely on rumours that they themselves have written, and quotes attributed to NPCs who never existed. Well, its time to take the hype, take the ridiculous rumours and quotes, haul it kicking and screaming out of context, and ask that all important question: Who. Is. Deadliest?

We're putting the list together now so that I can actually start writing some scripts, and I need to start contacting people to play the roles. Then, technology and filming, then technology and editting...then I unleash myself onto the internet.

The benefit of this is that it will mean I'll *finally* have the infrastructure necessary to create my book show, which I think I've finally settled on calling "WARNING! Reader's Advisory!" The show will, as previously noted, consist mainly of me critiquing and pointing out the bizzareness of various novel series. I think I can pretty much devote an entire month to just sampling the vampire romance genre, the Valdemar novels could probably take another month (easily), and of course let us not forget that I'll have to devote an episode each to the Jon Shannow books because David Gemmel crammed so much crazy into those pages I can't do all three books justice in 20 minutes.

Oh...what else?

I have a paper to submit to the faculty quarterly on the development of science fiction in the 1930s and 40s, which the prof whose class I submitted it for suggested (well, she suggested I submit).

I went to the Merril Collection's writer in residence program, where Karl Schroeder read the first chapter of Requiem for a Fictonaut, my novel. And liked it. He had a few points to make about some of my more self conscious attempts at humour, but really enjoyed it and seemed to think overall it was pretty strong. So I have some work to do, editing it, which I'll spend the summer doing. I also have another novel in the works that should hopefully get started in the next few weeks once I really nail the pacing down. If all goes well I should get down the first drafts of two novels this year. Which makes me happy.

Oh...and I'm still holding to my pledge from September: I am not re-reading any novels. Everything is something I haven't read before. Its going well.

That about wraps it up for now. I should be posting here more regularly now.

Excelsior!

The Changing Face of Radio

2009-12-12T00:49:00.002-05:00

So, as some folks know, I do a weekly 10 minute program over on Radio Dead Air entitled Epic Background Fail (a slightly out of date archive of which can be found over at my repository blog, The One Truth...which will get turned into something useful some day).

Well, Nash has found a glorious new way of broadcasting his show: Video! He has finally brought RDA into the 21st century, and I shall soon be joining him on that veritable virtual stage.

I'm still looking at getting the software together, but I have all the equipment I actually need to produce some relatively low quality videos of me for EBF segments. The advantage is that once I actually get all everything working, I can do *OTHER* v-logs...such as the previously mentioned "Beware the Leopard" (or whatever it'll end up being called), where I mercilessly rib on nonsensical works of fiction.

One other segment that will be appearing on RDA hopefully starting next week will be the audio adventures of Clint Corona (SPACE ADVENTURER!). I've dug back into science fiction lately with Sandy Mitchell's Ciaphas Cain (HERO OF THE IMPERIUM!) novels, so I'm in the mood of the strange. With how Part 13 shaped up, you're in for some actual adventure in the coming episodes, as Clint Corona goes on a quest to gather his five man band (well, three men, one alien, and the Friendly Peanut) and hunt down Dirk Gradient.

Exciting things on the way. I will have to find some sort of costume to wear when presenting the Clint Corona stories. Or I may just read them off while flashing pictures of me, in costume, in humorous poses sit upon the screen. We'll see. As I said: still need to sort out the software.

That being said, if any readers actually know of decent (and free) software for video editing...please let me know. It would be very helpful.

Cheers.

Domain library

2009-12-05T14:41:00.002-05:00

As a corollary (almost said "coronary") to my last post, I've been voted in as domain librarian. The Camarilla has yet again given me something to add to my resume.

I am now the librarian of a member-donated library for the Toronto chapter of an international not-for-profit organization. Did I mention we donate tens of thousands of dollars to charity every year?

I'm excited about the prospect of a domain library from an academic level, as much as I'm happy that people will stop asking me for books from my own, personal collection. I need to get a few more book shelves in to store them, I need to get them cataloged, organized, and then I need to set up a system for lending and returns. Which will probably involve me liasing with our Domain Coordinator, as we don't have the legal recourse of a normal library.

A fully set up system also means, when I eventually step down and pass things over to a new domain librarian, I'll be able to just hand them a few files, and possible a Googledoc or something like that, and they'll be all good to go. Hurrah, engineering office continuity!

...now for people to just start donating books. I'm tempted to see if I can find a bunch for discount on eBay or gaming stores that carry used books or something like that.

Thoughts with the changes to White Wolf's marketing strategy

2009-11-03T17:32:00.002-05:00

We're discussing in class right now the idea of Open Book Delivery Services. Building cheap and low-budget book presses to service aboriginal libraries who might not otherwise have access to larger collections.

I'm taking this idea towards the Camarilla and White Wolf. Guerilla printing. The move towards PDF publishing of WW books does not prescribe the use of physical books. Instead, it offers the possibility for personalizing the publishing experience. Distribute a printing press system throughout the club. Domain librarians and domain archivists become domain binders; members will inevitably print off PDF books...so use the concept of the domain-level library to distribute these products.

Random thought of the day. Plus I'd love to create Cam business cards "Derek Burrow: Domain Librarian and Guerilla Print Specialist".

NEW VENUE for Town Hall Meeting

2009-10-27T18:33:00.001-04:00

Dear First Year MI Students,

I have heard a rumour that second year students would like also to have a chance to attend tomorrow's meeting between 5-6pm. Given their interest I wanted to write to the Student Council President to offer her the opportunity to invite them to attend. Because I do not know how many students will wish to attend from either the first or second year and fire regulations would only have allowed around 250 students to come into the room my colleagues had booked we have found another room with a higher capacity.

So the Faculty of Information town meeting will now be held at

Mechanical Engineering Bldg

5 King's College Road

Room 102 (MC 102)

In case those of you who will be speaking want to get an appreciation of the space, something that I have always found helpful, I include a link to a picture of the room (http://www.osm.utoronto.ca/room_pics/MC-102.html ).

For those of you trying to find the meeting room you can find a map at (http://rrs.osm.utoronto.ca/map/f?p=110:1:5760345334091742552)

So I look forward to seeing as many of you as can make it tomorrow, 28 October, at 5 pm.

Yours,

Seamus Ross

A little debate

2009-10-25T09:17:00.002-04:00

There's been a debate going on in the comments section of the "Glorious Five Year Plan" post about the theoretical vs. practical aspects of our course, and how its being taught. I had an epiphany last night.

Several of our professors have admitted that they have no experience teaching classes of the current size, and I think therein lies the problem with the teaching styles that we've been seeing. Reading off slides, speaking entirely in jargon...these are the actions not of incompetent professors, because talking with them one-on-one they know their stuff, but rather of workman trying to make due with substandard tools.

Most of these people are used to lecturing small groups of students, engaging them in direct discourse, and being able to explain the things they say. They are used to discussing examples, talking about theory, expanding on ideas. But how do you do that with 270 students? You can't. You have to use something that everyone can see, and make it as elementary as possible.

I think we scare them. On some basic, academic, primal level, we scare them. To use a kitchen example, its like staring down the gullet of a 250 person rush in a restaurant that normally never tops 70 covers a night. Full house, two or three sitting, night of full-bore crazy. And that's us.

The administration brought in more students than it could handle and shackled these professors down to classes bigger than many of my first year lectures. What do the professors do? They try to find some way to cope. Unfortunately, I get the impression that most of them aren't good group lecturers. They don't lecture crowds well without prepared speeches. They're used to a graduate level of teaching, wherein lecture is a two way street, and the students are looking to understand the information rather than simply absorb it as rote fact. They had to set up a course so that it could reach the lowest common denominator, because they couldn't afford to take the personal time to work with their students, resulting in days which are essentially first year pablum, whereas others are high theory that is actually applicable all around. You can really tell the content from the filler.

Simple fact of the matter is that none of our courses have exams. We don't need to absorb all of this rote information for future course use. Much of what we're learning is basic history as a filler for the professors not being able to instead fill the time the way it should be filled: in dialogue with the class.

We can see this in the INF100X series, where TAs, and sometimes profs, run up and down the aisles with microphones like we're on the set of Jerry Springer. That's no way to hold a dialogue with students. They cut off attempts at dialogue because the class is so big and everyone has to have a chance to ask their question. Asking questions of the Dean was like trying to ask a question in the White House press room: Everybody wanted to speak, only a few were allowed to.

That's the problem. The course size has sabotaged the professors as much as it has us. And I think we'd get many many times more out of the educational experience with smaller class sizes.

This doesn't make all the professors blameless. There are a few who, without a doubt, had a say in how this new program design came about. They confuse me greatly. But I have a hard time imagining that certain members of the faculty would have backed a plan for class sizes and teaching styles that seems so at odds with their own.

It feels sometimes like the Faculty itself is schizophrenic. It is inconsistent. It has little nagging voices in its head and pushes forwards with an irrational and illogical course of action because of them. It is internally conflicted, liable to just sit down in the gutter and argue with itself for hours while the student body watches on helplessly, trying to figure out what's going on. It cannot decide what it wants to be.

5 years of Chasing the Muse

2009-10-24T12:35:00.001-04:00

On October 31st, this blog will celebrate its 5th anniversary.

Wow.

Best grad school subject line received so far

2009-10-23T11:35:00.000-04:00

"please don't feed the creatures"

Apparently they've seen mice around the library. But still. I got that and wondered if someone was sending me Cam email at the wrong address again.

Faculty Town Hall meeting!

2009-10-22T11:16:00.001-04:00

Faculty of Information town hall meeting!

Next Wednesday! 5pm-6pm, Medical Sciences 3154!

Dear First Year MI Students

Thank you for raising your concerns about mechanisms for delivery of the new core courses with me yesterday. As you know, we wish to be responsive to concerns raised by students, especially as we implement the program’s new curriculum. I have gone away to think about all the issues you raised and am having discussions with my colleagues to see what approaches we can take to address them as quickly as possiible.

As I felt that many of you did not have a chance to speak, I offered yesterday to arrange another session. To that end, I have booked Room 3154 in Medical Sciences Building from 17:00-18:00 on Wednesday 28th of October so that we can continue our conversation and so that the Faculty can take necessary steps to ensure a quality educational experience.

I do hope that you will all be able to attend at ths time.

Once again, thank you for your comments yesterday.

Yours Sincerely

Dr Seamus Ross
Dean and Professor
Faculty of Information, University of Toronto
Telephone: 416 978 3202

And the latest problem...

2009-10-22T00:16:00.002-04:00

It has been, at this point, a thoroughly disheartening week at the iSchool.

Monday: INF1002 Professor, Lynne Howarth, delivered a lecture entirely from her slides, almost verbatim, citing Wikipedia as her main reference for several parts of it. Students were allowed to evaluate the class. From what I hear, it was almost universally panned.

Tuesday: Well...you already heard about Tuesday. Comrade Comissar Dean and Glorious Five Year Plan.

Wednesday: INF1300 students are handed back their first paper. Everyone is marked down for not using secondary sources. Students were told by Professor Caidi, in class, two weeks previous not to include secondary sources in their papers, as they only needed the interview itself in order to present their case. TA was flummoxed. I really like Professor Caidi, she seems like a genuinely intelligent, knowledgeable, and interesting person, and is probably the only professor (with the possible exception of Prof. David Phillips in INF1003) who I actually feel tries to connect personally with her students. But the *ENTIRE CLASS* was nodding and agreeing vocally when I informed the TA that we had been told not to include secondary sources, that they were not necessary, and that we didn't have to worry about a citations page. There is the possibility that we might all get re-marked next week. I am unsure.

Finally, my blog seems to be getting a surprising degree of traffic from my classmates. Which...actually kinda confuses me, because I had absolutely no idea any of them read it, or indeed even knew it existed. I gave one person the address so they could read my summary of the Dean's address...but...huh. *shrug* Well, hey, folks! Guess I'll have to be more careful with what I write, given that I'm getting attention here.

The simple fact, at day's end, however is that I am really not enjoying my program. The classes are problematic and redudant, the professors are having great difficulty teaching classes of our size (and many admit to never having taught classes this big before), and the whole system just seems to have been thrown together with duct tape and bailing wire, hoping it will hold.

Well. Let me end with a brief little analysis.

Our course of study is information infrastructure. The systems of our program transmit information from the professors on one end to the students on the other. We are the end users of our program. According to Star, one of the qualities of infrastructure is that it becomes visible upon breakdown. Otherwise, people tend to ignore it. They take it for granted. In a normal course of study, we accept that we will be asked to attend class, read material, write papers, give presentations, and the like. This system functions as the fundamental infrastructure underlaying our graduate program. Normally, it is invisible. It is accepted. However, the infrastructure has been twisted in such a way as to become inoperable. It has broken down. It has become visible.

Information infrastructure is analogous to Law's heterogeneous engineering. It is composed of many parts which associate with each other to create a greater whole. Students, faculty, computer systems, papers, readings, the rooms themselves, all come together to create the whole of our program, to create something that is greater as a whole than any could be individually. Disassociation of one part of the network, however, can cause major problems, more so than if the components were separate. Disassociation causes the network to be seen as a network, rather than a single whole. And once again, we are seeing disassociation of aspects of the network.

Shall I analyze what is going wrong? Shall I take a look at where our infrastructure has broken down, where our network has suffered disassociation? I'm not sure how useful it would be, but it might help organize my thoughts on this. They encourage us to write and to apply what we have learned. I am sorely tempted to use what I have learned and apply it to the Faculty, to make some use of the jargon laden, applied computer theory that they have given us and put it to the ends they seem to expect us to use it for. We are told to study information itself, to study data, to study documentation, to study how people interact with information, and yet the only examples we are given are those of computers.

Written above the gates of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi were the words "Gnothi seauton": Know Thyself. It is fundamental to so many things, is self awareness. It is fundamental to all wisdom seekers...and to all wisdom givers. To understand others, first one must understand one's self. It is fundamental to the giving of wisdom, for how can you give a thing to others if you do not see it in yourself? It is easy to analyze other things, but turning the lens inward is harder. I feel that this is what the Faculty is truly missing. There is a plan. I don't have an issue with thinking in the long term. But this plan is occurring to the detriment of the Faculty's current students, because those who are heading the plan refuse to look at what this is doing to those students. "Know thyself".

However I should stop writing now, as I'm getting into a philosophical tangent. Its 1am. Its been a long 3 days. A long 7 days if you could the last three and the four I spent smashing my head against a wall working on the INF1001 paper, trying to pull the rabbit out of my not inconsiderably sized top hat. I need to get to work on the INF1003 paper, the script for the INF1002 presentation (as well as my notes for my part of the paper), and my side of the INF1300 annotated bibliography...

...and somewhere in there I need to get more notes together for my NaNoWriMo novel, "Requiem for a Fictonaut", and prep for ICC!

"I will relax in Atlanta" is my new mantra. I may have to drop out of some of the volunteering I'm doing there. I can't afford to go there and need a vacation from my vacation.

Excelsior!

Glorious Five Year Plan

2009-10-20T16:22:00.003-04:00

My faculty has a five year plan.

This five year plan is to double the current number of students. 500. That's the magic number.

My current average class size is 230. IN A GRADUATE SCHOOL PROGRAM.

Why? Well, the bigger the faculty, the more lecturers. The more lecturers, the more famous the faculty. The more famous the faculty, the more money it makes. The more prestigious the students.

Our Dean is focused entirely on building future faculty over 5 years to fit this new plan. Students? Well, we'll have smaller class size...in 5 years.

I shilled out $8300 this year alone for this program. I will not benefit from the Glorious Five Year Plan. I will never see these smaller class sizes.

We are customers, he says.

...glee. Somebody just shouted out their lack of satisfaction. And got an applause. The Dean is flabbergasted. He is gasted *AND* flabbered. And now he's waffling, unable to deal with an ENTIRE CLASS OF PEOPLE applauding the concerns being brought up by students. He is making empty promises.

I want red and green shades. I want my filthy assistants to set their attack wombs to terror! I want to monster this class in my black suit and my black hat, with my press pass stuck in the brim.

He is now promising a career liason officer to help us find jobs. Ladies and gentlemen, my faculty is now on the dole! "There are more jobs in the information arena than there ever were before. There are greater employment opportunities in libraries." Apparently we are being trained to be managers, not book-workers. There is apparently a huge need for us to become library managers.

...holy fuck. He just admitted that their co-op program won't actually be ready in time for our class. He just fucking admitted that there will be no co-op program for us, because it won't be ready yet.

"I want to give you an answer today, but the answer I have for you isn't availible until two years from now." Now he's lecturing us again on his Glorious Five Year Plan. He is, once again, looking at doing more recrutiment. Apparently faculty were assigned *BEFORE* they got the enrollment lists. Now those faculty members can't be moved or changed as they have...

...oh god. He just used the words "digital age" and "new media". Yup. We're back at our readings, still stuck in the 90s...

...been given tenure. They don't have a sufficient number of library teachers. Its all information studies teachers. Its all about being "new". Its all about "emerging opportunities" and "crossing domains".

There are, however, not enough grads with doctorates in library sciences. Well thank fucking god for that. That's actually some good news today. There is apparently a real gap in the demand for academics and the actual number of academics. Well. That's actually useful to know.

Ahhh...and now the rub. Someone is asking about the ridiculous degree of overlap. And the question of the paper we have where the professors don't actually know how to use the database program we've been asked to use for the papers themselves. The professors have directed us to talk to our TA about it.

The Dean is at a loss for words. It looks like the profs in that course may be about to get in shit from the Dean.

The profs and TAs are hanging their heads. They don't know how to deal with this. The Dean is getting slaughtered on stage, trying to defend why our classes are repeating information we got in high school. Now the professors are coming to the Dean's defense to try to break off this train wreck. I feel the need to monster this man by shouting up and shouting "SHOW US YOUR PLAN, DEAN! THE PUBLIC HAS A RIGHT TO KNOW!"

The Dean has now been backed into a corner. The entire faculty, plus himself, are going to come out for a townhall lecture next Wednesday from 4-6pm. Just in time for ICC, I get to monster my program. I need a journalist's suit. I need a journalist's hat. I need my old camera around my neck to capture their terrified expressions.

This cannot end well.

Menu for This Week (10-19-09 to 10-24-09)

2009-10-19T11:41:00.003-04:00

Monday
-Lunch: Leftover spaghetti bolognese
-Dinner: Leftover pot roast with vegetable puree and boiled beets

Tuesday
-Lunch: Chicken samosas, baby carrots, cheese crackers, mini-Halloween sized kit kat bars
-Dinner: Blackened chicken breast with green beans, cauliflower, brussel sprouts, and beets

Wednesday
-Lunch: Turkey soup
-Dinner: Beef scallopini with balsamic reduction, beans, beets, and fried zucchini

Thursday
-Lunch: Roasted vegetable soup and garlic bread
-Dinner: Blackened salmon fillet with raw vegetable salad of beets, butternut squash, green beans, and red onions in a balsamic-red wine vinagrette

Friday
-Lunch: Breaded fried chicken cutlet with beets and brussel sprouts
-Dinner: Fusili bolognese

Saturday
-Lunch: Leftover fuzili bologense
-Diner: Baked sardines with sauteed green beans, zucchini, and red onions

NaNoWriMo

2009-10-17T02:36:00.002-04:00

Sure. Why not?

Unfortunately, due to the rules of the thing, I cannot write an extended Clint Corona story. So I'm going to have to write something different.

It will likely be suitably gonzo. Not quite as drug induced as Ray Gun, but it should be appropriately deranged.

I'll try and keep things updated here. I have at least three Ray Gun stories roughly plotted out as Clint goes to terrorize Kassidy Kazam, B-whatever-the-fuck-I-called-him, and Officer Buzz Bradsky of the Space Police (his full name).

That is all.

Excelsior!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 13)

2009-10-15T21:03:00.002-04:00

The staff in the space diner fear me. I can't understand why. I am a man full of canniness, in need of a good laundering. But I am a mighty space adventurer! They should cheer my exploits! OH YES! Cheer me!

I have no space drugs, and I've drunk nearly all the rocket liquor. The world's starting to take on terrible shades at the edges. Sobriety brings the Outer Dark. That bastard Dirk Gradient was spawned in the Outer Dark. He was spawned from the filthy hole of a beast of darkness known as Mrs. Susan Gradient! Oh that woman will pay for the spawning that she committed!

The staff in the space diner fear me. I wave around my ray gun and demand service. But the service is too slow, so I started calling all their orders for them. This ensured that I was able to pick and choose the best meal in the house. I've terrified their chef into killing all his talking sandwiches before he sends them out, and my food no longer screams. My cup runneth over with rocket liquor. They've given me some for the road, but I can only carry what's in my belly. I am considering acquiring another belly. Then everywhere I go they will shout in fear of the man with the many liquor filled bellies! Fear the belly! The belly speaks, the belly knows!

As I fill my belly with rocket liquor and savage my silent meat sandwich, I consider my options. While I eat, the crew of the space docks of the space station that this space diner is in fill the heathen death phallus with the fuel that will lubricate the pleasured bits of the universe. They assure me that the heathen death phallus will be lubricated by this new rocket fuel, and that space will moan around me as I fly. I do not want space to moan around me. I like the silence of space. In the silence, all I can hear is myself and the Friendly Peanut's mad rantings.

I am so alone.

The only way to combat the loneliness is space drugs. I'm not sharp. When I'm dull, I'm lonely. When I'm sharp, I have my many friends! But...that seems to remind me that I have not called upon my friends. Many left me after that bastard Dirk Gradient made off with my rocket ship and Cindy the Girl Computer. But some must still love me. That should be my next move. I must acquire friends and influence people. Through that influence, I will acquire further space drugs. The space drugs will make me mighty enough to face the enemy head on!

I must consider my friends carefully.
1) Officer Buzz Bradsky, Officer of the Space Police! Buzz is the only space policeman who doesn't carry a sissy pistol. He carries a pirate ray gun. It is set to "ZOT!", which is an inferior setting to my mighty ray gun, but he tries. Buzz will help me, but he cannot know of my use of space drugs. This could be problematic. I cannot trust a man who cannot trust space drugs. He is clearly a pawn of the Outer Dark.

2) Kassidy Kazam, Space Pirate. More promising. Kassidy will sell me space drugs. Many, many space drugs. But he has been bested by Dirk Gradient many times, and so will be wary of him. I cannot count on Kassidy for revenge. He has been beated by that bastard too many times. His spirit has been crushed when it comes to challenging Gradient. What use is a space pirate who gives up after losing a kidney, a lung, eight fingers, and two eyes? He is an Laphamata Centaurion! He has six kidneys, ten lungs, fourty fingers, and four eyes! So what if he can only see in three dimensions now? I can only see in three dimensions (except when I take Super-Orange space drugs...), and I do fine! I am a picture of health! Besides, Kassidy is green, the color of the optimal human being. My green veins attest to this. I am the mightiest mortal alive.

3) B'zing'zam'zot'zoom'zowie, The Onamanopoetic Man. Despite having a name that I cannot pronounce, B is alright. He is a man of action! He shoots, he slices, he fights, he burns, he breaks, he hits, he shoots....all to his own sound track! B had speakers built into his arms hooked to a sound nullifier field so the universe would make the proper sounds when he hit things. He can be depended upon for abject violence and mayhem. He is also a man of few words. And fewer questions. And he knows where I can get space drugs. Space drug dealers throw their space drugs at B. If they do not shower him with their glorious narcotic ejaculate he becomes irate and proceeds to insert sound effects onto them. No man survives B's mighty sound effects. He would make a good Chief Security Officer aboard the Mighty Rocket Ship Heathen Death Phallus! But...would he take orders from the Friendly Peanut? This I do not know. It makes me question.

Three friends. Three different star systems. One will help me find Dirk Gradient. One will give me the space drugs I need to hold back the Outer Dark. And one will strike soundly upon anyone I come across who so much as thinks funny.

I must put down my note pad. I must finish ravaging my already murdered sandwich. Then I must drink up. I need another few for the road!

* * *

The space station housing the space diner has a dry cleaners! I have had myself laundered, again, which has cleaned off the last of the goo left on me by the green noodles, as well as the dust raised by the gigantic aliens. Those people are weird, and their dust smells of wet moose and burnt whale blubber. I am a freshly laundered man, my brittle exterior hiding the Fear. The Fear has come upon me as the Outer Dark yawns, and even the rocket liquor from the space diner will not hold it back.

But...what is this? A shop selling strange powders...this must be one of the few legal black market space stations! Their range of illegal products is innumerable! They have space drugs. Not many, not many enough, but they have just enough to get me Kassidy Kazam without falling into the Outer Dark and the yawning maw of Mrs. Susan Gradient, the Great Space Whore, Mother of the Bastard! I can see you, madame, legs spread wide across the starry void! I will not allow the filthy bastard spawn of your loins to take me! I will take these space drugs and I. Will. Like THEM!

The shop's owner stares at me now, and I realize that I have my notepad on dictation mode. I am shouting out my secret plans for all his shop to hear. Thankfully most of his customers are the Earless Folk of Vandervilk XIII, and they only know that I am vibrating oddly across the 9th dimension of smision!

Give me your wares, oh foul shop owner! Overcharge me, for I am a tourist! Don't bother with a bag, strap the space drugs to my great, mighty, manly green veins! They are manlier than your puny blue veins, for they are GREEN!

* * *

I was asked to leave the store after the space drugs had entered my system. They are neon back-lit black. The cheap space drugs cut with moon dust and jet fuel. They turn aside the Outer Dark and close the legs of Mrs. Susan Gradient. The sky is full of stars, not her great yawning space orifice. My pituitary gland bulges against my skull. This is the true insidiousness of neon back-lit black space drugs: They open up your pituitary gland and allow space radio stations to use your brain as a pirate antenna. Right now I am having extradimensional space pornography beamed across my temporal lobe and into the television sets of the unsuspecting public. I do not have to watch it, though. I do not want a forehead sphincter.

Now that I have space drugs, however, and am being followed by the local detachment of space police cadets, armed not even with sissy pistols but instead with MEGA-ULTRA-KILL-DEATH(tm) truncheons. They run whenever I turn to face them, gesturing emphatically with my ray gun to illustrate the direction my pituitary gland is pointing. It has become a homing device, a terrible space radar zeroing in on the location of Kassidy Kazam. It leers against my forehead, a meat gun that radiates the dreaded epsilon-wave, the truest form of television signal in existance!

Set pituitary gland to "murderfy!" and "enlaserate", Friendly Peanut! I am boarding the heathen death phallus. My next stop, Kassidy Kazam's pirate ship! I shall find my wonderful 5 kidneyed friend, and I shall wring all useful space drugs from him before having a brief fling with one or sixty of his space floozies.

I am coming for you, Dirk Gradient. Not even your great deific prostitute of a mother will be able to save you now. Ha ha! I laugh the laugh of the pituitarially deformed! I have new space drugs, Dirk Gradient, and a belly full of rocket liquor. My heathen death phallus slides through space, ribbed for the universe's pleasure! The moan of the engines cannot be heard over my screaming! I scream for glory! I scream for valor! I SCREAM FOR REVENGE!

I am travelling! Dirk Gradient, you. Will. PAY!

Food Blog: Recollection the First

2009-10-09T22:55:00.002-04:00

Lately I've been digging into the two worst sources when it comes to trying to keep my journalistic insights on the food industry at bay: Anthony Bourdain and Warren Ellis' Transmetropolitan. I wrote a lengthy paper last week on the organization of the restaurant industry, and another analyzing a failure of the POS system. And it got me realizing that I have seen, in the last few years, the underbelly of the kitchen business.

I think its in the last year that I really came into my own within the industry. I'd quit being naive, and I'd stepped into a restaurant that cranked food out full time. Hard core, full bore, balls to the wall, and damn the consequences. I have worked under chefs who were teachers, chefs who were assholes. I have seen chefs who were so passionate about their jobs they burned themselves out trying to do their best, and I've seen chefs who couldn't give a rat's ass how the restaurant turned out. I have seen alcoholic chefs, druggie chefs, and chefs with bizarre sexual predilections generally involving reptiles. I have seen the lizard brain of the kitchen, because the industry runs on its lizard brain.

So I think I want to talk about it. I want to explain the grotesquerie of the kitchen, the yawning crevasse of the crazy men and women who throw themselves under the bus for the good of the business. I need to get some of this shit out of my head, and try to explain textually this strange obsession I have with the industry even as I try to leave it.

Prepare for me.

Von Neumman Book Stalled

2009-09-29T17:03:00.001-04:00

...and no sooner did I create a book blog then I could no longer post to it. Too much reading. Too little time to sit myself down to summarize.

I feel trapped for time now. Class work, too many Cam duties (none of which I can really give up), and not enough hours in the day. Pondering taking a partial Cam vacation, if only to maintain my fragile sanity for a while while I play catchup.

Menu for This Week

2009-09-27T00:18:00.002-04:00

Monday
Leftover seafood chowder with garlic bread (courtesy of mum)

Tuesday
Braised beef shortribs with carrots, parsnips, potatoes, celery, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and sherry

Wednesday
More short ribs!

Thursday
New York Striploin, pan seared, with beets, brussel sprouts, and beans

Friday
Chorizo sausage, pan seared and baked, with potatoes, beets, and brussel sprouts

Saturday
Spaghetti bolognese

Thoughts on the Horizon

2009-06-08T02:20:00.003-04:00

So, at the urgings of Mitchell, I'm investigating the possibility of putting together "Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me!" as a series of full cast audio shorts. 10 minutes long. Full script. More people than just me talking.

For those who haven't been following, HRG!WT!PPM! is now availible in podcast form. The first two episodes are crap: my microphone is a gaming headset, and the gain is...off. Episode 9 is much the same. 3, 4, and 5 thus far are all done with what I consider to be a "proper job".

Another idea is that I'm toying around with is a video cast where I rip into science fiction and fantasy novels. I got started thinking about it when I was reading a particularly bizarre trilogy of David Gemmel novels, and continued viewings of stuff from That Guy With the Glasses.com has inspired me to look into doing something as well. To make my contribution to the world of ragging on shit.

I was considering calling it "Beware the Leopard", after one of my favourite Douglas Adams quotes...but it turns out there's a band, based out of Ontario, by the same name. So perhaps not. Which annoys me...because I was just going to cut that line from the old BBC television show, and have a video of me descending down dark, flickering stairs. My building has dark, flickering stairs. Oh well. I'll need a new name.

I figure I'd use this to review things like...well, lemme just show you what I've got on the chopping block:
-David Gemmel's "Jon Shannow" novels (...to weird for words, I can't really describe it in text and do its insanity justice)
-The Heralds of Valdemar
-Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter
-Vicki Peterson's "Signs of the Zodiac" (which I've tried, and failed, to read the first novel of at least twice)
-John C. Wright's "Orphan" novels (not bad, but just bizarre)

Note that some of these novels aren't bad, per se. I don't hate them. I take a certain guilty pleasure in my continued trips into Valdemar, and in reading about Jon Shannow blowing some ridiculous fantasy badass off their war horse like its no big deal. Heck, I even take a certain pleasure out of the non-orgy scenes in Anita Blake novels, and sing the praises for the first few books in the series.

But some books are just weird. And I need to rant on them a little.

Anyway, that's the thoughts I have coming up on Chasing the Muse (...maybe I should just call my v-cast that!).

Excelsior!

New Goal In Life: Avoid Gypsy Curses

2009-05-31T18:19:00.003-04:00

Saw Raimi's Drag Me to Hell today. Its...interesting. Its certainly a horror film in the old style. Definitely from the man who made the Evil Dead films, that's for sure. Its gory, has lots of monster-view shots that we normally associate with charging Deadites, and really needs a guy with a shotgun running around to make it perfect.

However...there's this nagging question it left me with:

So...the gypsies in this film will apparently curse people at the drop of a hat. Steal something from a gypsy? Its the fires of hell for you, even if you try to repent. That's how the film begins. Some 10 year old kid, the son of a couple who look like Mexican migrant workers, swiped a cheap necklace from a gypsy wagon. Poor kid's probably got less money than the gypsies. So what happens? They curse his soul to hell, and he dies horribly. Wow. Just...damn, man. For flinching something? Javert has nothing on these people. They won't even let the kid give it back. They just laughed and said he deserved what was coming to him.

And don't even think of refusing a third extension on a mortgage to a gypsy woman who is obviously faking a disability in order to get paid money by the government. Y'know what happens then? That's right, you guessed it:

HELL!

I mean, sure its suggested that Christine didn't do the right thing by refusing this woman an extension on her loan. But Sylvia Ganush is not a sympathetic victim. She shows that she has no actual physical imparement, being in fact strong enough to, among other things, put an almost unbreakable choke hold on a woman a third her age, and rip a cinder block out of a wall, lift it above her head, and throw it throw a car window. Dude. I'm 25, I work out, and even *I* can't pull that shit off. Her argument that Christine has "shamed" her seems to be predicated on putting all her weight on Christine's legs, so that when our dear protagonist backs away, Sylvia falls on her face. Thus she was shamed!

...I hope you're following my confusion here. Though maybe her disability is related to some kind of aneurysm...that could explain the weird "evil" eye thing...and why she's a raging lunatic. But still.

So. Christine refuses her a third extension on a mortgage that she doesn't really seem to have much intention on actually paying anyway. So what does Sylvia do? Rips off a button and spends three seconds reciting an incantation that summons up the freaking Devil himself to spend three days tormenting Christine before dragging her soul to hell. Sylvia performs this curse like its the easiest thing in the world to do. Rip off a button, say a few words, hold it up to the light, and place the button back in Christine's hands.

So...klaatu barada necktie? Seems that simple. She said the damn words. Now it is on like Donkey Kong.

The movie progresses, but really it was the curse thing that grabbed me. The lamia (its not a lamia, but that's cool...I've put up with Buffy monsters being nothing like their associated mythological namesakes, I can deal) is pretty badass. It spends three days blowing shit up, tossing Christine around like she's a rag doll, causing her nose to geiser so much blood you'd think Tarantino was a guest director, and generally making her look like a paranoid schizophrenic with some uncontrolled telekinesis.

Sacrafice doesn't work. Lamia don't eat kittens.

Exorcism doesn't work. That's what the old medium lady gets for having a student who is such a poor shot with a machete. Although that scene does, at least, treat us to a talking evil goat and a Deadite. Sadly, no boomstick was present.

If all this nonsense from her implacable demonic nemesis wasn't enough, Sylvia Ganush's spirit decides to torment Christine as well, appearing to her constantly in hallucinations and psychic attacks. Old lady just couldn't sit back and let a demon do her dirty work. Oh no! She had to tag team from beyond the grave. Now that's just bad sportsmanship.

The movie, perdictably, ends with Christine being dragged to hell, kicking and screaming, her flesh slowly burning away from her bones as dozens of hands drag her into a fiery pit in the ground. Just as her boyfriend is about to propose to her. Y'know. A final "fuck you" from that old batty gypsy woman.

So this all leads me to a simple goal in life: Do not mess with old gypsy women. They will fuck you up.

(As a note, yeah...the Romani get the shaft in this movie, where they're portrayed as drunk con artists who really don't give a shit about anyone else, and will send you to hell sooner than look at you. I'm wondering if we'll see a cultural response against Sam Raimi. Just hope nobody steals one of his buttons...)

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 12)

2009-01-01T19:40:00.003-05:00

I was arrested by the space police on Vandervilk XXVII for smuggling illegal produce. They were fine with the space drugs. They were concerned with the crocodile man I had locked in the airlock. They asked if I was returning a prisoner, I responded that no, I was in fact bringing dinner.

They didn't hold me for long. The penalty for smuggling illegal sentient foodstuffs onto Vandervilk XXVII is an hour in the space prison and a feature length space movie about why you should be a vegetarian instead. It is an old movie. They did not even try to take my ray gun. Perhaps they were dissuaded by the smell of burnt meat.

I am now a free man on Vandervilk XXVII. A free man who has been deprived of his dinner. My emerald green veins burn for need of food. Or perhaps that is simply love nun burning. I am free and green in a glorious city. Rockets scorch the skies. Gigantic aliens walk around me, but I avoid their mighty thews. Those people are just weird.

I am writing this while hunched in an alcove. It is gigantic alien rush hour. The streets have been cleared for hoof and tentacle to pound pavement. The Friendly Peanut cheers for them in Spanish, the forgotten language of the radioactive cockroach. I must get back to the heathen death phallus quickly, before the trail of Dirk Gradient grows cold.

There are clues to be had on this miserable metropolitan dust ball. I just know it. But I am down to my last vial of space drugs, and the different colored pills have broken apart in the vibrational dance of the gigantic aliens. Colors mix together. I fear the vial. It, like my ray gun, is a fearsome force in the universe, bereft of the mighty anchor of sanity. But...it is so tempting.

No. I will wait. Soon there will be food. And the heathen death phallus. For now, I will wait out the gargantuan stampede. The stones overhead shiver and groan. The burning has become an aura of fire, and I remember that it has been a long time since I was last laundered.

***

I have found a hall of self-penitent space priests. They will flagellate themselves for your sins. Their sign proclaims it in neon letters, right above their hourly rates. I cannot believe that I, Clint Corona, mighty space adventurer that I am, has been brought to this. I should be a man! I should see past the burning! But an hour ago I began to leave molten footsteps in the pavement already trodden and compressed by the giants, and I am sure this is not a good sign.

Relief comes in the form of three nearly naked space priests, one of whom is bright fuschia and whips himself with his own tentacles. They drool and giggle as they pray out for my forgiveness, speaking their words to my benighted, accursed crotch. They pray the burning rot away to the sound of slapping flesh. They laugh at my pain. They *laugh*!

My hand spasms in its clutch around at the ray gun, beginning to stun them all. But I must wait and be moderate. The last thing I want is the space police to charge me with Unlawful Assault On a Holy Space Man. That carries a bigger fine than transporting illegal sentient produce! Plus the Friendly Peanut seems to be enjoying itself, goading the space priests on as their stamina begins to falter. Oh, the humanity!

I cannot take the strain anymore. I have removed my belt to tourniquet my arm, tying it till my emerald veins stand out like like the sensuous curves of the heath death phallus' fins. The multicolored, dangerously psychotic space drugs are clutched in my fist alongside my ray gun, my hand shivering with desire. Or maybe that is just the burning again. I can't tell if the space priest prayers are working or not. I must stop writing now. The magic is about to occur.

***

The burning is gone. And I am in a blissful world. It is filled with bunny rabbits and space poodles and oodles and oodles of blistering green space noodles. The noodles have mouths that scream for their bills for prayer. I giggle and gesture emphatically with my ray gun for the noodles to be silent. The world hangs around me like a curtain of gelatin. The burning is gone, but the niggling shouting of the noodles remains.

Begone, stupid foodstuffs! Your attempts at greenness are no match for the blissful emerald of my veins! Perhaps you will be silent if I throw my space money at you!

Throwing space money seems to have succeeded, as the poodles, bunnies, and noodles all collapsed into a gleeful pile. And I ran away. I know it is just the space drugs, but this space trip is getting far, far too real. The gelatin word is parting around me. I cannot think for lack of a mind because my head has begun to detach. I can see the world from where I sit, but it is not the world in which I write this journal.

Please help. The gelatin world claws around me as I crawl through streets. My ray gun is the only real thing. Even the crooning of the Friendly Peanut has begun a terrible whispering litany of hate and destruction, the fervent screams of the evil legume torturing my blistered and bedrugged eardrums. The journal is going away now. I cannot run and gesture and write and scream at the same time. My mind cannot stand that burden. Oh god, the gelatin! I see cherry people!

***

The visions subsided just enough for me to reach the heathen death phallus. Behind me lay ruin and scorched splendor, the sky scorched with rocket smoke and angel tears. I am not sure how much of the apocalyptic scenery behind me was the drugs or how much of it was always that way. I am sure that gigantic aliens do not normally lie screaming in the street clutching the stumps of atomized limbs. So that must be the drugs talking. It is the only logical explanation. The drugs have created the strangest sensory hallucination. My ray gun is warm. That cannot be right.

Oh god. The visions have begun again. I have looked to the sky and beheld a thing of horror. A great, terrible monster falls to Vandervilk, its gaping maw coming for me. It is a horrible thing which I must escape, whether I have found leads on the location of Dirk Gradient or not.

Dirk. Gradient! That is the only answer! He has loosed these horrors on me! He is obviously directing the drug visions in a calculated attempt to drive me insane! Ah ha! But I am too clever for him! Too clever by far!

He has only succeeded in stoking my canniness! I am too canny for him! I will not succumb! I will, instead, leave Vandervilk XXVII. The burning is done, and I hunger. I will live on space drugs alone for a time before I find the next planet with a decent space diner. But needs must when the evils of the space agent attack!

I have strapped myself into the pit of the heathen death phallus' cock and the rocket engines have engaged. I hurtle forward off Vandervilk XXVII, the screams of the hallucinatory dying gigantic aliens left far behind me.

A diner is my destination. A space diner where I will find food. Then I will plan my next move. The burning is gone. And the last of the crocodile men has been left behind. Now there is only me, my ray gun, the Friendly Peanut, and the sensuous curves of the heathen death phallus. The void of space stretches out before me. And somewhere in that void...is LUNCH!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 11)

2008-11-02T01:02:00.002-04:00

The burning has not yet gone away. It sharpens my mind. I thank the burning for keeping me from ramming the heathen death phallus into a large planet. That idea was the construct of the hyper-pink space drugs. I am not a pretty girl. I am, in fact, a handsome stud.

Unfortunately this means that I have to detour around many obstacles to get to Dirk Gradient. This is not helped by the strange noises the heathen death phallus makes in the night. Perhaps I should have have defecated in that particular airlock. It might have been important.

I have become aware that the crocodile men have been following me in their tank ships. They are unhappy that I was disqualified from the space race. It serves them right. They should have told me the rules beforehand. Clint Corona never enters a competition where his ray gun would be a liability. That ray gun is my only friend.

My kidneys still ache from my last encounter with the crocodile men. This time I will have to turn my ray gun upon them, as they are obviously agents of that bastard Dirk Gradient. Dirk Gradient knows that his space pirates failed. And knows that he failed to kill me in the space race by entering all those other ships piloted by dangerous, space drug-addled space maniacs against me. So Dirk Gradient has hired the crocodile men to kill me, just like he secretly tried to poison my space flakes breakfast cereal this morning.

I have begun to suspect that the Friendly Peanut may be in collusion with Dirk Gradient. Its gibbering in the night has turned fell. It hordes my mystery pants with a fierce inhuman greed. It does not want me to learn the secrets of the mystery pants. Perhaps they contain a secret way to kill Dirk Gradient sewn into their cuffs. But that would mean that Dirk Gradient has become more than human. How can this be?!? That isn't true. That is impossible.

I must remain calm. If the crocodile men realize that I know the identity of their true master they will strike early. I must remember my canniness. I must be full of canny. To facilitate this I need to stop taking these strange death-by-ping-pong space drugs. They don't do much to me, contrary to the insane paranoia-inducing side affects that others complain about. They just make my brain buzz like a thousand bee hives and make my pores smell of used champagne and moldy goat bread. I love goat bread, but Dirk Gradient will likely try to steal it if I eat it. I wish I had a space goat.

I must prepare for the crocodile men. They will board the heathen death phallus in large numbers. They have large rifles. Their rifles are neither ray guns nor space police sissy pistols. I suspect they may fire a terrible ammunition. Perhaps something organic. I cannot stand the thought of being attacked again by a faeces gun. Those things are just gross.

...

The crocodile men boarded the heathen death phallus from their tank ship. They were tall and armored. They smoked huge cigars and ground them out on the death phallus' upholstery just to be annoying. They spoke with high pitched voices. I hate crocodile men.

The Friendly Peanut's new bathroom friend ate four of them very quickly. I must beware of that bathroom. And the surrounding floor. The beast has become bigger than expected. This reduced the rest of the crocodile men to a state of animal canniness, in which they opened doors and vaporised everything inside a room before proceeding inwards. I lost nothing of value. But the previous owners would have lamented the destruction of their food supply. Fools. Man can live on rocket liquor and space drugs alone. I am living proof. My veins are turning a disturbing shade of emerald. This can only mean I am a superman.

The first crocodile man to enter the bridge was converted into radiant light. They had no resistance to my ray gun. Even Space God has no resistance to my ray gun. Their space armor was no match for "Purify". The next crocodile man I killed by throwing a bottle of rocket liquor at him. And then converting him into radiant light. After this they became wary of me and pulled back, but not before I'd vaporised several more of them. They were becoming worried at this point.

I think they were afraid of me. I may have been foaming at the mouth. The red-brown space drugs will do that to you. I admit that my aim may have been somewhat off...I really did just want to fire some warning shots. But its so hard not to hit your target on red-brown space drugs...anything else just seems like a silly option. Only sissies and pretty girls miss. Real men take lots of red-brown space drugs and shoot things, then go out and get drunk and shoot themselves by accident, meaning to holster their weapon.

The space drugs wore off in time for parley. The crocodile men surrendered. I graciously let them live in return for all their rocket liquor, space drugs, and tentacle-monster-degreaser. I will kill the Friendly Peanut's friend tomorrow, before it kills me.

Before I accidentally converted their ship, and crew, into starshine and moonglow I forced a confession from one of the crocodile men. After shouting at him and gesticulating with my ray gun in a very reasonable manner he concurred that, yes, they had been hired by that bastard Dirk Gradient. Even he called Dirk Gradient a bastard. It must be true.

I have locked the confessed Dirk Gradient hiree in the airlock. The one where I do not defecate. He will stay there until I return him to his master. Or get hungry for something other than rocket liquor and space drugs. I may get to use the microwave of hate for something useful after all!

I have beaten your soldiers, Dirk Gradient! There is no stopping me now! Next stop, Vandervilk XXVII, to put an end to the burning and find a good recipe for crocodile!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 10)

2008-10-13T01:28:00.002-04:00

I did not win the space race. Apparently they disqualify you for atomizing your competitors once the race has begun. Who knew?

I am ready to resort to hyper-pink space drugs. They are dubious looking. You never know what will happen on a hyper-pink trip. My eyes water even looking at them. I think that these space drugs have been cut with neutron star matter. And possibly space pirate feces. But a hyper-pink bender is better than my crushing sense of failure.

The heathen death phallus sulks its way across the space lanes in defeat. I have no new rocket ship. I am stuck in this horrible vessel that stinks of space pirates. I will have to stop for fuel soon. No good can come of that, space gas stations are notorious for their scum and villainy.

I think I will fit right in.

...

I was serviced by travelling love nuns while eager space attendants refueled the heathen death phallus and wrote horrible slogans on the star dust on its sides. This is only one of the many crimes that Dirk Gradient will pay for when I find him. The love nun has left me with a burning sensation. I know from experience this will only go away if I pray for forgiveness.

Foolish love nuns. Clint Corona never prays for forgiveness! I shall endure the burning as a sign of endurance. I am stronger than the burning. I will drown it out with rocket liquor (also provided free, in theory to disinfect the love nun) and hyper-pink space drugs. Nothing can be worse than the burning. Not even believing that my liver is a small Italian opera singer trapped inside my chest by the death elves who lurk beyond the boundaries of the shaving cream veil of creation.

I am salivating now at the thought of the space drugs. I believe I may have to begin attending space addicts anonymous. But the space drugs keep me sharp...although I am at times convinced that I am so sharp that I will dull the rest of the world. I slice, I dice, I have a ray gun.

However, after the detour of space pirates and space races I am back on course to find that bastard Dirk Gradient. So I shall tell you of the space race while the hyper-pink space drugs work their way throughout my system. I am already turning neon. I'm a pretty girl.

...

The space race began as they all do. The rocket ships gleamed. I foamed at the mouth. Other pilots also on space drugs foamed at the mouth. I am such a pretty girl. The command for the race to begin went off. We raced forward, surged into the black oblivion like sperm off towards the great ovum of the universe, shot from the tip of the heathen death phallus. Which is a surprisingly fast rocket ship. I was in the lead.

I did not mean to charge the atomic lasers of the heathen death phallus. They have a hair trigger which consists of a three stage switch, a joystick, and verbal commands. So very easy to activate by accident. Oh, and they require a key which I have jury rigged from a syringe and an empty bottle of rocket liquor. I am ever so resourceful.

I accidentally vaporised an asteroid with the atomic lasers of the heathen death phallus. This seriously detoured some of my opponents, who careened into nearby stars, planets, asteroids, other ships, space stations, and space terrors from beyond in order to avoid my hair-three-stage-trigger finger. The rest of the pilots were pretty girl on too many space drugs to care. End stop. Giggle.

The world became red in front of me and blue behind. This typically means that something bad is about to happen because I have angered the laws of physics. I have attempted to wrestle them into submission with the microwave of hate, but they are full of evil animal cunning. Also, they are naked and greased. Because the laws of physics do not play fair. They play favorites.

There was, in this state, obviously no way for me to tell that the strange black object rocketing towards my front viewer was actually another ship and not a black alien horror from the depths of the red-blue shift come to devour me. So I...might have accidnetally told the heathen death phallus to vaporise it with the atomic lasers.

FWANG! FWOSSH! BZZZZRT! Atomic lasers make a satisfying noise. Not as satisfying as my ray gun, but I cannot use my ray gun in space. Otherwise the purifying beam would just keep going until it hit something. That would be irresponsible. Irresponsibility is another sign of space madness. Just because I think I'm a pretty girl doesn't make me space mad. That's just the hyper-pink space drugs talking. Tee hee.

I shifted back to normal space after vaporising my evil opponent space beast...and found that I had actually vaporised the lead ship. Oops.

So that is how I was disqualified from the space race. And ended up with my repentant burning from the services of a love nun.

Oh, and the Friendly Peanut? It laughs at my pain. It mocks me. It is all my fault, it says. It is the master of my mystery pants. I have only my well fitting sadly colored space pirate pants. Yo yo giggle ho.

I am considering just ramming the heathen death phallus through any further obstacles that come between me and Dirk Gradient. Possibly including planets. They can't be that hard.

I am coming for you, Dirk Gradient, and I am undeterred by whatever space pirates you might hire to kill me. Die die die die DIE!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 9)

2008-10-08T00:23:00.002-04:00

I have entered the heathen death phallus in a space race. I do this not for the money. I have space pirate booty. And space police paychecks. Oh no. I do this for me. And because the prize is a new rocket ship. I hate the heathen death phallus.

Exploring this new rocket ship of mine, I have found terrors. There are tentacled horrors in the bathroom. The bathroom is unusable. I have taken to defecating in the airlock. The Friendly Peanut now rules over the bathroom. It took my mystery pants with it. I am now wearing space pirate pants. They fit surprisingly well.

Amazingly, there were no space pirates left aboard the heathen death phallus when I took it as my own. A strange monster made of bedsheets assaulted me, but I reduced it to radiant light. I live safe in the knowledge that the bed monster is dead.

All this pales in comparison to what I have found. I cried tears of joy. I am still crying...or that might be my tear ducts melting. I am unsure right now. Because the space pirates had a whole room full of rocket liquor and space drugs. Space drugs in all the colors of the rainbow, including ultra-orange and infra-green. Infra-green space drugs make you think you're a twenty-seven legged platypus on steroids with a god complex. I am wary of infra-green space drugs. I have a hard enough time piloting the heathen death phallus with two arms and a ray gun.

Speaking of which, I believe that these space pirates had more arms than initially thought. Everything here requires four arms to use. This aggravates me. It truly is a heathen device.

Anyway. The race.

I learned about this race because the space pirates had already signed up for it. I was then approached by giant crocodile men in large tank ships to make sure that I participated. They said they had money riding on me. When I informed them that I was the proud new owner of the Heathen Death Phallus they laughed. Then they hit me. A lot. I wisely decided not to vaporise them. Have you ever tried to get rid of the smell of radiant crocodile?

So emboldened by threats, I set forth to the space race. I will be there soon. The Friendly Peanut is engaged in fell acts with the tentacle bathroom horrors. I have drunk too much rocket liquor. I shall have to use the airlock soon.

...

I have arrived at the space race. It is a race. In space. The entirety of the thing that can be described in the two preceding sentences. Everything else is just dodging around asteroids, small stars, black holes, and sentient space beasts the size of nebulae who eat ships like they were Friendly Peanuts. We are only snacks to greater powers.

There are approximately thirteen other ships involved in the space race. I say "approximately" because two others have already been destroyed. One was converted into starlight by an as-yet-unknown-assailant. Possibly the Man With No Name! The sixteenth ship refuses to exist and not-exist at the same time, and so tends to appear and disappear whenever the cat in its rocket engine dies.

The race will begin soon. I have taken more space drugs. I need to be sharp for this. Sharp like a space tack. On the attack. Like a space razor. With a...I hate rhyming. These space pirate space drugs make me rhyme more. They also make me interject "space" more often. I believe they are purely concentrated space madness. Space.

I grip my bottle of rocket liquor in my free hand. There is a grin on my face. I imagine I look like a hungry ghoul. My ray gun sits in my lap. The Friendly Peanut has come to sit on my shoulder, covered in tentacle monster slime. Soon the race shall begin.

Some idiot in the ship beside me is making rude gestures. Oh yes, sir! I know you! I can see your brain through the space drugs! Your evil, wicked space brain! You and your hairy friend shall soon eat my afterburners. The space race begins!

The space race begins! Onward, heathen death phallus! Onward into oblivion! Onward to the death of Dirk Gradient! SPACE!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 8)

2008-10-03T23:44:00.002-04:00

The "non-gigantic aliens" section of the rocket ship was full. I am stuck with the gigantic aliens. These people are weird. They are also, however, afraid of my ray gun. I sit in an empty row, smug in my ability to atomize them should they anger me. The giddiness continues. I love space drugs.

I have taken out the little cards in the seat in front of me. They tell me what to do in the event of an emergency. For such little cards they fold out a lot. This is space. There are many emergencies. I am right now reading what to do in the event that my organs should become sentient lifeforms bent on universal destruction. I'm in *that* part of space.

The card is useless. It does not say what to do in the event that your rocket ship and girlfriend are stolen by an evil space agent. It might, but I do not wish to unfold its thousands of layers. I have already skimmed past what to do if a Friendly Peanut escapes from its bag and attempts to conquer your clothing. There were only two words. "BE AFRAID". These made the Friendly Peanut happy.

The Friendly Peanut has become placid since entering my mystery pants. It sulks out its exile. It is rapidly becoming a Sad Peanut. I suspect this may void its warranty.

There is something strange outside my window. There are men in space suits, on space bikes, with space guns. Either my rocket ship is being robbed, or I have degenerated into space madness. That or I am having a space drug flashback.

God I hope I am having a space drug flashback.

...

I have been captured by space pirates. More specifically, my rocket ship has been captured by space pirates. I was canny, and stowed away in the bathroom. The Friendly Peanut has gone quiet. But I have taken more space drugs. And drank more rocket liquor. My nerves hum. I can see through walls.

Dirk Gradient sent these space pirates. That is the only explanation. They cannot have come across this rocket ship by chance. That bastard is trying to kill me. He knows. HE KNOWS. But I am canny. I am fully of canniness. He will not catch a canny space adventurer such as myself.

The bastard Dirk Gradient must fear me to send such fearsome troops. Paying space pirates is risky business. Sometimes they come back once the job is done and cut you into the pieces to sell over the intarweb. They have ways of stuffing your parts down the many mighty tubes. But I will let him think that I am dead. Then his fear will wane. And then I will unleash the microwave of hate.

But to do this I must shoot the space pirates. If I stun them they will tell me where Dirk Gradient is hiding. He must be hiding. In a damp, dark cave with only my great rocket ship for company. The Friendly Peanut has begun to giggle softly. He knows who these space pirates are. There will be no reprieve.

...

Well. I failed at stunning the space pirates. Their space suits were stun-proof. So I had to purify the lot of them. Those space-guns of their's might have been dangerous, after all. I still do not know if my stun setting works.

I have been given a special upgraded seat. On the space pirate rocket ship. It is a sad patch job. But it is *my* rocket ship now. Filled with space pirate booty. Strangely, the other rocket ship's crew did not want their new hero and savior aboard. I was not tempted by nude women, nor was I offered free rocket liquor. This may be because I accidentally reduced a few gigantic aliens to radiant light. Accidentally. They were very hard to shoot around. Those people are just weird.

I had to ride a space bike to get to the space pirate rocket ship. I hate space bikes. I also had to wear a space suit, but the rocket crew were all too happy to give me one of their's. I also demanded a small one, for the Friendly Peanut. It is having a wonderful time.

The microwave of hate purrs into life. A rocket ship of my own brings me ever closer to killing Dirk Gradient and recovering my one, true rocket ship. Not this horrible heathen death phallus I am piloting.

Death to the heathen death phallus. Death to Dirk Gradient. Long live the microwave of hate!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 7)

2008-09-30T00:54:00.003-04:00

The rocket shuttle brought me back to the city. I was the only one onboard. The smell of rocket liquor overpowered the poo gas. I no longer stink of methane people.

The rocket shuttle crew thanked me for not shooting them out of the sky. I imagine that I must look like a crazed lunatic to them. I have drunk my own urine. I have eaten rocks given to me by the Man With No Name. And I no longer wear pants. Instead I carry the new pants given to me by the space police as a status symbol. I will not wear them until they, and I, have been properly laundered. I do not trust unlaundered pants given to me by strangers. I do not know where they have been.

I am sad, however. The space police demanded the Man With No Name's ray gun. They said it was a thing called "evidence". Bah. The microwave of hate cares not for their space evidence. But I must continue to be polite. Otherwise they will send me to a space doctor. I do not want to be probed. I do not have enough orifices for space doctoring probes. I do not want to have a forehead sphincter. Now I only have my ray gun, a pair of unlaundered mystery pants, and my old pants which smell of rocket liquor overlaying poo gas, and are ruled by the Friendly Peanut. I have not checked the pockets to see what it has done now. I suspect that it has bred.

I now wait to be questioned by the space police. I will assure them that I have killed the Man With No Name and that I am innocent of all charges of property destruction. Then they will pay me. Then I will ask them for their help in locating that nice young man, Dirk Gradient.

Then I will *kill* Dirk Gradient. Who is neither nice nor young. But I must be polite. Space madness.

...

My mystery pants have been laundered. Somewhere in the process the Friendly Peanut migrated into them. It was banished from my old pants by the bastard spawn of its own loins. Friendly Peanuts can apparently breed with the...leavings...of radioactive roaches. From these humble roots do Esperanto-spewing monstrosities emerge. Who knew?

I now wear the mystery pants. I have also been laundered by the space police while I spoke with them. They were, are, intimated by my great ray gun. They have only their sissy pistols. Space police are not allowed to carry real guns. Otherwise there would be no crime to police. So they fear my ray gun, and fear the card that says I carry it for religious reasons. None have the courage to ask what religion that is. Even I do not have the courage to ask myself.

They have agreed to look for that goddammed bastard Dirk Gradient for me. Their mighty space intarwub is mighty. It has space tubes that travel between dimensions. The result is that the space intarwub is filled with pornographic material from a thousand different stars. I sometimes cannot tell the pornography from the political campaigning. I do not have the correct number of orifices to comprehend it. I do not want a forehead sphincter.

The space police have found out about the mighty exploits of Dirk Gradient. They show me pictures. He is in my rocket ship. Cindy the Girl-Computer is beside him. I have restrained myself from testing my ray gun against the space police. They are many. I am one. It would be an unfair fight. No sissy pistols can stand against my ray gun.

But good has come of this. I have held onto my sanity and learned of Dirk Gradient's whereabouts. It will require another rocket ship ride. I have requested to be seated in the "non-gigantic aliens" section. Those people are just weird.

I am giddy with excitement. Or maybe that is just the new round of space drugs I have taken. But giddiness abounds. The microwave of hate hums in my mind.

I want to stick Dirk Gradient in the microwave of hate. Is that wrong?

I have a ray gun. The space police stole my second. I will travel. Just not with elephant people. The space police paid me. If only they knew what I was about to do.

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 6)

2008-09-24T00:54:00.002-04:00

I am very hot.

I am not talking about my body. I am a sexy beast of a man who has been recently laundered, even if I currently smell like a sewer. But I digress. I am talking about the weather.

I am very hot. Because I am in the desert. I am in the desert because the Man With No Name shot down the rocket shuttle I was in. His ray gun must truly be mighty. I am the only survivor of the crash. I am the only one who drank his rocket alcohol. I am also the only one on space drugs. I can only credit these two substances for my survival. How else would I have possibly managed to pick the rocket shuttle filled with soft bag-bellied methane moon people?

This journal entry is being written while I hide under a rough lean-to built from a rocket fin and the stretched out rubber skins of three fellow passengers. They weren't using them anymore. In the distance I can see the mountain where the Man With No Name shot down my rocket shuttle. Unfortunately the space drugs cannot decide if I am at the foot of the mountain, or if I am twenty miles away from it.

The Friendly Peanut is of no help. It tells me this is the will of the Old Ones. Then it tells my pocket lint to build a pyramid in its image. It dispensed with pocket diplomacy and declared itself god emperor of my pants. I hate my life.

...

I am now at the foot of the mountain. It was actually very close. The space drugs make close things seem far away, and far away things seem close. I can almost see that smug expression on Dirk Gradient's face now. He is laughing at me. He knows the desert sun has destroyed my laundering. He knows I have drunk my own urine to stay alive in the 25 minutes since the crash. He knows all these things. I hate him.

But I must first kill the Man With No Name, otherwise I will never survive in this wasteland. If I do not survive, I cannot kill Dirk Gradient. I must kill Dirk Gradient. Thus I must survive. My hate gives me strength. The rocket liquor gives me courage. The space drugs give me strange hallucinations in which I am purple and the sun is insulting me in high school French. The space drugs make the trip more comforting.

Now I must go up the mountain and face the Man Who Has No Name. I may be dead when you read this. If so, please pump my bloated corpse full of space drugs and rocket liquor. Then mail my bloated corpse to Dirk Gradient. Payment on delivery. I will have my revenge from the afterlife.

...

The Man With No Name has given me dinner. He is talking about his kidneys The Man With No Name is obsessed with kidneys. This is why he eats only desert weeds. And rocks. The Man With No Name eats many rocks. He wears nothing. He is bright fuschia in color, with purple hair and small antennae. His only friend is a bottle of rocket liquor. I feel his pain.

He has long since run out of space drugs, and has now settled into being happily insane. His ray gun is powerful, but without his space drugs he is powerless. I could overpower him. But I must be polite, otherwise he might think I have space madness.

When the time is right I will shoot the Man With No Name and steal his ray gun. But until then I will munch on my rocks. They do not taste good. I suspect that he ate these same rocks yesterday. However, given that I smell only of poo gas I do not know how anything tastes. I will force the rocket shuttle's airline to pay for my laundering. I will require much laundering.

...

The Man With No Name is dead. I never even found out what his actual name was. Unfortunately I did not shoot him, so I still do not know if the other settings on my ray gun work. He choked on a rock that he unwisely did not attempt to wash down with rocket liquor. Rocket liquor will dissolve deck plates. It will make rocks edible. Rocks are not normally edible. This is why the Man With No Name is dead.

I have been attempting to contact the space police for some time using my personal communication device. They finally told me a car was coming by with my reward. And pants. Pants free of legumic control. I will have pants not ruled by a tooth-hat wearing Friendly Peanut.

The space police have given me my money and my pants. They would not give me a lift back to the city because I smell like poo gas. However they did say that the rocket line will be sending a smaller shuttle out now, and could I please not blow this one up?

I have taken stock of my life.

I have not one, but *two* ray guns now. I have traveled...and unfortunately am now stuck until I can travel back to where I traveled from. And I have been paid. I have much money now. This will make the next leg of my trip easier.

My next stop will be at the space police station. To inquire after a certain Gradient, Dirk. Space agent. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Currently mine is a solid block of ice at sub-zero temperatures. It is time to bring out the microwave of hate. Long live the microwave of hate.

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 5)

2008-09-18T01:23:00.002-04:00

Antarus IV has a problem. Aside from being terminally overcrowded, and smelling of rancid yak butter, apparently some maniac has been reducing citizens to radiant light. But never fear, faithful Antarian Fourians! Clint Corona, freshly laundered space man of space action, is on the case!

My initial attempts at discovering the culprit have not gone well. My initial questions were met with resistance. This resistance was, in turn, met with my foot. I have only one suspect. He will answer my questions once he has found his teeth. He is being assisted by the Friendly Peanut. Its alliance with my pocket lint fell apart. Religious reasons.

Having recovered his teeth, my sole witness has begun reinserting them into his nostrils. Antarian fourians keep their teeth in their nostrils. Antarus IV once had a major problem with airborn insects. A whole ecosystem evolved in the mucus membrane of its dominant life forms. It is best not to think that my sandwiches were made to be consumed nasally. The edge of the space drugs has begun to wear off. I am not sure my stomach could bear the thought of nose food.

The witness can now speak. He does not need nostril teeth for this, but I am a polite man. My boots are tipped with steel, my ray gun is in my hand. I am dangerous, and freshly laundered. And polite. I must not forget polite. Forgetting to be polite is a sign of space madness.

While I write this he is telling me about what he saw. A raving maniac in leather chaps began shooting anyone who looked dangerous. He claimed that they were trying to steal his kidneys. This is sad. By the description, I do not believe that his species has kidneys. Trans-speciesism is a terrible mental illness. What kind of universe must we live in where a perfectly rational being might forget which set of internal organs he is in possession of?

This is puzzling. I did not arrive on Antarus IV before this morning. And even the combined effects of rocket liquor, space drugs, and talking sandwiches cannot have sent me back in time. Thus the only conclusion is that someoneelse on Antarus IV has a ray gun with a "Purify" setting. This is dangerous. It can only be one man...whose name I have forgotten. The Man With No Name is a dangerous and canny foe. He makes Kaz look like a milk deliveryman (...which he actually was, before he won the space lottery and changed his last name to "The Conquerer"). He is not, of course, on par with Dirk Gradient. But Dirk Gradient is a special kind of evil who cannot be described in terms of leather chaps and misplaced kidneys.

This makes my job very easy. The Man With No Name has obviously procured very powerful space drugs. He is seeing imaginary kidney thieving prostitutes. I have had similar visions, mainly while engaged in coitus with actual kidney thieving prostitutes. He will attempt to remedy this by stripping to his underwear and hiding in a small cave with only his ray gun and a bottle of rocket liquor. It is exactly what I would do. Eventually he will ride out the space drug high, and will emerge with bleary eyes and jumbled thoughts. Then I will strike.

My plan hinges on one crucial factor: The slim hope that my ray gun has a setting other than "Purify". I am uncomfortable testing this theory on nearby garbage cans. I do not wish to cause undue property damage. That would be illegal. Nor will I test it on the witness. That would be murder which, while not technically illegal, would be in bad taste. But testing it on the Man With No Name is space justice. So say the space police!

The witness has given me all his space drugs in return for me not kicking his nose teeth out again. I am sure that I am grinning. My face would not hurt this much otherwise. The Friendly Peanut has returned to my pocket with one of the witness' molars as a little crown. It has reentered negotiations with my pocket lint from this superior point of diplomatic authority.

Now I need only find a rocket shuttle to take me to the smallest, darkest, dankest cave on Antarus IV. Then I shall acquire the Man With No Name's ray gun. Then I shall be twice as likely as to kill Dirk Gradient when I find him!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 4)

2008-09-15T18:23:00.003-04:00

The space police came to talk to me. They had heard that the famous Clint Corona was in town. I am now famous. After I accidentally atomized Kaz I had myself laundered. They knew that a freshly laundered man is dangerous, and so they have hired me to track down a dangerous fugitive. They believe he may be one of my archenemies.

You see, for some time now some maniac has been turning other people into radiant light. Most recently he was seen destroying my office. This troubles me. Of course, officers, I will find this dangerous lunatic. My office was my home. It was also home to radioactive cockroaches who violated my only pair of pants. This shall be avenged!

To assist my investigation I require space drugs. Thankfully, I have beaten up a dealer I found in the space police holding cell. He has told me where I might find space drugs. He said he was afraid of my ray gun. Smart men fear my ray gun. That bastard Dirk Gradient will learn why they fear my ray gun. My ray gun is fearsome.

The remaining Friendly Peanut croons in my pocket as I write this. I found another diner and was served another talking sandwich. It screamed when I killed it with a plastic spork. Then I seared its precious bread-flesh with my ray gun and ate it like a cave man, carving off haunches of unpronounceable alien meats. I no longer hunger.

...

I beat down the dealer I was recommended to. Then I stole his space drugs and gave him to the space police for dealing in space drugs. I am now a public hero. In only one day I have killed a talking sandwich, put a dangerous space drug dealer behind bars, and atomized a wanted space felon. It occurs to me how many words in our culture have "space" attached to them. I believe it is space madness. I shall have to see a space doctor about it.

I have veins full of space drugs now. I can hear atoms hum. I can hear neutrons whistle. I can hear that, somewhere far off in the universe, Dirk Gradient is violating some terrible rocket ship prostitute. *I* should be violating that prostitute, not Dirk Gradient, dammit! But I wouldn't have to if he hadn't stolen Cindy the Girl-Computer away from me. But this is not me, it is the drugs talking. The drugs help me focus my hate. I must focus my hate on the man the space police have asked me to find.

I start with all the lists of men reduced to radiant light on Antarus IV. Apparently conversion to radiant light is the third leading cause of death, behind asphyxiation on Friendly Peanuts, and flying Cannibal Rockets. Antarus IV is a sanity shocked hellhole. But I will follow this list of names. And I will find the culprit. And when I do, I shall discover whether or not my ray gun is still stuck on "Purify"!

I have a ray gun! I have travelled! And now...and now someone is paying me!

My head sings with space drugs. The surviving Friendly Peanut begins to plot with my pocket lint to take over Antarus IV. And soon I will steal back my rocket ship and mount Dirk Gradient's head on the hull!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 3)

2008-09-13T01:19:00.004-04:00

We are still in space. The crack has not widened, but my face has made intimate contact with it. I know its every twist. I can feel a slight edge of vacuum trying to remove my facial hair. And my face. In a vacuum, you cannot smell wet moose. This is how I know I am not dead yet. I smell wet moose.

The elephant woman beside me has begun eating. Her snacks scream for mercy before she masticates them between huge teeth. The package reads "Friendly Peanut Snacks". It advertises that they compliment you on your oral hygiene. They are snacks that will love you till you crush them between your molars. But "Friendly Peanut Snacks" do not work as they were meant to. In the night many snackers find their stomachs whispering horrible things. One man's chest was colonized by a cult of Friendly Peanut fragments worshiping his esophagus as their Savior.

I have curled around my liquor. It is almost gone. The flight attendants will soon inject us with more liquor, mainlining alcohol to our brains. This will render us susceptible to their terrible overtures. Many men will enter the bathrooms never to be seen again. But the flight attendants will feast well.

I should never have flown Cannibal Rockets.

...

We have landed. I have told the space police I do not know where the elephant woman beside me has gone. No, officers, I cannot account for why my window has been plugged by a great gray foot. I swear, it was like that when I got there. My, what shiny badges you have.

They know that a freshly laundered man full of rocket ship alcohol is not to be trifled with. They have let me stumble off into this brave new world, hundreds of light years from my departure point. It is only noon. I have begun to crave a sandwich ever since the single remaining Friendly Peanut in the bag crept into my pocket. It has begun to tell me about the glories of the Old Ones, and the tentacle horrors that were birthed in ancient nebulae. It tells me about how it is the sperm of an old god, waiting to inseminate a living host.

Friendly Peanuts are pathological liars. I have seen Friendly Peanuts made. That is why I will not eat them. Nothing produced from the droppings of a nanotech rabbit can possibly be good. I do not like my food to speak.

I write this as I wait for my sandwich. A man pressed himself against the window of the diner when I arrived. He stared at me. He wore a large, floppy hat and a bright purple coat. I didn't recognize him at first. It was when he pulled his great purple ray gun that I recognized him as Kazzzz'ort: The Conquerer.

Kaz was an old enemy. I take him out for drinks every time I stop him from blowing up the universe. I beat him many times. I have bought him many drinks. He owes me money. But that was before Dirk Gradient stole my rocket ship. I have no time for men like Kazzz'ort: The Conquerer! That is why I shot him. My draw is very fast. It helps that I try to never let go of my ray gun. Ever. Not even in the shower.

I shot Kaz through the window. My sandwich is free because I transformed a man into radiant energy. I am beginning to wonder if my ray gun has any setting other than "Purify". It seems that everything I shoot turns to light. I will have to test this problem at some point in more secure surroundings. Until that time I should be careful. Dirk Gradient may know I am onto him if reports keep coming in of a freshly laundered man turning his opponents into sunshine.

I eat my sandwich as I write this. I know this planet well. It is Antarus IV. It is where I shall begin looking for Dirk Gradient.

You know what I will do when I find him. Then I will no longer have to ride rocket ships beside elephant women and cannibal stewardesses. My sandwich is inviting. It speaks to me. I have lost my appetite.

In my pocket, the Friendly Peanut begins to croon out a prayer to an unpronounceable god.

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 2)

2008-09-10T01:09:00.003-04:00

I have left my office behind me. I did not like that office. The radioactive roaches insulted me as I packed. In Spanish. I do not speak Spanish. Nobody except radioactive roaches speak Spanish since Spain was nuked from orbit. Just to be sure.

The office is also gone now, just like Spain. I hit it with the "Purify" setting, and now there is just a smoking crater where it used to be. People are looking at me funny. Perhaps it is because I have just vapourised an office. Perhaps it is because I am carrying my pants over my shoulder, and am counting my money. I must have the pants laundered first. The roaches did...things...in them. Terrible, terrible things.

Overhead great neon buildings glow sullenly. Neon flashing buildings used to kill more people than drugs, wars, or my ray gun. They created awful, horrible seizures in the backs of the brains of rocket ship pilots. The buildings don't flash anymore. There is no law against them flashing. There just isn't any more power for them. A rocket ship pilot had a temporal lobe seizure and crashed into the emergency backup plant that all the neon buildings were illegally tapped into.

...

I have now had my pants laundered. People are looking at me more normally. This might also be because I had myself laundered in the process. I am now gloriously clean. I am now as clean as the day that Dirk Gradient stole my rocket ship. My hate for Dirk Gradient keeps me young, but it does not remove the need for regular bathing. If only hate would keep me clean. Then I would never have to be laundered again.

My laundry stub entitles me to one free rocket shuttle to the space port. Once they have laundered you they never want you back. I wonder if Cindy the Girl-Computer left me because of the time I asked her to launder me. But I will not dwell upon Cindy. No, I will dwell upon my good fortune.

With a validated rocket permit they let me onto the rocket shuttle without asking to check my ray gun. I have a card in my wallet stating that I must carry it. For religious reasons. Most people do not ask. I tell them that "Purify" is a religious experience that I cannot share with living beings. They believe me, because I have a righteous look in my eye.

I am beginning to wonder if maybe I wasn't driven a little crazy by Dirk Gradient stealing my rocket ship. Is it wrong that whenever I close my eyes I dream of spacing Dirk Gradient? This cannot be wrong. I will have my revenge.

...

The rocket shuttle has landed. They have given me free liquor. They say that I will need it to survive my next rocket voyage. The great, gleaming phallus-like rocket ship stands before me, the elevator extending from it like a giant inviting tongue. The penis of space wants to eat me before it ejaculates me into the ether. This is not a comforting thought. This is why they have given me liquor.

Aboard the rocket ship I am strapped in and well liquored before they count down the interstellar rocket firing. I am wedged against a bulkhead. My window has a crack in it. I am worried about the crack, but I am a Space Adventurer! Dirk Gradient, puny Space Agent that he is, would worry about the crack. But I shall not!

...Instead I shall worry about the great elephantine she-beast that has taken the seat next to me. She smells of wet moose and her bulk has embeded me into the bulkhead. Is it in my mind, or has the crack gotten wider? Perhaps God will take mercy and swallow me into space. My frozen corpse will drift through the cosmos until it lodges firmly into the stabilizer of the rocket ship that Dirk Gradient stole from me. And then Dirk Gradient will run into a sun. HAH! That will be my final revenge.

The rocket ship has cleared atmo now. We are in the black, and the crack has not yet sucked me into space. But the elephant woman next to me is asking over and over again where her peanuts are. She is weightless and has no peanuts. This cannot be good. I sip my liquor through a straw and try to avoid the thought of how her weight will crush me in zero-gravity. The pilot engages the interstellar rockets, and we are propelled into the cosmos at fifteen times the speed of light.

I am coming for you, Dirk Gradient! I will have my revenge!

I have my ray gun! I am travelling! You *will* pay me!

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me!

2008-09-07T01:46:00.002-04:00

Racing across the universe on his interstellar rocket ship!
Saving damsels in distress! Fighting terrible space menaces!
No job is too big! No universal conquerer too powerful!
With his plucky assistant, Cindy the Girl-Computer by his side!
Dirk Gradient, Space Agent! Saving the universe, one dollar at a time!

I hate Dirk Gradiant. He has a rocket ship. He won the rocket ship from me in a poker game. That was my rocket ship. I liked that rocket ship.

He also has my girlfriend. Cindy the Girl-Computer and I had dated for years. But Dirk told her about that time he'd gotten me drunk and I'd been violated by an Antarus space floozy. It was only the one time. I was very, very drunk. Now Cindy the Girl-Computer is Dirk's sidekick. She makes more money that way, she says, and doesn't have to sleep with a man who was violated by one of Antarus' infamous triple membered prostitutes.

All I have is my ray gun, this notebook, and the dregs of a fifth of scotch. I have no pants. My pants were stolen from me while I slept off the rest of the scotch. I suspect the radioactive cockroaches in the walls. They hate me. They say so when I try to get them to pay their rent.

Soon I will liberate my pants by cheerfully blowing apart my walls. My ray gun has five settings. Shock. Stun. Kill. Obliterate. Purify. On the last setting it reduces solid objects to radiant energy. The cockroaches fear my ray gun. I fear my ray gun. Dirk Gradient *wishes* he'd won my ray gun. But I am crafty, and would not place it on the table where his filthy Space Agent hands could touch it.

I have managed to liberate my pants. And the cockroaches have agreed, at gun point, to pay their rent. This money will get me off this filthy rock. From there I will go forth to reclaim my rocket ship from Dirk Gradient. Then I will return to my former life.

I have many enemies. They will no doubt try to stop me from reclaiming my rocket ship. But I will not be stopped. No one can stop me. That rocket ship is mine, and once aboard it I can cheerfully jettison Dirk Gradient out the nearest airlock, and let Cindy off at the nearest space-pirate infested planet before going off to fight evil again.

My name is Clint Corona. I have a ray gun. I will travel. Please pay me to solve your problems.

I am in the mood for silly science fiction

2008-09-04T03:32:00.002-04:00

Ignore the laws of physics. Hide Schroedinger's box under the bed (the cat will either come out for air...or it won't). Replace all Einstein posters with Heinlein, Asimov, and Zelazny (...I need to re-read my Amber books next). Then proceed to pretend that Star Trek, Star Wars, and every other serious science fiction program never existed.

You have entered a realm where space is funny. Where distance is never measured in anything less than the millions of miles, and speed is relative only to humor and plot. And possibly how drunk the pilot is.

I am in the mood for silly science fiction. I partially blame Megan Rose Gedris over at I Was Kidnapped by Lesbian Pirates from Outer Space for this mood. But its also been getting at me ever since I saw that Sci-Fi was remaking Flash Gordon, and after watching a lot of Babylon 5 on my new portable DVD/iPod-enlarger player (oddly called the iLuv [don't ask]). My mind is a swirling vortex.

The worlds of Adelaide Fetch and Vincent Verde are fun to run around in. Poltergeist PIs and cybernetic street ops are fun and all...but I have always had an overenthusiastic love of comedy.

...remind me to tell you about the first 5 pages of script I wrote for a comic entitled "The VEGAS VANGUARD in 'RED KRISTMAS'". Actually, just plain remind me to talk about the Vegas Vanguard at any point, period. And learn the glories of Cosmic Wayne Newton.

Silly science fiction will be coming soon. I feel inspired.

...also it means I don't have to do serious research into...well...anything, really.

Excelsior!

Lost Miracles

2008-08-30T00:45:00.005-04:00

I got a job today. I got it because of what I am, and what I can do. I got this job because of what my government did to me.

It all started with a simple idea that some asshole at the Pentagon came up with: Make one soldier capable of replacing a thousand. They'd have laughed it off if one of the eggheads hadn't said that he had an idea for how to do it. So they made the Miracle Soldier Program, and that's where I fit into it.

Miracle Soldiers. MiraSols. Bionic Men. They only made a thousand of us. Handpicked from SEALS, Green Berets, Marines, Delta Force, Combat Controllers. Soldiers who could be relied on to get the job done with a minimum of conscience. They said they'd make us stronger, faster, smarter, powerful enough to replace whole divisions. So they shipped us off to a lab under the Rockies, and they changed us.

I don't remember much about the surgery. Bits and pieces. Fever dreams. I remember waking up on the table and seeing what they were putting into my arm. I got a good look once at the stuff they replaced some of my skin with. It looks like skin, feels like skin, but you can solder it back together and its tougher than Kevlar. Mostly I just remember the pain. The worst pain I'd ever felt. Pain that went on forever...except for the places that I couldn't feel at all, where they'd replaced something human with something metal. My right arm doesn't feel pain anymore, its just a complex network of pressure, heat, and texture sensors.

When they'd remade us, retrained us, they put us into the field. First Iraq. Then Afghanistan, Iran, North Korea. I was there when we sanitized Pyongyang. I watched my commanding officer put a flechette round in the head of Kim Yong-il and Kim Yong-nam from a micro-assault cannon implanted in his left shoulder. We were relentless. I lost count of how many people I killed. They just became a blur. I killed so many. Killed, and killed, and killed.

Then one day they told us to stand down. The Security Council, NATO, the European Union...they wouldn't stand by anymore and let America take over the world. Especially not after an overzealous MiraSol hacked his brain into a Chinese defense computer and turned Beijing into a glowing crater. The eyes of the world were on the United States. They couldn't kill us, but the only real demand that the world community could issue was to request that the MiraSols be stood down permanently, that we be removed from the Army's ranks.

There weren't many of us when it happened. We'd started dying the second they put us on the ground. We were tough alright. Skeletal structures reinforced with titanium and ceramics. Muscles interwoven with spider-silk fibers that conducted nerve impulses faster. Holographic defense screen projectors built into our chests, and skin that could stop most high caliber firearms, not to mention radiation, extreme temperatures, and replacement lungs that processed oxygen out of water, and filtered contaminants out of the air. We were the perfect killing machines. But we died when the fighting started, and we couldn't be replaced.

The Miracle Soldier project cost billions, and it was meant as a test. It takes 3 years to make a MiraSol, although we were the only generation made. The first year was spent training the body and the mind. Special diets, vicious exercise regimes, constant psychological and neurological testing and tweaking. Only half the soldiers put into the program made it to the second year. But by the end of it we were as ready as we'd ever be.

It took 6 months of surgery and chemo to remake us. They did it bit by bit, piece by piece. An enormous hospital ward of soldiers all under one part of the process or another. When they got to soldier 1000, they went back and started working on soldier 1. It took another 6 months to retrain us, teaching our bodies to cope with the implants. We had to learn how to walk again, how to hold a spoon, how to just hold a conversation with a regular human being. But the Army made good on its promise: we were everything they said we'd be, and more.

They made us stronger, able to lift at least a ton without stress. They put computers in our brains, let us process hundreds of pieces of information at once independent of our regular thoughts. They heightened our senses, let us see in infrared, ultraviolet, ultrasound, sonar. We could plug our brains into a computer and run it faster than a human operator ever could. We could outpace most small cars on foot, and could clear several dozen feet in a single jump. And they built weapons into us. Mostly projectile firearms, micro-flechette guns and small explosive projectors. But they also put masers, cutting lasers, sonic cannons, and electrical stun devices into us. By the end of the process we were fifty pounds heavier.

It took another year after that to teach us to be soldiers again. We only lost a small handful to psychological problems...most of those manifested later. We learned to fight as a unit, to use our weapons in concert with regular equipment and regular forces. We trained, and trained. We'd train for days at a time without sleep, piggybacking our meat into the metal in our heads, loading hundreds of hours of training into our computers in a single go. And by the end of it, we were the deadliest living creatures on the planet.

But for everything we had in us, for all our training, out of our original thousand, only three hundred were left when we were stood down. Of those, about 50 killed themselves. They couldn't stand the idea of becoming normal again. You see, the human body can't generate enough power to run the systems in a MiraSol. Field batteries, the power packs implanted in us, only store a 72 hour charge, and in emergency situations a satellite network could beam "transit mass" (some kind of energized fuel source) into us to keep us running in the field. Without those power sources, we were just tougher, stronger human beings. Our biological electricity would keep the base implants running. The limbs, the organs. But none of the backup systems, none of the weapons.

We signed non-disclosure agreements. We agreed never to talk. And they let us go on meager military pensions, our names stricken from the record. Miracle Soldier Program, Mr. Secretary General? What Miracle Soldier Program?

So now there are 250 of us out there on the streets of an America that doesn't need us anymore, on a planet that doesn't want us. We scrounge power where we can, storing it between uses. Some of my brothers and sisters in arms have gone home, tried to start new lives. But they can't leave the country. The government won't allow a foreign power to get their hands on a MiraSol, even a deactivated one.

Me? I'm still a soldier. For a price. Its the only way I know how to get by.

I just got a job the other day. From a member of the Yakuza. They want me to find a man who stole some very valuable information from them. They're willing to make it worth my while. Enough money to live on for quite some time.

My name is Vincent Verde. Its going to be a glorious 2032.

Oh thank god, there's an end in sight

2008-08-29T21:28:00.003-04:00

Finally announced that I will be stepping down as VST Awakening Toronto in December. I gotta admit, its a very freeing feeling.

I've put a lot of work into the Camarilla over the last 3 years...and I think to an extent its been to the detriment of some of my other work. I've had such a very singular focus on writing for the local game that I haven't been doing much actual writing on the side. Only 4 more months of having to do that, thank god.

I admit, though, that I enjoy writing plot and running games. But 3 years (well, 2.5 really) is quite a long while, and it'll be good to just blow off some steam come January and not have to worry about putting a game together every month. That'll be someone else's problem!

Still. I notice that my focus for game itself has shifted towards more of an artsy/theater point of view. I'm kind of regretting not getting involved with more student theater in university. My excuse was always "I can never remember my lines", but I think that really was just an excuse. Still. Missing not having hunt out with the theater crowd, because now I'm thinking of game in a very dramatic sense.

All live action games consist of two groups: Storytelling Staff and Player Cast. I've gotten to love the word "storyteller", because it really is the function of the person running the game to set out the story being told. However, to relationship between ST team and player cast is a symbiotic one, its a state of give and take. Both sides *must* say "Yes" to each other, even if its "Yes, but".

As time has gone on, I've moved more away from dice rolls and more into the essence of the mechanics and their place in the story. Recent scenes (especially combat scenes) that I've run have gone quite smoothly because I've just stopped rolling. I've use narration, and only narration, asking only three questions:
1) What do you want to accomplish?
2) What are you willing to give up/lose to accomplish it?
3) Is there anything really cool or character-defining that you would like to put in here?

After these combat has just run...smoothly. Very smoothly, and has really hit on the two things that need to be present for a good game: Enjoyment of the player cast, and innovation by the ST team (wherein the ST uses the information given by the players, and works in collaboration with the player cast, in order to tell a story).

I'm being reminded of the only episode of Samurai Jack that I can actually remember. Its a bunch of kids sitting in a big auditorium, waiting to be told about the glory of Aku. These 3-4 kids start telling stories about Jack, and how he would defeat Aku, each adding in bits and pieces to the story. At any given time one kid is telling the broad narration, but its a collaborative effort between all of them.

...it also has my favorite line to randomly shout: "And then they FIGHT!" *Ahem*

I'll be happy to no longer run the local game, but at the same time I think I've really learned a valuable lesson in the last 6-8 months from it that has enhanced my experience of the game as a player and as a storyteller. ...Unfortunately its also made me somewhat critical of STs who focus on a more rules-heavy style, but eh, whatcha gonna do?

4 more months. 4 more games. I'm counting the days.

Excelsior!

Derek Burrow, HBA

2008-06-20T01:13:00.003-04:00

I graduated today. 3.1 GPA, Honors Bachelor of Arts with a double Major in Classical Civilizations and English.

It was *AWESOME*. Long procession, robes, etc. I...lack words at the moment to describe it, save to quote Kung Fu Panda by stating that there is no price for awesomeness.

More tomorrow, perhaps. When I'm feeling more articulate.

Excelsior!

Overheard in Toronto

2008-06-04T16:48:00.001-04:00

Guy in a business suit, standing out the Revenue Canada offices, talking to his other buddies in suits: "...I like girls who like girls."

Two women walking past: "So do we!"

Not now, son, I'm making CAKE!!!

2008-06-04T11:22:00.004-04:00

I made cake last night. At around 10pm. No, I really don't know why.

But at least it wasn't stolen by Lex Luthor. That would be terrible.

I just decided I was going to make a cake. Truthfully, I'd been considering it the day before anyway. I was thinking maybe a peach, apricot, and nectarine upside down cake, but I lacked brown sugar and was too much of a cheap bastard to go out and buy some. Also, I was low on flour, so only had enough to make the recipe half sized. Which turned out to be a good thing...becuase jesus christ is that a huge recipe! Holy fuck.

Ahem.

Basic recipe was an orange chiffon cake (being a cake made using oil and beaten egg whites rather than butter...no anywhere near as girly as it sounds) out of a huge Good Housekeeping recipe book that I got as a gift a while back. I made half the recipe, and substituted fresh apple cider in place of the orange juice, as well as adding a bit of cinnamon. I finished it off by placing a thin layer of batter around the bottom, and then layering it over with slices of apricots.

Holy shit did that thing rise. I'd forgotten just how much chiffon cakes rise in the oven (it rose to form a dome approximately that was twice as high as the pan). It smelled *incredible*, though, and cooked all the way through without incident. Turned out nice, tall, and quite moist and fluffy inside. Apricots didn't turn out so great, though, and I was disappointed by their performance in the cake. Next time I really *should* invest in the brown sugar to do a proper upside down caramel cake...and also use LOTS more fruit.

Taste is a little on the bland side, but that's pretty normal for chiffon cakes, since they don't have any butter in them. Apple taste carries through somewhat, though, as does the flavor of the orange zest. Cinnamon doesn't add much flavor here, but gives it a nice aroma.

For a spontaneous cake that I made from adapting a recipe at 10pm on a Tuesday night, though, its pretty damn good! Also not bad for the first cake I've made in 5 months.

I'd post a picture, but as soon as it cooled I cut it up, wrapped it up, and stuck two individual quarters in the freezer, whilst keeping the other half to eat. Errr...which is now mostly eaten. I think next time I do this recipe I may skip the apricots (or put in a variety of fruit and the proper caramel base), slice it through the middle, add some jam, and then cover the whole thing with frosting.

I hereby dub this "the poor boy's cake" (as I could get about 8 decent servings from it at a total cost of *maybe* $4 for the whole cake, so about 50 cents per serving).

Excelsior!

Tales From the Waydown, part 1

2008-06-03T01:20:00.003-04:00

Yes, I'm finally posting the damn things. I need to get back into writing. Haven't written anything non-Cam based in months. Been burnt out on the job search, distracted by all sorts of things. Lost discipline, lost will, need to begin fresh.

...so let us begin. Excelsior.

Tales from the Waydown
Chapter 1. In Which Our Protagonist Fails To Eat Lunch

I’d been hit by a car on my way to lunch. Lying there in the gutter, my face pressed down into the muddy runoff, I took a minute to consider how many bones I had probably just broken. It was around that time that the men in the car got out and decided to make my life a little less pleasant.

Normally when a PI gets beat up this early in a case, it means he’s on to something. My problem was that I I didn’t have a case…I just wanted a sandwich. So I wasn’t really sure why someone had driven a car into me. But I was sure on one thing: The fact that they were stopping to get out probably wasn’t a good thing.

You don’t stop after you hit someone in Necropolis. Rule of thumb. There are too many things abroad in the night. You don’t stop. Chances are good that its just some poor human schlub who had the bad taste to wander out into oncoming traffic. But there’s also a chance that its something that crawled down to the darkest hole in the world, the city at the centre of decay, looking for a bite to eat. You can understand why Necropolis’ travel agents make a good business in one-way trips. So generally when someone DOES stop after they hit you, they’re up to no good.

Up to no good, like the trenchcoat clad man who lifted me dripping out of the gutter. He was bald, overweight, with a double chin and rheumy eyes that squinted out from behind tiny spectacles. He was marked on the neck with the small black silhouette of a half moon tattoo, identifying him as one Papa Moon’s hired thugs. Papa Moon ran one of the biggest illegal important businesses in town. I hadn’t seen Papa in a while, not since I’d made the mistake of taking a missing persons that led right to his front door.

The man held me by the collar of my own trenchcoat, muscles rippling under the fat, and threw me down on my knees on the pavement. The fact that my knees held my weight told me they weren’t broken, or at least were holding together well enough to fake it. My chest wasn’t so lucky. I gasped as my ribs reminded me that they didn’t like being hit by half a ton of Detroit steel.

“Ow,” was all I could think of saying.

“Get up, Mister Fetch. Papa Moon wants a few words with you.”

“You didn’t have to hit me with the car,” I said, slowly standing, holding my side, “We could have just talked…like normal people.”

My trenchcoat was soaked with the cold water from the gutter, and it helped a little with the giant bruise that seemed to be covering my body from head to toe. It didn’t help the ribs, though, and I resisted the urge to prod my chest just to see if anything was broken. I spotted my rumpled, much abused hat sitting in the water, and painfully bent down to pick it up, almost falling over when my ribs complained. I felt better with it on, though, and at least my knees seemed to be recovering.

It was times like this that I wished I looked a bit more impressive. Its hard to look impressive when you’ve been thrown down in a gutter full of rain water, but I knew people who could pull it off. But average height, balding PIs in shabby trench coats and second rate suits rarely inspire confidence or fear. At least the hat covered the bald spot on the back of my head, and shaded the receding hairline in the front, but the fact that it too was soaked with gutter water and street dirt ruined the effect.

The thug opened the door of the car, a great black sedan in one of the older styles, and ushered me in. I trudged along, dripping all the way, and collapsed into the car’s plush back seat. Any chances of me relaxing were undone when I saw who was sitting beside me, sipping a martini. He wore a white linen suit and white panama hat, his skin black as ink, but worked over with tribal scarring that showed darkly under the shadow cast by his hat. The hand holding the martini had the scars around the odd shape just beside his little finger, the place where his sixth finger had been removed well after birth. Papa Moon, the Baron of Midnight himself, the man who rivaled the mafia in his reach.

“You don’t look so good, Fetch,” he said as the thug closed the door. Moon still had that heavy French accent, slurred a little by the weird design of his lips. They’d been sewn shut once, sewn shut to shut him up, and forever after he’d always had that weird sound that was all his own. “I think next time maybe I just have Milo rough you up a little. But I always wanted to see how much the great Adelaide Fetch can survive.”

“I’d have thought that shooting me in the chest would have proven something,” I replied with a grimace. I spared a poke at my chest. The ribs didn’t feel broken, though considering how I work, they could have been shattered and still felt solid. I am very hard to kill. “If you don’t mind me asking…you got anymore of those martinis? I missed lunch.”

Papa Moon laughed and poured me a drink. I took the fact that, the car aside, he hadn’t tried to kill me yet as a good sign. Hope springs eternal.