Wherein I say a thing.

Holy shit I have a blog? Really?

Facebook has a way of bringing forth strange curios of the past in the same way a dog will occasionally drag home a dead bird. It means well, but it's often not something you want.

I created this way back when I thought I was funny, and had important things to say. As it turns out, I am funny and I do sometimes say important things but I am terrible at making these turn into electronic words. Mostly because I never remember this blog exists.

So, uh, my new job with the government takes up a whole lotta my time, giving me even less time for frivolous things like friends, and a life. Instead I am slowly being turned into a radio-carrying machine gun-firing death machine. This makes me cooler I suppose, but I sometimes long for the days when a machine gun was something I used in video games to mow down enemy pixels, not a 40 pound metal piece of shit that gives me back pain for a week in exchange for for a few fleeting moments of lead rain.

People always told me to never do a thing you love as work, and they were right. Machine guns and rocket launchers and grenades and assault rifles are now kind of... dull. Go figure. Turns out learning to be an action hero makes thrilling heroics feel mundane.

On the plus side, everything I do brings me one step closer to being hard as fuck, which means I can justify getting sweet ink done.

At this point I'd like to talk politics, except the nature of my job is such that all my political views must remain private. Which I understand but still feels unnatural. I guess I gave up my right to free speech to (nominally) defend yours. How I defend it by getting yelled at and blowing up paper targets I don't know but everyone says I am so it must be true right?

Actually the one thing I can talk about is the surreal experience of wearing a uniform in public. All it takes is some fancy clothes and WHAM! I become Canadian vales embodied, bringing peace the world over and valiantly serving my country, and people I've never met trip over themselves to thank me. I don't really have the heart to tell them that when I'm not training my work consists of playing Pokémon in an empty classroom.

That's right, Pokémon. You heard me. Shit's addictive. Actually I hear there's a shiny Suicine being distributed over WiFi. I gotta go do... soldier stuff. Yeah that's it. Soldier stuff.

Wherein alchohol was consumed and inhibitions annihilated

I awake now from my ages-long slumber, surprisingly free of that slayer-of-days, pounder-of-heads, the hangover.

I kind of expected one, so this is a pleasant surprise.

I realized lately that I have pretty much divested myself of comic books per se, and instead developed a love for that most magical of printed media, the graphic novel.

There is something to be said for the smug satisfaction of getting to see a story arc in its entirety. It's very pleasant to see how it all ends, all in one sitting.

Which brings me to this little gem I ordered online: http://www.hillcity-comics.com/graphic_novels_2007/new_graphic_novel8226.htm

Man, that shit was bananas. While it was lost amidst all the hoopla of Civil War, I must say it was by far the better of the two Marvel crossovers of last summer.

It took a bunch of one-dimensional B-listers and made them compelling and interesting which is no mean feat.

Go read it right now.

I'm serious.

Also, James' party was hella fun for what it was: a bunch of nerds drinking and doing nerd things. Blurred as they may be by vodka, the memories I have will be retained indefinitely.

Shameful Neglect

Wow, I let this slide quite a bit...

Shame on me.

So, I bring you this golden nugget of a scene.

I was headed downtown on the 103 bus (job hunt and all that jazz), which it just so happens, turns south on Grand, where the Baskins & Robbins is.

And what do I see?

A guy sitting in a dirty lawn chair in the model of the parking lot and eating a small bowl of ice cream. All alone.

I have no idea who that guy was or why he was eating ice cream alone in the cold on a dirty plastic chair, but it just looked so damned pathetic.

Now I've shared.

Yay sharing!

Why the glut of novelists moving into comics is a good thing (aka I like Moon Knight)

Now, I have long preached that the medium of the graphic novel is like a very finely tuned car: if you know what you're doing, it's a transcendent experience, a rush of giddy freedom while surfing a wave of adrenaline.

If you don't know what you're doing, you die.

So, essentially, I see comic books as a very hit-or-miss proposition. An author either embraces the medium and produces an excellent piece of fiction, or tries to write something else in the form of a comic book and falls flat.

I usually lump novelists/TV writers into the latter category, my biggest exceptions being: Neil Gaiman, Joss Whedon and J. Michael Strazynski. Of which the latter two are relative newcomers on the comic book scene.

This summer, out of boredom and curiosity both, among my other purchases, I picked up a copy of the Moon Knight re-launch. This series is written by Charlie Huston, who, according to Wikipedia (God bless!) is a recent transfer from the ranks of novelists.

I haven't read any of his novels (though I may now), but I tell you this: the man writes a mean comic.

Seriously. It's nuts.

By far some of the best written and funniest (if bone dry) dialogue in comics.

As an example:

Taskmaster, hired to kill Moon Knight, burts in through a window. After a pregnant pause:

"Don't tell me. The entrance. Too much right?"

I laughed so hard I fell out of my chair.

Annnnnnnyyways.

The point of this diatribe is that I'm glad that talented writers are moving from novels into comics, because not only does it keep the medium fresh, it allows writers to work in a way they never would have otherwise.

And the customer wins.

Yay! Winner is me!

As an aside: Jemsy and I currently attempting to whip up a comic book. That isn't humor (though will have humor in it). I will keep you, the infintesimal percentage of the global population that gives a damn about this blog, posted.

Andre out.

My brain is on fire...

I mean it.

(This section edited for stupidity)

Furthermore, I broke the laws of common sense yesterday, and actually made a Swift Kick in the Ass.

For those of you not "in the know", a Swift Kick in the Ass (henceforth shortened to Swift Kick), is made with the following:

-8 shots of espresso (short)
-chocolate syrup
-hot milk (2%)
-whipped cream
-cinnamon sprinkles

It was like drinking nitro. I drank it at 6 PM, and I couldn't sleep until 3 AM the next morning. And I have coffee resistance. It was nuts.

So, having field-tested this awesome brew, my only conclusion can be: no later than 4 PM. That way I still get to sleep.

Still. Geez.

It's the next day, and I'm trying to vent my nervous energy by painting tiny hyper-detailed models. Sounds dumb, doesn't it?

This is what happens when my brain catches fire. I can only hope this passes soon, because, well, enough is enough, I need to able to concentrate.

Oh well.

Peace out dudes and dudettes (not that anyone actually reads this).

I'm not dead yet.

Busy young lad that I am, I've been unable to drag up meaningful things to post, so I leave you, my loyal and non-existent readers, this glorious celebration of all things Ork (with a "k"), courtesy of the Beast of Armageddon, Ghazgkull Mag Ururk Thraka (and copyright Games Workshop of course):

"I'm da hand of Gork and Mork, dey sent me to rouse up da boyz to crush and kill 'cos da boyz forgot what dere 'ere for. I woz one of da boyz till da godz smashed me in da 'head an' I 'membered dat Orks is meant to conquer and make slaves of everyfing they don't kill.

I'm da profit of da Waaagh an' whole worlds burn in my boot prints. On Armour-Geddem I led da boyz through da fire deserts and smashed da humies' metal cities to scrap. I fought Yarik, old one-eye at Tartarus, an' he fought good but we smashed iz city too.

I'm death to anyfing that walks or crawls, where I go nothin' stands in my way. We crushed da stunties on Golgotha, an' we caught old one-eye when da speed freeks blew da humies' big tanks ta bits. I let 'im go 'cause good enemies iz 'ard to find, an' Orks need good enemies ta fight like they need meat to eat an' grog ta drink.

I iz more cunning than a Grot an' more killy dan a dread, da boyz dat follow me can't be beat. On Pissenah we jumped da marine-boyz an' our bosspoles was covered in da helmets we took from da dead 'uns. We burned dere port an' killed dere bosses an' left nothin' but ruins behind.

I'm Warlord Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka an' I speak wiv da word of da gods. We iz gonna stomp da 'ooniverse flat an' kill anyfing that fights back. We iz gonna do this coz' we're Orks an' we was made to fight an' win."

Priceless.

Musings about the symbolism of fictional beings in a fictional universe of a game played by nerds.

The (long) title says it all.

I quote:

'What are we? Your scholars claim we exist only to tempt you, yet in a very real way we are you. We are your own desires, your own fears, your own ambitions and rages, given form (if not flesh). How can you fight us? Only by fighting your own Humanity, and why would you want to do that? You would be fighting against life itself. For what is Chaos but life?’

-Tzaal, momentarily lucid Horror

Now, 40k has a lot of badly written/thought out background, but this, this is masterful. I don't mean the actual quote, though it ain't bad, I mean the daemons as perverse reflections of the human psyche.

I love this idea. Our personal demons gain life as daemons. The embodiment of what is supressed in the dark corners of your mind. This is what drew me to play 40k Chaos. We're evil, but we're you.

Man vs. himself. It's dramtic conflict at its best. If I were the man who thought this up, I would be proud indeed.

Also, after ranting about how I couldn't do it, I exceeded 40 takedowns at home.

Now I look stupid.

Oh well.

Peace out.