Capstone-a-mania

So I haven't posted here in a while, but that's because I've been focusing on writing ANOTHER blog. It's all about my capstone stuff, which translates to uber-cool stuff. Check it here:

http://comdma.com/~langforc

If you've got a Mac you're in for a treat too, since all the work I'm doing on there is in Quartz Composer, and you can download and run the compositions I post in Quicktime. So check it foo!

"It is my duty to inform you that Honey Bunches of Oats is the greatest cereal every created by man"

Thank you, Mr. Aesop Rock. And now, a portion of a short story I am working on for my creative writing class:

-------

Well, it's all piled up in the corner there. Tidy in a couple little plastic Tops bags. I slept about as well as Spock does (for those of you who are not Trek fans, Spock doesn't sleep). Sunlight's creeping in around the edges of vinyl roll-up curtains, stray beams of light catching the old-lady wallpaper and various posters scattered around my room. Thank God I kept my room mostly my room. I took down the drawings she had done for me months ago, they're in a landfill somewhere getting gobbled up by maggots I hope. Now it's just James Bond, Batman Returns, Daft Punk, Uma Thurman, and Max Headroom keeping my company in here. She always hated Max, but I was pretty stern about keeping that one up. If I had actually been stern about more important things, she probably would have left me far earlier in the relationship than she did. And I probably would've been a hell of a lot happier, and this would've been a hell of a lot easier.
I'm finally rolling out of bed, my Sony Dream Machine leering at me with those green eyes. Thanks for reminding me it's only 7:30 in the morning, on a day when I could be sleeping in no less. Mmm, good morning cold floor. My feet touch the wooden panels and I get that little sting of annoyance in my head. I shuffle about a little bit and slide into the clothing I have scattered about the floor. I'm too lazy to put away my clean clothes, so they take up all the space in my laundry basket while my dirty clothes lie scattered about the room. At least it's just my clothes now, I don't have any bras with nasty, pointy, cold metal clips to step on anymore.
I'm digging through my laundry basket in an effort to find some pants, seeing as to how I'll probably need some if I want to leave the house today. It's this thought of getting out of the house that draws my attention to those bags again. My glance becomes a stare. The stare becomes a glare. I feel my heart start to speed up as I spot the rolled up posters, the hoody sleeve sticking out, the unfinished paintings I kept encouraging her with. My head is pounding, my floorboards are rattling because I'm shaking, and I
feel my hand spot some denim. I pull out the comfortably baggy jeans I like to wear, more things of mine she hated. Sliding one leg over the other, the stiff pantlegs grinding along the personlegs, and then collapsing into place, floating around, slightly sagging, keeping their distance and providing plenty of circulation in areas that simply shouldn't be kept in tight quarters.

Ditty and Compositions

Wrote this little ditty as part of an assignment for my Creative Writing class. I got the idea for the repeating narrative from the insert of Genesis' "The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway."

---


Balancing the lukewarm styrofoam plate on my left forearm, holding an ice-filled glass in my left hand, jingling keys in my right, I opened the door. The base of it caught on the front after moving about an inch, so I kicked it, dislodging it and sending it swinging into a rats nest of cable on the floor. I crept in the dark room, still balancing the plate, and switched on the lights. A cart with amplifiers resting on it protruded from the wall on the left, a doorway on the right led into the still-unlit lounge. I walked forward to the cluttered desk and set down the plate and drink.

As the keys slid into my jeans pocket I progressed forward into the booth where I had left my backpack and newly purchased records. Sliders on a large black mixing board where rearranged, a three channel DJ mixer and Stanton direct-drive turntable were turned on. I reached for the punk plastic bag, "Record Theater" was printed on it in large black letters along side a clip art rendition of an old, turn-crank Victrola. Reaching inside I pulled out Journey's "Frontiers," original pressing from 1983. The cover, similar to all other Journey albums, had a very futuristic airbrushed look, this one in particular with a face in blue sporting a large helmet that one would think a spaceman from the future of 1983 would wear. The forehead seemed to stretch into itself like a tunnel, reaching beyond infinity through the record sleeve. Pulling out the inner sleeve, the bright neon pink paper the lyrics were printed on leapt out at me, a stark contrast from the dark aquatic blue of the cover. The vinyl itself was in good condition with the exception of one scratch (which didn't fortunately didn't affect the playback). I placed it onto the black felt slipmat and watched Steve Perry and his bandmates revolve around and around on the side one label, and proceeded to drop the needle on the groove with a resounding crackle.

As "Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" came on I turned to grab my backpack, it's stray straps and frayed edges drooping over the chair. From it I pulled a bright yellow legal pad, white paper handouts sticking out from the back of it. I left the booth and was greeted by the greasy cheddar and pepperoni odor of my now less-than-lukewarm pizza sub that was previously teetering on my forearm. I moved to the lounge and slouched into a fairly ugly looking couch, it's 1970's woven patterns faded and riddled with bits of lint collected from years of use by DJ's of days gone by. Lying back with my head on one armrest and my PF Flyers propped on the other, I pulled a pencil from the pocket my keys were sharing, and began to write:

Balancing the lukewarm styrofoam plate on my left forearm, holding an ice-filled glass in my left hand, jingling keys in my right, I opened the door. The base of it caught on the front...

---

In other news, I've been doing a lot of work in Quartz Composer for my capstone project. Once I have some finished products done up I'll be sure to post some source files for those that are interested, and once the semester and project are completed, I'll post a compressed collection of all my work and notes building up to it (can you say open source book?).

Whenever I'm feeling upset or depressed, or any other number of things, I like to write. I shouldn't say "like to," I just do. It helps me get my head straight, sort things out. I just wrote this one, and now hopefully I can get to sleep.

---

I'm two inches tall and there's a black leather boot about to step on me. I can't move, I'm frozen in terror. I look in every direction, unable to turn my head. My eyes see nothing but vacancy in every direction. Slowly, the crushing foot is coming towards me. I want to scream but I don't because my mind is saying it won't accomplish anything. I finally muster up the courage to at least shout, and as the ever so loud exclamation of "fuck off" leaves my mouth, the boot begins to retract itself as if the owner wearing it is toppling over backwards at the sound of my voice. I grow taller and taller as she falls back, her body hitting the floor with what would have been a great loud thud if I were still a mere few inches. But I've grown, grown to the clouds, my head so high up in the clouds I can barely see her. But I can still see her, and I look at her with an intensity even I've never witnessed in a mirror. My eyes turn to razor blades, and like the sun through a magnifying glass I evaporate her from this plane of existence, leaving not a single trace behind. I don't smile. I simply find myself now 5'11", in a crowd of people all moving about their business, living their lives like any other day. I start to walk forward, and soon become lost in the crowd, one more person going about his business, continuing where he left off and living to the best of his abilities. I remind myself, just before I disappear completely, that I won't ever let myself be tread upon ever again.

I'm at work, still trying to wake up, and bored out of my skull. So to cure my boredom, I thought I might share some music with you from some artists I've been listening to lately.

--Fakebeat--
Just found Fakebeat the other day, and he is very good. I had heard "Cybernetic Love" previously in a summer mix off the Valerie Collective blog, but never knew who it was by. Highly recommend giving a listen.

Fakebeat on MySpace
Fakebeat on Twitter

--A Place To Bury Strangers--
I'm not usually that big on loud, angry music, but these guys are so different from anything else I've heard I can't help but enjoy them. They've got a ridiculously heavy and loud sound, but it sounds good. Big "wall of sound" usage, to a degree that would probably even impress Phil Spector. They've got a second album due out soon, so if you like this then keep your eyes peeled.

A Place To Bury Strangers on MySpace

--Super 64--
Yes, I like the Commodore 64 SID chip. Yes, I know all the tracks this guy has put up sound very similar. But it's still just so damn rad, I can't get enough. This is the kind of music you blast while cruising in a Ferrari while wearing chrome aviators and a bright neon Adidas track jacket. Don't forget the babe in the bikini riding shotgun with the red wayfarers and cherry lipgloss. Yes, I also know I love the 80's.

Super 64 on MySpace

--ST--
ST, or Stellar, is another one of those electronic artists out of France (where else?), with some pretty sweet disco-style tracks. Of all the tunes on there I'd say Blue is my favorite, it's got a good rock edge to it.

ST on MySpace
ST on Twitter

--Kavinsky--
Come on. You're a zombie. Get your corpse of an ass back in the studio and make some more killer tracks. Thank you.

Kavinsky on MySpace
Kavinsky on Twitter

--Valerie Collective--
Okay, not a single artist. The Valerie Collective is a, well, collective of artists with similar tastes in music. It's actually six different bands (The Outrunners, Russ Chimes, College, Anoraak, Maethelvin, and Minitel Rose. Run by David Grellier (aka College), the collective is a sort of blog in which he posts tracks from all kinds of sources, lots of different mixes, and just all kinds of excellence. I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone who enjoys music.

Valerie Collective Main Page
Valerie Collective on MySpace
Valerie Collective on Twitter

Wednesday

So yesterday I woke up and was on my way out to work, when I spotted this on my porch:



I peer around corners, under rugs, in the couch (which we still need to do something with), but nobody's there watching it. No triplines attached to it, no weird explosives hidden in it. So, being the charitable person I am, I transport it to my room and give it a home.

Flash forward nine hours.

I'm out of work, I eat the last of Dan's Steak-ums (which is what he gets for eating all two pounds of my ground beef, asshole), and I'm on a venture to go get batteries. I'll be eco-friendly and get rechargeable ones, since this thing takes six. And I figure, best place to grab these would probably be out at Radio Shack. First, I wasn't thinking at all, because it's never smart to buy anything at Radio Shack. And I know this first hand. My choosing it was mainly because it'd provide a good, long bike ride. Second, rechargeable batteries are not cheap at all in the first place.

Batteries typically come in sets of four or eight. The Casio takes six. I'm looking, looking, looking, and I'm still sweating like crazy because I just rode about four miles in the 80 degree sunny weather we had last afternoon. Finally I find the-- $19.95??? For eight batteries? I look at the alkaline sets. Eight for $6.49. I'm sorry, but I'm a broke college kid. Once I get my credit card finally paid off and an extra couple hundred in the bank at all times, then I'll buy nothing but NiMH's for the rest of my life, or until they invent something better.

Now, whilst at the Shack (as the trendy people call it now), I had my bike parked out in front of the store. Literally right in front, so I could watch it through the window and make sure nobody was stealing it. For I am without a bike lock. This is a problem for me, as I use my bike as my main form of transportation, and if it were stolen I would definitely not be a happy camper.

So I decide from here to spend what money I have left on a bike lock. I ride all the way back from University Plaza to downtown Buffalo in search of a shop. I'm apparently as blind as Anne Frank, because I couldn't find a damn one. I did, however, find something much more cool. If you go to HSBC One:



there's a big brick clearing with a sculpture in the center. From here, you can chill and watch the big screen in Coca Cola Park( or is it field?). So I'll be hitting up some Bison's games there for free.

And that, in a nutshell, was my Wednesday.

So I had this crazy dream last night...

The streets are littered with people, and I'm wandering around with a few friends (none of which I actually recognize), and we're all just looking for something to do. The neon light from the signs on the clubs reflected in the rain, giving a very Blade Runner-esque atmosphere to the whole environment. (Something tells me this whole thing was very much influenced by what I was writing last night.)

And suddenly, there she was, this beautiful girl. (For some reason I think she was a Depeche Mode fan, no idea why.) So I think to myself "I should totally introduce myself." She's walking in the same direction I was headed so I follow, but she's keeping the same distance from me as when I first saw her. Eventually she disappears in the crowd, but where she was going was quite apparent. This club had a big crowd around it, and I finally spotted her going inside, but her clothes had changed and she was wearing a tuxedo. Jacket, pants, bow-tie, ruffles, everything.

So I walk up to the entrance but the bouncer is all "Can't come in here bro" and points to a sign which states:

-Patrons Are Required To Dress In Attire Of Opposite Gender

Now, this girl was so damn attractive I ended up wearing this ridiculous plastic pink and black dress, and a pair of heels (which I quickly broke so I could walk like a bit more normally). This place is huge, like an opera house. The ceiling is hundreds of feet up, with incredibly detailed paintings covering it, like the Sistine Chapel. Massive chandeliers look like they're floating above the crowd in the lobby, which is a collection of various cross-dressed people, some taking it more seriously than others. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, and am happy to see I just look like a guy dressed up as a chick as a joke for Halloween.

I spot the girl again, and she's headed for the main hall, which is filled with hundreds of thousands of seats, and there's a massive stage up front, twice as big as the one at Shea's. And there's an open seat right behind her. So I go down, I sit, and I actually introduce myself. And within nanoseconds she and I are getting along as if we've known each other for years, and it's all going great.

Unfortunately this dream didn't end with any sort of erotic content, or anything along the lines of what had been going on previously at all. Instead my phone and laptop (why the hell did I have my laptop with me??) both died from puncture wounds, and I somehow managed to call/text my dad to tell him I needed a new phone and computer.



Don't ask me to analyze this, but feel free to take a crack at it yourself.

"The City" (Temp Title)

So I've been meaning to start writing again. I kind of went back to my roots as a little kid, creating imaginary adventures, and combined that with my knowledge and fandom of cyberpunk film and literature. So here's what I've got so far. Please don't steal/copy.

----------------------

"Running through the room, out the window, and boom; he's gone. 37 stories and not even a stray hair hits the ground. He is gone."

DeMosa shifts uneasily in his red leather chair. His nails are digging into his palms, turning them white. His legs crossed, his foot shaking like a metronome.

"You're telling me that he escaped by leaping out of our building, and didn't hit the ground?"

"Boss, I'm telling you like I saw it. He just threw himself through the glass grinning like a madman, and he didn't fall. The storm out there was something feirce, he just vanished in the rain. We didn't find a goddamn thing."

"And the case?"

Donovan's face tightened. The way his lip curled downward on the left corner was enough to tell DeMosa he got away with it.

"I want you to find that man and bring him back here."

Donovan nodded, nervous and agitated, and you could still see he was more than a little befuddled as to what just took place within the last ten minutes. He turned to leave the office.

"And Donovan?"

"Yes boss?"


DeMosa had already turned his chair around, looking out at the sprawling city under the sheets of rain, the lightning striking the tops of the hundreds of power generators he owned.

"I want him alive."

There was a sharp pain in the center of Donovan's head. He shut his eyes and left the office, his migrane pulsing.

***

The great thing about being me is I'm slippery. I can do just about anything I please. At least, that's what it appears like. The zipline gun was definitely a risk in the thunderstorm, but it was a risk worth taking. Holding the case in one hand and the gun in the other, I glided across the city. Rooftops flew underneath me with such speed they blurred into one another, as if blobs of color were simply strewn below me. I wondered how far the line would take me, what I hit with the destination end of it. The nanomachines in the gun would generate about a mile's worth of spiderstring, give or take a couple hundred of feet depending on the charge of the gun. It was a little lower than usual since the battery had to power the blaster function back in the labs.

The labs. My stomach sinks a little at the thought of the people in the chambers in there. Hard to even call them people. I could've taken some pics, released them to the press, but nobody would believe me. At least, nobody in the press. And the press is all owned by DeMosa, so the ones that would believe it have already seen it, and would naturally deny it. Good luck denying what's in this case, though. Had to tag two guards to get it, sorry bastards. Doubt they even knew what they were guarding, but it was either them or me and this case. And they weren't stopping me from getting this thing out of there.

I hope I land soon.

***

Donovan's cruiser was prowling the streets. He had every camera running, each mounted underneath the plastic body of the car. The onboard computer was checking every image, every detail, every voxel for the slightest hint of James McKay. It contained the most accurate model of him in existence, which didn't say much because he'd been able to keep his profile off the grid since he'd been born. Donovan paused at the thought of James' birth. Who were his parents? Did he have a family? How could he possibly stay out of every major social database in existence if he had loved ones? The amount of anonymity McKay had gave Donovan chills down his spine. He quickly went to turn on the radio.

"--- acid at 24% concentration, so be sure to wear those poncho's, people. If you are in need of a replacement, visit your nearest Red Cross and bring your damaged poncho with you for recycling. And now, here's a track from 1983 off of "Burning Bridges" by Naked Eyes."

He sat back as the synth lines kicked in from the get-go, let the autodrive steer the cruiser, and he shut his eyes again. Why couldn't we catch him, he thought. He didn't look any different than any other man, but he moved like an animal. It wasn't natural. He thought back to the chase.

---

Donovan was supervising an overnight shift in the packing department. He liked it down there, where the screams from the labs couldn't be heard. Those screams, things of bad dreams they were. They were impossible to describe, but once you heard them, you never completely got them out of your head. He spent months waking up every night in a cold sweat, waking up from dreams of those screams. That's how he got the transfer. He was one of the best guards DeMosa had under his employment. Once in a great while he would be assigned bodyguard to DeMosa on various trips. He even got to see Venice once, when DeMosa was meeting with the Prime Minister of New Italy. Two weeks after the meet the PM was found dead, suicide. He had hung himself from the ceiling fan of his living room. What the press didn't tell the public was that he had written "NO GOD" all over his body. He did it with his fingernails.

The goods were being packaged by people who had no idea what it was. They were just happy to be employed, to get paid. To be able to afford to eat. The lucky ones could buy a drink once in a while, if they were awarded a voucher that week. "A Healthy City Is A Happy City!" Brilliant marketing on that one, he thought. Common sense translated the message into "If you consume what we don't want you to, we'll beat control into you."

Control. Something that was definitely not applied in any measure to James McKay. He came bursting through the lab doors, smoke pouring in through the hole he made in the wall. Out of the cloud he came flying, his gun blazing without hitting a soul. Donovan thought about this for a moment too. McKay didn't kill a soul. The one guard probably won't walk again, and the other lost his arm, but they're both in stable condition in the medical bay.

McKay was up on the conveyour belt, running in the direction it rolled, his eyes sharp and fixed on the staircase. Donovan had ran to the freight elevator, hoping he was predicting next McKay's move, trying to stay one step ahead. He was right, too. He got off on the 36th floor, and as he exited the elevator he glimpsed James' sillouhette out of the corner of his eye, running down the corridor. He quickly bolted after him, blaster out and ready to take him down. Then McKay did something Donovan did not expect. The door closing behind McKay, Donovan caught a glimpse of the light, and heard the screa

---

The carphone's sudden ringing startled Donovan and he jumped in his seat, kicking the passenger side door and bending the handle into a now unmoveable position. He cursed to himself as he sat up and touched the center console.

"Hello?"

"Donovan, you sound like shit." A gruff laugh came from the man on screen. It was hearty and warm, the kind of laugh one would hear from a proud father to his son. "Any luck on the search?"

"Hey Mort. Nah, nothing yet. This guy is either really crafty, or dead in a back alley somewhere. I wouldn't be shocked if some bum from this part of town tagged him in the back and took the case."

"Ehh, I doubt it. I've heard of this guy before, apparently he's got quite the fan club down there. They all think he's some sort of 'liberator' or some crap. You might want to try asking around."

"In this get up? I've got a DEC badge plastered on my jacket, and I'm not stepping out in this acid without some sort of cover."

There was another gruff laugh. "Don't be such a pansy, a little acid rain never hurt anybody."

"Yeah, tell that to Griggs. I'm pretty sure they haven't finished filling the holes in his hands at the hospital yet. I like my extremeties in the condition they're in, thanks."

"Well, you better think of something more than just rolling around in that patrol car." Mort had a slight grin on his face. "I hear DeMosa might give you a promotion if you find this guy."

"Thanks, but I'm gonna need a little more motivation than that."

Mort's grin grew wider. "You never cease to amaze me Jason. I'll check up on you later."

The console went to static for a moment, and then standby. Donovan turned the radio back on. He'd known Mort for nearly eight years, since he started working at DeMosa Engineering Corp. He was hired as a lacky, meant to get the coffee and donuts for the guards and engineers. Mort was working on some top secret stuff, the likes of which Donovan still didn't know. He always just assumed it was something to do with the energy collection towers now scattered about the city, collecting electricity from the constant storm cloud that blanketed the sky for miles in every direction. He could still remember what Mort would always ask for. "A diet cola and a plain bagel. And I mean p-l-a-i-n." Every day for two years.

It was Jason's favorite.

***

You know, you'd think after running into your ex with the guy she left you for at your own home would upset you. At first, it did. But looking back on it now, I'm glad it all happened. It wiped away any thoughts I had of potentially getting back a friendship (which I now realize was a bullshit excuse for "friendship" in the first place). I finally feel completely freed of the entire situation. Chris is back, bitches.

Presenting autobot4million.

Some random tidbits

First off, last night while slightly inebriated I, along with a few friends, came up with a brilliant idea for a fourth film in the Evil Dead series. But I can't post it here yet, because it's top-secret stuff.

Second, I have a new drink I love, and it is sherry. It's tasty and relatively cheap. And I got pretty tipsy off of it last night.

Third, I am this close to completely giving up on the idea of meeting someone new. Because people are so god damn stupid, stubborn, and insecure. It is nothing but annoying the shit out of me. The way people do things for "love" whilst getting used disgusts me.

And that's all I have for today.

Progress on Paper

So, I've started doing a little bit of research on both the arcade front and the game development front, and I've got a bit of info on both.

-Arcade Games:
Arcade games are expensive. No shit. I knew that. What I did NOT know was that it'd be relatively cheaper to buy the game in parts (PCB, CRT, d.i.y. cabinet, etc) and assemble it yourself. I'm not exactly the most proficient person when it comes to building things, but I'm no total slob, either. Plus, if I was to start making my own cabinets for other games, that'd certainly give me the experience I'd need to start designing my own for my own games.

-Game Development:
There's a set of bindings to Python I've been reading up on called "pygame". Python, for those of you who don't know, is a straightforward scripting/programming language that runs on multiple platforms. So, to a broke guy like me that's scraping for every penny on the bottom of the barrel, that reads "You can develop games on a Linux platform with a free toolkit and use it in your own arcade games." This is a thought that makes me grin like a little kid all over again.

So that's what's going on there. If anybody out there has any info they'd like to correct me on, or has some knowledge of owning an arcade, arcade games, or developing games, I'd love to hear from you.

UPDATE: Just found this sick web page/wiki - http://arcadecontrols.com/arcade.htm

B-Lo Arcade-a-Mania from a Tron Fan

Mmmmm, what an exciting week. I'm a huge Tron fan. And I mean, HUGE. So seeing all the new stuff from ComiCon about the new sequel Tron Legacy was making me nerdgasm for a better part of the week. Seriously, you should check this shit out.

Flynn Lives
Some secret stuff on the Flynn Lives page including the trailer/test footage in HD
Home of Tron
Official Tron Legacy Page

So yeah, geek-a-mania. If you haven't seen the original, I highly recommend it.

So I saw all this stuff. And videos from the Flynn's Arcade they opened up for people at ComiCon to check out, and it made me think: Why aren't there any cool arcades anymore? I mean, I understand the whole home console and computer gaming scene. But seriously, what's more fun than hanging out with a bunch of friends, having some cheap eats, listening to loud music, and playing ridiculously addicting video games? So, I now have a dream for when I finish college. I want to start an arcade in Buffalo. Classic games, locally published games, local, retro, and obscure tunes, and have it close to someplace that sells pizza or something like that. I mean, how cool would that be? Quarter-to-play games, friends, neon, just a good time. I'm going to do some serious research into it, and start figuring things out, how they'll go from here. And I'll be sure to post info about it here.

FLYNN LIVES!!!!

Flynn Lives!
Home of Tron

CHECK IT OUT RIGHT NOW!!!!

So I thought I'd take a moment to introduce myself, since I haven't done so yet.

My name is Chris Langford and I was born on December 23rd, 1987. I'm currently a student of the Digital Media Arts program at Canisius College in Buffalo, NY, and I'm working in a multitude of realms, though my focus is design and real-time interactive multimedia. I'm also a Linux user, which makes some things more difficult for me than other DMA students, though in the long run I save money and gain more experience with the technology I'm using. I'm also an avid reader of graphic novels and comic compilations, I like to write on occasion though I have yet to finish any sort of story or piece. I also like to illustrate and doodle, and I'm currently working on the first issue of a small comic that's to be included in an artzine a friend of mine is compiling entitled "Bored". I've also got a strong interest in film and music, currently my favorite film being Blade Runner and the first album off the top of my head is Secret Diary by College (from the Valerie Collective). I've got a thing for neon, 80's style, and abstract CGI, and I can be an incredibly cynical and sarcastic person at times.

Blah.

Blurbs for The Day

(1:00pm) So, I'm sitting on my porch. We've got this massive green couch on it, with big wooden armrests that have these engravings on them that are all vines and leafs, and every time I look at this thing I feel like it belongs in some sort of waiting room. Except the waiting room is in a big Scottish castle and you're waiting because you've scheduled an appointment with the head Leprechaun because you feel you've been unfairly sentenced to the wearing of the green shoes. For those of you who know what I'm talking about, you understand what sort of a scene this would make.

(8:30pm) I don't want to hear about your politics, I don't care about your politics, I want to slap every one of you in the face. I'll actually give a crap once you people start doing something and stop just talking about things. And another thing: You really think those pricks in office actually pay attention to your vote? How would you even know if it went through? I think the government stopped listening to us long ago, and the only time they do now is when the people are bashing down the door with a ram and threatening to burn the building down. Fuck politics.

Errata and a First Post

So I set up a blog. Whoo hoo. Right now my brain feels fried from all the Silent Hill I was just playing, and today doesn't look like it's going to get much more exciting. Dishes later, maybe a bike ride, who knows. Hellraiser, too. That and ...something else from the library. Don't know why I can't think of it. Also, having no food really sucks.

I've got some sketches I did up yesterday, not sure if I'll upload them today or not. They'll be up at some point, though. Little facial caricatures of some people in my day-to-day.