Having been playing Battlefield 1943 for days now, I have to say this is entirely true. I may devote an entire post to this game at some point, since the original incarnation, BF 1942 took up so many hours of my life. The only difference from the comic is that the final frame directly references my attempts to fly a plane. Although if someone else is waiting for the plane to spawn, I generally allow them to take it, knowing full well the fiery demise that awaits any piece of aviation machinery that I manage to get my sweat paws upon. However, if a plane is waiting silent and alone in its hangar, I will gladly lead it to its untimely, disastrous death.

Because I can parachute out.

Well, they've done it. They've gone ahead and ruined any chance of a productive summer that I thought I had. Last night I downloaded Ikaruga (which was half-price) on XBLA and the remake of the original Secret of Monkey Island. That's pretty much all I plan on doing for as much time as I can get without my roommates around. If Andrew hadn't just sent me a text saying that people are drinking at the house tonight (thanks for the heads-up, I suppose - or it may have been a question. He tends to forget useful things like punctuation), I'd probably be wasting me entire Friday on that. As it is, I still may waste it playing the 1 vs. 100 Live tonight at 10pm. Gonna win cool prizes. Maybe.

Additionally, Marvel vs. Capcom 2 remake is being released, as well as an upgraded Ninja Turtles: Turtles in Time HD remake. MOAR, plz. I can't wait.

This makes me laugh. I don't have much of a opinion or beef in the PC vs. Mac debate. I prefer PCs, because they do want I want/need them for. But this article, particular the quote about the Microsoft COO doing cartwheels down the hall, made me snortle.



You can't run two years worth of 'I'm a Mac, I'm a PC' commercials - some of which are not always accurate - and start complaining that Microsoft has finally started to play ball in a way that actually gives them an advantage for once.

Obama Axes Pentagon Plan To Build Billion Dollar Tank In Shape Of Dragon

The video is okay - but the design drawing had to be shown.

Well, I wasn't really able to think of anything to write today, so it's confession time! Buckle up.

I pooped three times today. This is only significant in that sometimes I don't poop three times in a week. Must be the Fiber One bars I've been eating for breakfast. Or just the fact that I've started eating breakfast in an effort to create some sort of daily metabolism. It's almost impossible to say - but the results speak for themselves.

Poop.

Forgot to unlock this yesterday.

This is just completely unfair. Listen Activision and Infinity Ward - I don't have any money. I also don't have night vision goggles. I suspect you knew both of these things. I further suspect that you already knew that I was going to mortgage my left kidney to pay for the game in the first place. My final suspicion is that you know I'm going to buy this damn game with your damn night vision goggles.

You devious bastards. I hate you so much I can't even think straight. This is just completely unfair to foist this decision on me. I was already going to buy the game. I swear. And NVG is a pipedream of every young lad who dreams of Manhunt dominance in his youth. There have always been two distinct decisions: buy this video game OR get sweet overpriced* night vision goggles (*there is no price on this and never has been). Now it's buy this game OR buy this game and get sweet night vision goggles.

I may never forgive you.

Today I applied for a job in Melbourne with a defense contractor. It's the first job that I've found that I am super qualified for and would not most likely hate doing. I'm really jazzed about it. It's very similar to the job I've had for the last few months, with a few expanded responsibilities, in a field that I've really wanted to work in for years. For some reason, defense has always attracted me. Deadly innovation is, perhaps unfortunately, some of the coolest stuff around. I really hope I at least hear back from them. It'll let me know that I'm on the right track. Preferably, I'll get the job, but at the very least I'm excited that there are, in fact, jobs worth having out there. Exciting!

Sometimes I go through periods where I doubt my mental self-identification as a nerd, or feel it less intensely. For some reason, I have felt that way for the last few weeks. Mind you, this disassociation with my inner nerd is not based on behavior in anyway - except perhaps reading habits. While I am reading Moneyball rather than re-reading Deadhouse Gates for a third time, that is just about a specific nerdery wrapped in the flimsy skin of a baseball. Additionally, I have nearly concluded the entire run of Eureka just in time for the beginning of season 3.5* - I've also spent many hours the last week and a half on my DS, playing Fire Emblem. Every one of these activities is the mental scaffolding around the construction of a giant statue of Milhouse, an effete** Colossus of Rhodes, sporting a pocket protector, a katana bought at a sci fi convention, holding aloft a Nintendo DS, blazing with the light of the newest Pokemon game.

However, lately I have been riding high on my association with mainstream society, free from nerdy guilt. That came crashing down last night, with one of the absolute surest signs that I surely deserve the label of nerd.

Last night, I dreamed. It frightens me, just a little, to think where this dream might have taken me if Sora had not kicked me violently in the throat during a dream of her own. It also frightens me that Sora kicked me in the throat, but I digress. Last night, I dreamed of the Battlestar Galactica, commanded by Jack Carter, Sheriff of the fictional township of Eureka. While this is nerdy enough on its own, I distinctly remember myself using the words, "point-defense cannons," which are, on their own, far from nerdy contraptions. However, when you use them in a dream in this way: "OOoooooh, point-defense cannons, cooooool!" - you have stripped them of all intended military use. They might as well be using Care Bears on the outside of the ship.

And then, in the final moments of the dream, in a mental declaration that I will never forgive myself for, I noticed that the dimensions of the ship had changed to fit the needs of the dream - Carter had parked it on a planet that looked suspiciously like Port St. Lucie to hide from some menace, which we'll assume to be Cylons. So the ship was pretty small, and for some reason, traveling just above street level, actually following the streets. That didn't bother me, but my inner nerd, in a final, violent heave against the chains in which I had bound him, shouted, "Hey! Galactica is waaaay bigger than that! It's like a mile long!"

As my dream self protested violently against the devastating escape of my nerd self, Sora took the opportunity to drop some kung-fu on my neck, presumably her way of showing that she holds strictly to the 1980's bias against nerds, specifically against what nerds might do on the Greek Council.

I woke up horrified, and with Sora's foot stretching into my chin. My idyllic state of mind is shattered. And in the course of writing this, I think I have discerned the cause of my identity crisis (Alright, this journal finally pays off as a means of introspection - and entertainment!). For weeks, I've been doing my best impression of an Adult. I've had to deal with Sora being heinously injured and recovering. I've been filling the role of House Maid (no lace, however). I've had to deal with the looming specter of unemployment and job searching. I don't have time to deal with nerd things. Thankfully, nerdery has managed to reinsert itself in the most embarrassing of ways. And lucky for you, I feel the need to chronicle each awkward moment of self-discovery in the most flowery of ways. Seriously, this post could've been a paragraph long.

* Damn you and your half seasons, Sci Fi. While I appreciate the opportunity to catch up on a show that is starting its summer season, I've had enough with you charging $40 for half of a season. It's nerd profiteering and it will not stand. Revenge will eventually find its way to your door, Sci Fi. The cold, clammy hands of countless basement dwellers will grasp you in the night and you will give account for your crimes. On the other hand, you've made decent shows. Thank you.

** As an interesting aside - Thesaurus.com had no relevant synonyms for the word "nerdy." In fact, the first entry for possible synonyms is disgusting - adjective. Definition: sickening; repulsive. Well, maybe they weren't that far off after all.

Video of the scene where Obama allegedly checks out the derriere of a young lady at the G8 summit. Obama looks fine. Sarkozy looks like he wants to break a piece off.

It always kind of looked like Obama was just checking his footing. Sarkozy, on the other hand... Stay classy, Nicolas.

Well, I got an e-mail back from a potential employer, which is a good thing. The bad thing (there are two) is that they asked for my transcript so as to give my application full consideration. The problem with that is that my body of collegiate work is not the strongest in the world, due largely to my first 3 semesters, in which I did not perform incredibly well. However, it is for a government relations job, and I did very well in all of my poli sci classes, as well as my PR classes. All those pesky electives that I tended to not really care about (e.g., Extreme Weather that abomination of a 2000-level course) skewed my GPA to the left considerably.

The other problem is the job itself, but I'm really not going to complain - I just don't know how well I'd be suited to it. It's a government relations firm in Miami that focuses heavily on municipal relations. I never really studied city governments at all, unfortunately, and maybe I've just never given Miami a fair shake, but I never really fell in love with it either. So we'll see. Requested a transcript and I'll send it on when I get it. A jorb is a jorb.

This is in regards to Alec Baldwin's open letter to CNN commentator Jack Cafferty's assertion that Baldwin is unfit to run for public office as he holds only a BFA. Baldwin responds by with the equivalent of: How about you STFU and GBTW and I won't tell everyone that you ran over and almost killed a man on a bike.

From Farker CtrlAltDelete (make sure to read the responses in Baldwin's voice):

I guess a BFA in Drama doesn't teach the concept of an ad hominem fallacy.

Alec Baldwin, Presidential Debater:

"Mr. Baldwin, you have argued in favor of stricter gun control measures in the federal government and yet the bodyguard standing next to you is holding what appears to be an uzi. How can you account for this hypocrisy?"
-"Well, that's an excellent question, and if you don't ask me that question again I won't say that I have sources who told me you sold a lethal dose of heroin to another student at Columbia University in 1967."

"Mr. Baldwin, some have suggested that your infamous phone call to your daughter suggests you do not have the temperment required for diplomatic action. How do you respond to those critics?"
-"That's a good question, I respect that question, I was expecting it. I'd respond by saying you got too rough with a hooker at the Chez Amies lounge in Las Vegas in 1977 following an anti-semetic rant at the bouncer. That's how I'd respond."

"Mr. Baldwin, I admire your satirical skills used on 30 Rock and your fair portrayal of Robert McNamara in Path to War. Do you see entertainment as a good way of making a political point?"
-"Your father was the Liberian tyrant Charles Taylor and you bought that suit with blood money. Next question."


Additionally, as much as I really don't think having only a BFA makes you unfit for the House of Representatives - in fact, it's probably enough to earn you the position of head clown in that particular circus - I really like 30 Rock. Stay the course, Alec.

I wasn't going to post anything about this, because I hate giving attention to Fred Phelps and his particular breed of lowlife, even if they'll never see it. However, a similar story cropped up in Gainesville. The Dove World Outreach Center, a church* of some kind in town, posted a sign (you can see it on the Web site) that says "Islam is the Devil." The article in the Alligator focused on the prayer vigil protest that sprang up across the street from the Center, organized by other churches and community groups - which was refreshing to see.

In the article, Terry Jones, the church's pastor, said that Islam's growing popularity was tarnishing our nation's Christian founding and heritage. This argument is one of the most frustrating things about religion in America to me. One would have to assume that most pastors - though I'm not going to lump Mssr. Jones in with "most pastors" - would have gone to seminary. And one would also have to conclude that any seminary worth its salt would at least brush up hurriedly against the topic of Deism and its popularity during the Age of Enlightenment, and thus the founding of America. I don't deny or dismiss the impact of Christianity and its values in our culture, but America was not founded to be a Christian nation, it was founded to be a free nation, which through the communicative property is extended to the lowest common denominator of free speech - in this case, these boneheads.

Jones says that Islam is a repressive and violent religion, which can clearly be true. The same could be said of some of the various strains of Christian denomination. He then says, "To be a Christian, you would have to agree with that sign."



I doubt that sign will be coming down anytime soon, except through vandalism, since it definitely appeals to a certain base. Hopefully those at the prayer vigil will remain as resolute. It's refreshing to see people peacefully protesting against something that is actually wrong in this country.

Which brings me back to Fred Phelps and his lovable band of cretins. In the first article linked above, the ACLU has been suing several cities that have banned funeral protests in an effort to keep Phelps and Co., from attending military funerals with signs that say 'God Hates Fags,' 'Thank God for Dead American Soldiers,' etc. It still surprises me that no one has put a bullet in Phelps at a funeral yet, but from what I've heard, a very significant amount of his group of "protesters" are personal injury lawyers, who are just asking to be knocked around so they can then sue the hell out of whoever does. So they're assholes twice. Congratulations.

Anyway, the ACLU is suing on their behalf. While a part of me wishes those pot-smoking hippie bastards would just take a pass on this one, the rest of me is happy they did. We've had enough of our freedoms erode (or more accurately disappear on the floors of Congress after no one reads the damn Act) over the last few years, free speech for wingnuts is, unfortunately, indispensable. It is unfortunate that our freedoms are so often tested by the lowest common denominators. That to truly test the limits of our freedom, the boundaries are pushed by the filth and scum of society. It is a depressing thought that festering sores on the asshole of America like Fred Phelps are the barometer of our freedoms. They are an unfortunate, grimy window into American culture.

Woody Allen said once, "If only God would give me some clear sign! Like making a large deposit in my name at a Swiss bank."

All I want is for Fred Phelps and his entire congregation to fall into a mine shaft, populated entirely by angry beasts that have not known light or freedom for years. Dark beasts that have only known hunger.



*Churches that advertise that we are living in the end times really bother me. First of all, it strikes me as remarkable hubris to assume so. Maybe he already came and decided that he didn't really want to hang out with Fred Phelps and Terry Jones, but couldn't just take everyone else and leave them, so he just left us all. Thanks a lot, douchebags. Second, fear can obviously be a huge motivator, but lets turn it back down to 11. Third, what, exactly, makes you qualified to determine the return of Christ, Terry Jones? If there was any justice in the universe, you'll get to St. Peter's Gates, he'll scroll through his tome of names, and eventually find Terry Jones. He'll look up at you and smile gently, his wise old eyes crinkled in merriment and glee. And then he'd yank on a golden lever, dropping you through velvet clouds down into hell.

Well, it was only a matter of time until Al Gore Godwin'd the entire debate on climate change (note the properly used greenspeak - Shands Green Team, ho!) By doing so, however, Gore just lost the fight.

My throat burns like cancer.

I'll chalk this up to the massive amounts of vacuuming I did this weekend. This vacuuming included mass amounts of carpet freshening powder, and cleaning out of vacuum filters. That dust invariably (usually through knocking the filter clean in the trash can) got into my lungs. That, plus all the other cleaning products that I inhaled, are currently tapdancing through my tender throat. Hopefully that will clear up soon.

On the bright side, after almost a full day of cleaning on Friday, the majority of the house (the kitchen, dining room, living room, back room, and my bedroom are fully cleaned and vacuumed. The dining room and half of the living room was Steam Vac'ed. I also have zero laundry left to do, and I only have to clear off my desk to finish off my room.

On the down side of that - I predict that the living room and kitchen will be back to their respective standard mess levels by the end of business tomorrow. There will be at least 3 plates and cups left on the couch and on the coffee table today, as well as whatever sort of school supplies Jen or Andrew make use of. Additionally, since Paula is gone and we are collectively watching Gizmo - someone will leave her door open, and in a 45-second span where no one is watching him, he will run to the backroom and lay a big steaming pile right in the middle of it. He'll then pee next to it. And I'm not kidding about the 45-second window. As I cleaned on Friday, I caught him going back there on 5 separate occasions. This is not at all helped by the fact that he will only go in the front yard, and won't follow anyone about Paula outside. Fuck you, Gizmo.

The 4th, hooray!

I went to Alex and Shirley's for a grilling event. It was nice, and good to get out of the house after cleaning all day on Friday. Alex and Patrick grilled, I tried a new beer, which was tasty and delicious, and we watched some Mystery Science Theater 3000. Hard to go wrong. Then I went home and watched Eureka instead of doing anything socially healthy. A screaming match broke out at my neighbor's house, and someone maybe punched a girl. Maybe. She sounded like a total bitch, so maybe she had it coming. Maybe.

I spent part of that night contemplating something Alex had said at the party/get-togethermajig, saying that the 4th of July had really become an ironic holiday. Bunch of people get together, drink a lot, glut themselves on slaughtered animals cooking over burning coals, then light things (quite possibly foreign-made things) on fire and watch them explode, then drink more. Freedom costs a buck-oh-five.

Then I cleaned more all day on Sunday. This was more just laundry and messing with Sora than cleaning.

Really though, my throat feels like cancer. Maybe that's also American.

So I was bored Monday night and decided to go run the planets. Running is usually something I force myself to do when I've got a lot on my mind and just need to clear my head. On Monday it was just a fix to boredom. Tuesday and Wednesday, it was starting a trend. To be as clear as possible, I hate running. I absolutely loathe it, especially over distance. I can sprint and run up a basketball court for hours. Put a long, flat surface in front of me and expect me to haul my fat ass down it, and you can just fuck right off. The "planets" are pillars presenting the solar system set out proportionally along .9 miles. Nine-tenths of a God-awful mile and back.

Yet I keep doing it, and I guess I've gotten a little better at it. And today is the first day that I don't feel like legs have been run through meat grinders then sewn back onto my hips. But an act whose only impetus is complete mental scorn can be a hard sell. But it sure beats trying to run while towing Sora along behind me. She's a terrible running partner.

I still don't understand, however, people who feel the need to yell things out of cars at fat people running. I clearly know that I'm fat. I clearly am trying to change that fact. Some high school kid yelled something like 'run fatty run' while I was waiting at the light to cross and start the planets, so I responded with "Your mom likes 'em big," and ran off.

Ok, I'm going to be brutally honest. Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen is not a good movie. The story is cliched, ridiculous, absurd (more than your standard giant alien robot movie) and juvenile (also more than your standard giant alien robot movie). Half of the characters are uninteresting, the other half are indistinguishable from each other. For a movie about giant robots, they are not the focus of the movie. For some reason, the US military is involved, presumably just to satisfy Michael Bay's raging boner for jet engines, and to provide an infinite amount of perpetual explosion machines. It's way too long, does not make much sense and was clearly written by someone with a child's mind.

I also enjoyed the hell out of it.

I knew as soon as I saw the first trailer, when some random Decepticon - which was probably Starscream, but I shall call the Douchebot 4000, because that's how I imagine Michael Bay refers to them - climbs atop the Brooklyn Bridge to punch the American flag off its perch, that this movie did not need things like plot or sensibility. Or quality. Just the goht-damn US of A. Like most of Bay's films, it was going to be an unapologetic unleashing of balls-out awesome, with a smattering of slow-motion boob bouncing and the most extremely juvenile humor out there. He did not disappoint. He gave me Devastator, the giant Decepticon made of 6 Decepticons. And he did not stop there. He, like any manboy with $400 million, a camera and power over the script, gave Devastator huge Decepticon testicles made of wrecking balls. THIS.MAN.IS.GENIUS.

Again, all of the human characters - with the tolerable exceptions of the Witwickys - are worthless. Shia LeBeouf returns as a decent lead as Sam - he's got less to work with this time around, and Bay really, really wants to let you know that he is like, totally, hooking up with Megan Fox. Sam's parents, while they should be completely irrelevant to the film, they get dragged in for some reason - and steal every scene that they're in. Even though Michael Bay apparently thinks that you can buy openly buy pot brownies at open college bake sales, and that every woman in the world is actually a total slut - even Sam's mom. But regardless.

I'm going to stop wasting time telling you why the movie is bad, because those reasons are plentiful, obvious and completely irrelevant. There is plenty wrong with the movie. There are plenty of shots that come right out of the sun. There are also giant robots. Fighting each other.

The Transformers are equally the best and worst parts of the film. All I really wanted from this movie was a cool-to-kickass Optimus Prime, which Bay delivered. I think he realized that, for most people, the movie could suck, if Prime was awesome. He was. With the exception of a single line at the end, you could tell a lot of work went in to making sure everything Prime said meant something, a requirement that is sorely lacking from the dialogue of the rest of the cast.

The movie probably has around 60 Transformers, but unfortunately only about 7 of them are really shown as characters. Prime, clearly, is in the forefront for the majority of the film. Bumblebee gets some very good, sometimes humorous parts as Sam's guardian. The twins, Mudflap and Skids (the two who are allegedly Bay's racism shining through), are the "comic relief." I disagree with the whole racist allegations, just because they could easily be stereotyped as "white trash" or "hillbilly" as "black." Also, their illiteracy is limited to a language that it is implied only Optimus could read. Megatron and Starscream round out the Decepticons, with a small, but important, performance from Soundwave.

( A movie spoiler and a horrific remembrance of my childhood )

The movie moves pretty incoherently to its end, a huge, kind of confusing set battle in Egypt, in which it can be hard to understand who is who, most of the Transformers remain shadowed hulks shrouded by flying sand. Things blow up AWESOMELY. Sam dies and goes to Transformer heaven and gets sent back because he's the next Abraham Lincoln or some such thing. He does what he's supposed to do, robots fight, some robots win and sail away on an aircraft carrier. And they have to do that because unlike the Decepticons, who get to be sweet planes and satellites and tanks, the Autobots are saddled with an inconvenient licensing deal with GM, so they get to be Chevy Volts!

So yes, there is a good deal that is wrong with this movie - maybe most of it. It has all the classic hallmarks of Michael Bay. And maybe I am everything that is wrong with Hollywood today, since I'm probably going to see this again. Maybe I should stop encouraging studios to allow Michael Bay access to things like tanks and Josh Duhamel, when they should have very little to do with a Transformers movie.

I realize that I have wasted nearly 1,200 on this movie, and could probably have doubled that if I said everything I could about it. So here's how I'll end it. Terminator:Salvation was a really bad movie. So is Transformers 2. The difference is that Transformers embraces it unapologetically, and almost shines because of it. Terminator was a bad movie masquerading as a deep display of determinism, redemption and the Apocalypse.

Transformers has just as many boobs flying at the audience as robots, more explosions than a street in Iraq, more plot fallacies, inaccuracies and weaknesses than Jenna Jameson's library of work. But it knows that, and is unashamed of being purely awesome. I give it a C/B-, just because it actually is entertaining, if all you're looking for is robots fighting.

I have postponed my dream of living off the state's teat for another month. Yesterday was an interesting day. I spent the majority of it actually doing the job that I had been hired for and surprised myself with how productive I can be when I need to be. I researched, interviewed for and wrote three articles, finished up a marketing project, edited an ad and sent it to the Gainesville Sun, edited photos and sent them to their recipient, summarized the hospital's communication survey results, and sent out a goodbye e-mail and responded to many well-wishes from co-workers -- all while under the looming specter of my impending gangland execution. Not bad, considering I spent the last two full weeks reading Iran discussion threads on Fark.

At 4:30, I went to visit our Marketing director, Nicole, to wrap up my final projects and to get things squared away. Within about a minute, she asked if I would stay on part-time through the end of July on the marketing team to contact hospital systems around the region who have recently opened new hospitals and assist with a few other things. I said yes, even though thinking it through, I think I would have made more money from unemployment. It's nice to have a job - I don't have to feel like a cretin. I think it would drive me crazy. This way I get a month's reprieve and I can try to freelance throughout town, without having to worry about that messing with my free money from the state. Also, I didn't have to die:

Re: Mike's last day... from Ted (my old boss and would be executioner)
You just bought yourself one more month of life. If this is a trick and you and Nicole or both in on it, then both you and Nicole will die.

otherwise, congrats

So that's a plus. Although it may seriously put a dent in all the big plans I had for unemployment. I was going to join a gym, teach Sora to juggle, start hanging out in coffee shops with my laptop, clean the house. It was going to be a treat. Oh well.

Well, after 6 months, today is my last day at Shands. I've been cramming all the Hope that I should have been raising for the last week into yesterday and today. It's going pretty well. I'm a ninja under pressure. I'd say that I'm worried about what is going to happen after this, but my former boss, Ted, has promised to kill me, execution-style, since no one leaves the &, except in a body bag. For concerned healthcare seekers, & does not include the hospital. & is just the ultrasweet gang that represents for the hospital. This includes, but is not limited to: droppin' straight Hope on suckers and, occasionally, raisin' Hope.

Back to work, and more later, perhaps. Definitely more tomorrow, at which time I expect to be investigating likely coffee shops in which to sit and write the next great American novel for the next month. I also need to invest in a corduroy jacket, I think.

*edit* Apparently PK may not have been arrested, and has just been without Internet access for 4 days. Hope he's safe.

Lot of tragedy this weekend. Someone tweeted, and I haven't seen anything to indicate otherwise, that PersianKiwi, one of the most reliable Twitterers in Iran was arrested. It's awful to think this, but I really just hope they killed him/them quickly, but I doubt it. The revolt in Iran seems to be losing steam, but we'll see how it plays out. The 1979 revolution was spread out across months of mourning rituals, so we'll see. Also, Billy Mays died after being hit in the head with a piece of luggage during a bumpy landing. I figured he'd go out on camera due to a massive coronary.

In good news, however, Mister Curtis Perry got engaged. Congratulations, good sir. I eagerly await your bachelor party. Oh, and your wedding.

http://awardshome.com/cannes2009/pringles/can-hands.html

Just keep clicking. I have to go buy some Pringles for the first time in 12 years.