[legend has it that Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word story to win a bar bet — For sale: baby shoes, never worn. leading to the author’s birthday, I’m going to offer a daily post of my own six-word story. readers are encouraged to respond with their own]

“Fried or scrambled, eggs is eggs.”

[photo]

[legend has it that Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word story to win a bar bet — For sale: baby shoes, never worn. leading to the author’s birthday, I’m going to offer a daily post of my own six-word story. readers are encouraged to respond with their own]

I keep my emotions bottled up.

[photo]

[via Pulphope]

Trying to remember how to draw R2-D2 while waiting on some pasta last night. Realized I never looked at him very closely.

Paul Pope doodling Star Wars? Nerd heaven.

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I can’t stop watching this video.

Here’s the problem with me trying to write anything. I vomit passion. It works its way out of my pores, it rambles out of my mouth, it infects my fingers. Anything I write about anything no less than six months after I experience it, is horriblly disfigured by my passions. And the feelings I have now or will have then can be completely contradictory, and dammit I don’t really care.

There’s a certain point when the switch flips and I’m able to think about something analytically, but usually I can’t . Especially when I enjoy something.

Like Inception.

I’ve spent the entire last twenty-four hours completely swallowed up by the universe that Christopher Nolan built. A universe built in mazes, fabricated with the intent to meditate on ideas of ideas, guilt, consciousness, self-reflection, et cetera. Movies are special to me when they affect me. A universe also filled with gorgeous cinematography, white-knuckle action, and brief moments of humor. Every time I have to hear someone say, “Inception is a masterpiece” or “Inception isn’t a masterpiece”, I wonder quietly to myself what the fuck that means. I have absolutely no idea. But I do know Inception affected me.

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[legend has it that Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word story to win a bar bet — For sale: baby shoes, never worn. leading to the author’s birthday, I’m going to offer a daily post of my own six-word story. readers are encouraged to respond with their own]

Only geezers think it’s too late.

[photo]

[via nyt : click to enlarge]

It’s like a powder-keg of geek priapatic bonerstorm.

[pixelation | weekly gaming/life column every wednesday or uh thursday]

–-

And a good god damn to you as well! What’s percolatin’? Crackalakin? Say word? Double word? Aiight, whatever. Enough bullshit. Put on your wastelander outfit, and let’s party.

The only gaming I’ve really been doing over the past couple of months, or maybe I guess, this year, is wastelanding and outer-spacing. I’m making up all sorts of   words here. Take your dictionary and burn it! Don’t conform to what the man tells you as far as proper grammar and spelling! Beware the brainwash clinic! You’re all doomed, we’re all doomed!

The amazing part is that one of the predominant reasons for my awful gaming schedule is the fact that almost all of my waking life is dedicated to either A) writing papers or B) worrying about writing papers. I have an inability to engage in things I enjoy if I am stressed, or worried about something.

Two important asides:

This doesn’t include masturbation, which is my refuge from anxiety. If I’m worried whatever, and I have something looming over me, I whip out das schlong and punish him. If you think I’m worried about writing another paper, you should ask him what’s up. He’s absolutely frazzled, beat red (pun!), and worse for the wear. I think I’m going to wear out whatever tubing and connections hold the thing together by the end of my Master’s Degree.

So when I can get some gaming in, I’m working through Fallout 3. I had the misfortune of playing through Fallout 3 last year way too fast, and so I’ve been spending all my time now trying to blast through everything before Fallout: New Vegas comes out.

Including the expansion packs.

Right now I’m rockin’ through Mothership Zeta, and I have to say it’s pretty much ass. If you took ass, and then you were like “Hmm, what’s analogous to this in the gaming world”…there’s be plenty of other examples. Whatever! Hey, but it just isn’t that good.

It’s almost as bad as BioWare DLC. Ohhhhhh shit, zing! And whatnot! I’m losing my mind. Can you tell that? Do the monsters have the teeth in their eyes!? The Microsoft Word processor beckons to me in my sleep. Ian, it says. Pump me full of verbs and run-on sentences! Semi-colon all over me!

But seriously though, I love me some Bethesda, and I love me some Fallout 3, but this expansion just really ain’t cuttin’ it. What can you do? I bought it for half-price back in the day when they had slashed all their DLC, and I guess I really don’t regret playing it.

Sort of.

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[via slashfilm : click to enlarge]

In case you can’t tell, I’m pretty interested in the Thor movie. I know there’s douchey Green Lanterns out there, and that X-Men: First Class movie that’s getting fast tracked and is going to suck. But I’m in it to win it with Norse Thunder and the Asgardian Bromites. So with that said, I’m digging this picture released today, from what I’m assuming is the same issue of EW that has the Green Lantern crap.

It looks decidedly less lame, a bit more in context, and the outfits appear to cost more than $10.

[legend has it that Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word story to win a bar bet — For sale: baby shoes, never worn. leading to the author’s birthday, I’m going to offer a daily post of my own six-word story. readers are encouraged to respond with their own]

Don’t hire them; they’re too short.

[photo]