[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]

Burn it down. Digest the ashes.

[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]

Fascinated, Joshua ate his best friend.

[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]

But the trains were on time!

[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

Karmic uppercuts be cemented in truth, Pepsibones the great has been banished from his own column. He saw fit to render me helpless and hijack Variant Covers on Tuesday, and for that I have returned the favor by supplanting him in this hypertextual mayhem. One column theft begets another!

Brian Wood’s Northlanders can probably sell you buying the comic on the concept of vikings, violence, and vulgarity alone. Furthermore, the fact that Brian Wood is writing the rag is motivation enough for me to read it. Wood’s DMZ is one of the densest, smartest comic books I’m digging on these days.

So!

The fact that Wood brings his intelligent, witty, and darkly humorous notions of power and prejudice amongst other things to the world of swords and vikings? Fuck you if you’re not reading this comic book.

Which in fact, means, fuck me up until today.

Northlanders #29 is a stand-alone issue, which makes it perfect for douchebags like me. Having not read the title, but wanting to get into it, I’ve been holding off for a jumping on point! Splash, motherfuckers! Jump on in, the water is warm, with invisible pools of urine slowly floating your way. Shazam! Muwahaha. But no seriously, grab this issue and welcome to the world of Northlanders. You don’t need any pre-existing knowledge of the world.

The issue is narrated by the character Dag. Now, I don’t know Dag. And I’m pretty sure he’s a new character, but I could be wrong. But within a few pages, Wood has you firmly entrenched in Dag’s plight. It’s the sign of a dope writer that can get you invested in a character in a short amount of time. Anyone can generate sloppy issue after sloppy issue and facilitate some sort of illusion of depth. But Wood’s Dag is so god damn real from the beginning that you’re with the dude.

Most of that righteous bullshit is achieved through D-Boy’s internal monologue, which reads like some straight up sexy and darkly humorous prose:

My name is Dag. Just Dag. Who my kin are is of little use or influence out here. What makes a man on the sea road is bringing the cargo in on time, and not fucking over the hired help.

Right now I’m losing on both counts.

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[pixelation | weekly gaming column every wednesday]

–-

Diablo II turned ten yesterday. Wait, what. Really? Ten years. Jesus Christ. So that wretched, chill-inducing screeching I hear is in fact time being dragged down the corridor all too quickly. Why, it feels like just yesterday I was sitting in my room, covered in a pile of Pepsi cans, trying my god damn hardest to farm Mephisto for ill loots. Caloric intent high. Sleep minimal. Bone marrow? Yep. Laced to to the very core with caffeine.

Then is now.

Now is then.

Diablo II is one of those touchstone games that you can go back to. If you’ve played it. It’s the sort of game you can drunkenly bring up with a pack of friends who experienced it and just smash the red button labeled “Holy fuck, Nostalgic Trip” while buckling the fuck up. In almost no time, the people around you will be awash in a vernacular they don’t understand. “Motherfucking Stone of Jordans” and “Fucking Mephisto runs” and “Dude, dude, remember when the shit I traded for was actually duped, and when I logged in, it was gone?”

It’s deep, yo. Deep within my breastplate of rot. I can’t ever become jaded, Diablo-fueled nostalgia keeps me warm.

A decade ago. Fifty pounds heavier. One worn and gooey virginity card tucked into my pocket. God, was I going to hold that thing forever. Long shitty hair. But still super-pumped. But still super-enthused. About everything. A summer like this. Like any other summer. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. The crack. Before World of Warcraft stole my life, there was Diablo II. It cracked my Ridiculous Gaming Sessions hymen. Gouged with a sharp-stick, thrust with ill-intent.

Oh for sure I had played games for ten hours in a row before Diablo II. Oh sure, I had cranked out entire games in a couple of sittings. But fucking Diablo II, yo. That shit wasn’t a game. It was crack. I didn’t just play it. I lived it. Senior year of high school was merely seven hours of diversion before I could go farm Act III for another five hours. The repetitious gameplay giving away to an insatiable need to have better shit. God damn Blizzard. A decade later and the same technique still drives people who play WoW.

The mentality is simple: I need better fake things, and because I need these fake things, I’m going to stay up real late and compulsively play and ruin my real life.

Keep Reading »

[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]

Gasoline is expensive. Shrimp is cheap.

It would have made me sixteen in the summer of 1977.

Wonder Woman’s getting a new costume, and she’s covering up. Like, woah. Sorry perverts! But the outfit which really never made sense and only got more ridiculous with time has been replaced with something “modern” or whatever. Designed by Jim Lee! Let’s get the downlow on the outfit:

Writer J. Michael Straczynski via Robot 6:

Form follows function. She has to exist a great deal in an urban setting. So I wanted her to have an outfit that she can close up and pass more or less without notice, or open when she’s in a fight to reveal her full appearance. I wanted the outfit to express her own situation, in that she lives in two worlds, which is also in a way the trap in which she’s found herself.

I also wanted it functional. As so many female fans have said over the years, “How does she fight in that without all her parts popping out? Where does she keep stuff?” She can keep or shed the jacket, there are pockets, it’s tough and serious looking while still attractive. It’s a Wonder Woman designed for the 21st century. Not to get all “Project Runway” on this, but what woman wears the same outfit for 60 years without at least accessorizing?

I’m for it. I really am. As much as I enjoy boobs and butts, the outfit was impressively outrageous in the amount of flesh it displayed. Even if that flesh was carved from clay or whatever Wonder Woman’s origin is, I know. The cynical part of me wants to start counting down until they return to the horndog wunderkind that she’s worn since forever, but hey, for the moment, enjoy some new Jim Lee artwork.

[image courtesy of slashfilm]

Fug yeah, Damon Lindelof is starting work on the script for the Star Trek sequel. I’m stoked, stoked, I say!

I can only imagine he may in fact be a bit excited to work on something that isn’t a monstrous, unwieldy bloated mess, too. I mean, I love LOST, despite its flaws; and intrepid LOST fans, spending more than ten minutes after the emotional resonancy of the finale has worn off will bring countless to light. By the end, it must have seem burdensome for everyone involved. But here Lindelof will get to work with a universe, while enormous, isn’t attempting to tie together six seasons of storylines with a bow.

Or, I suppose, not tie them all together! Zing!

No seriously though, I’m excited.

[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]

Ain’t no superheroes in our apartment.