My Dirty Gutter Moment

There were hints along the way; evidence that I was about to cross a threshold that cannot be taken in reverse. A couple of years ago I pulled a muscle in my shoulder while adjusting a showerhead. Not long after that a twinge developed in my right knee whenever I walked up stairs. I began to notice that, left unshaven, my facial hair was more silver than brown. As my thoughts turned to bedtime, I began making judgement calls on parents that let their kids play outside after 8:30PM on a summer’s eve. Those children are so loud! Why aren’t they in bed?

Various clues of what was coming.

The threshold I didn’t see coming was being Old. Ancient, really. Less than two years from 50 and I crossed the line unexpectedly but with such clarity that my brain formed a simple two-word phrase to mark the occasion.

Running Jump

 It feels like I've been swirling a blog post around in my head forever but like anything swirling it hits an orbit far enough away that I forget about it. Then when the feeling swoops back close enough to my consciousness I start to wonder what I should write about. There's no shortage of historical events -- I have feelings and thoughts on things in the news, especially lately -- but I could write past things, my recent move, working entirely remotely, my trials and tribulations which may too private to share.

How about the Daylight Saving Time? What a pain! But I was kind of laid up with some kind of weird abdominal bug.

And I'm out of things to write.

One Last Thing Before the Apocalypse

As the world falls into this really weird rhythm of endless days and nights, where the calendar is merely a hint at the way things used to be, and the last of the food sits rotting in the sun, there's one thing that I desparately scribble out with a nub of a pencil.

One last bit of knowledge to convey to whatever remnants of humanity might one day stumble upon my barely-legible scrawl. Hopefully whomever finds it speaks in English.

I write: The Macbook charging cable sucks. Like, really it does. Susceptible to breakage, looks weird, attractive to kittens that like to chew on things. If you find one in the wasteland, just leave it. You're better off.

I wish to convey additional knowledge to the inheritors of our failure: P.S. Wireless earbuds. Bad idea all-round.

Staring into the middle distance, I slump forward and hit the ground at an uncomfortable angle then die.

Do Kids Nowadays Care About Graphics?

Short answer with no evidence or even an anecdote: No.

Longer answer with anecdotal evidence:

My 11-year old son is currently playing 1997's Dungeon Keeper and 2000's Nox. I picked up both when Electronic Arts' Origin service had "on the house" games and ever since my Alienware's graphics card bit the dust 5 years ago these are the kinds of games that run best. Objectively, put against the current generation of graphics these two games are terrible to look at, Dungeon Keeper's first-person mode is particularly hard to look at. Everything is smeared, blocky, stretched even with the resolution jacked to 640x480:

Source: Moby Games

Nox fairs slightly better, but the graphics -- if I may drag out an old phrase and utter it once more -- are shit.

Finishing a Book

Since we moved, my commute to/from work boiled down to a 25 minute drive (each way) from a solid 90 minute to/from commute that involved walking and public transit (and long ferry ride on Mondays and Fridays) I havent't finished reading a book. That's more than two years!

It wasn't unusual for me to finish multiple books in a week and listen to 10 or more podcast episodes. Like I said, I haven't finished a book in a long time, but also my podcast listening has dramatically dropped off. Not just the number of podcasts I listen to. Worse than that it's a struggle to find time to even listen to a whole episode before the next one is availale.

All of the above taken into account I'm finally about to finish a book: Bill Bryson's "At Home."

Now, I will stop writing this to finish it.

Iron Man, Mark III (from Hot Toys and Sideshow Collectibles)

In my mind a good indicator of a high-quality collectible -- *ahem* action figure -- is that I start getting ideas how the makers could have added even more layers, more detail to a piece that is already packed with detail. In the case of Iron Man, Mark III (from Hot Toys and Sideshow Collectibles), I wish there was a button to press for catch phrases from Capcom fighting games. It seems a perfect fit, especially given the fact the figure is already wired for lights in four locations. Why not a sound chip to spout, "Proton CANNON!"?

Makes me wonder if there's an after-market supplier that I could contact to install such a thing. I'd even settle for a sound chip in the large base that ships with the figure.

The attention to detail actually starts with the box Iron Man is packed into. And for the price tag of $309.99 USD ($405.00 CAN) that should be expected but as much as I like boxes, the showpiece, of course, is Iron Man.

No assembly required! Just free the figure from the deftly cut styrofoam liner, remove the copious bits of protective plastic and foam, and enjoy!

Well, there is some assembly necessary if you want the full effect of the lights. The package includes the necessary "button" batteries to install for the four light-up locations: visor (accessed through the forehead), the hands (batteries installed in the biceps); and the chest (located in the back). Each of these compartments are secured by a screwed-down hatch.

The included mini screwdriver is, in a word, terrible. This is a deluxe figure so why not include a screwdriver that will actually get the job done? The mini screwdriver slips easily when it use thereby damaging the heads of the screws. In the long run this will mean the battery hatches will become wholly inaccessible.

Non-Fiction

Up until recently, my forays into non-fiction were almost entirely restricted to university writing assignments.

Only one example springs to mind. I read a biography of Ludwig II of Bavaria after finishing Gabriel Knight II: The Beast Within.

Now it's almost all non-fiction. I just finished up "Tesla: Inventor of the Electrical Age" and prior to that it was "Big Bang: The Origin Of The Universe." Now, I'm reading "L.A. Noir: The Struggle for the Soul of America's Most Seductive City" which has so far been fascinating.

I've probably recounted here or elsewhere my love of the stories of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler and their "hard boiled" detective fiction, the multitude of radio dramas that rolled out from the 1930's and 1940's, and Rockstar's "L.A. Noire" game from 2011. No doubt this has affected my enjoyment of "L.A. Noir" -- specifically, I'm probably enjoying it more than most.

The author, John Buntin, chronicles the parallel rise of gangster Mickey Cohen and (eventual) LA Police Chief, William Parker, but there's so much more going on in the story of life in Los Angeles' earlier years. Through the Great Depression, during the onset of World War II and it's aftermath, Los Angeles, as conjured in my imagination, seems like it was always about 48 hours from outright chaos and societal collapse.

It's hard for me to think that this is no longer the case.

Every time I've been in LA -- mostly for E3 -- it always felt like it was on the verge of unraveling. Maybe it's the fact downtown is devoid of people after normal working hours or the dust; a perfume of asphalt, concrete, and car exhaust; those burrito places that open walk-in churches when the sun goes down. There's just something desperate about the place.

I realize that it's quite possible my brain has just imprinted the "hard boiled" sensibility on the entire place, so maybe that feeling will be inescapable no matter what I do, but "L.A. Noir" isn't helping dissuade my assessment of the place.

Another thing the book does -- at least for me and it's probably inadvertent -- is draw parallels between the way the Los Angeles police operated in terms of wire tapping and the current operation of the US's National Security Agency. As I wrote previously, it's very good read so far!

Good ol' Edgar A. Poe

After reading finally Hemmingway's "The Old Man and the Sea" then plowing through Jonathan Harvey's "The Girl Who Just Appeared" I thought it was high time that I finally read some Edgar Allan Poe because I read somewhere that he single-handedly invented the "Detective Fiction" genre, which is one of my favourite genres..

C. August Dupin as he

appeared in 1999's

"League of Extraordinary

Gentlemen."

Previously my exposure to Poe went as far as:

1. Oh yeah, he's the writer of "The Tell-Tale Heart." (Never read it, but referenced heavily in an early episode of The Simpsons.)
2. The Simpson's "Treehouse of Horror" (Season 2) segment "The Raven."
3. (Without realizing it at the time) C. Auguste Dupin's guest spot in 1999's "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" written by Alan Moore.

And that is the totality of my exposure to Edgar Alan Poe, unless you take into account the numerous authors so obviously inspired/influenced by Poe, most notably Sherlock Holmes creator Arthur Conan Doyle.

So, I grabbed a copy of The Modern Library's collection of stories that focuses on the exploits of Dupin, "The Murders in the Rue Morgue: The Dupin Tales." The book contains three stories and I've only finished reading "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" but I'd say I'm a fan, even if the opening paragraphs are dense with lots of big words it felt like my brain was out of shape the same way a 40-year old sprints up a couple of flights of stairs then has stop to catch his breath and, possibly, throw-up before walking the rest of the way at a staid pace more in line with his age and physical prowess.

Pretender No More: E3 2014

Although I'd felt brief impressions of being a pretender – someone that did not belong, someone that shouldn't be there but had somehow gotten away with a giant con – prior to attending my first production meeting, it wasn't until the introductions and initial briefing were underway that the word "fraud" fully formed in my mind.

Maybe the best way I can describe it...

It could be like the feeling you might have if every day you wished you could visit Paris. Years go by and you think the dream of getting to Paris will never be realized. Then one morning you groggily shake off the remnants of last night's Indian food and lager and realize you're standing on the inexplicably-named Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt outside Palais de la Decouverte, a stone's throw from La Seine and the Eiffel Tower. To be fair, it would be a hell of a throw to hit the Eiffel Tower from Palais de La Decouverte but that's really beside the point: You're suddenly in Paris!

Did you earn that trip? Deserve it? Did you pay your dues? Work all those extras at a job that pays just enough so you could sock away a few dollars from every pay stub to make your dream a reality? Did you hunt for the best deals on a flight? Figure out where to stay so you could stretch each dollar (or franc or Euro or whatever) to it's fullest?

In my brain, all that preparation stuff – those extra hours, that extra work, all that writing over the course of 15 years with The Armchair Empire – zipped out of my head and I was left with the feeling I imagine most murders feel at some point when they're in large crowds. Someone out there, someone close to you, is about to stand up and, with a Phoenix Wright flourish, call attention to the fact that you are, in fact, a killer.

So, what was this production meeting I'd conned myself into? Where had I arrived that I felt like I didn't deserve to be there?

Computer Troubles with a Capital "Troub"

I spent a good chunk of time this week trying to troubleshoot a problem with my laptop. Starting last week, a BSOD -- Blue Screen of Death -- began popping up with precise regularity. If it didn't boot in Safe Mode, it wouldn't boot at all. As a result I had to dig into the "guts" of software, the bios, and all those things that I've largely detached myself from.

Not since the "good ol' days" of DOS on our family's trusty XT and later our 486 (which sported a "Turbo" button), have I been forced to understand the operation of my computer any deeper than pressing the button to turn it on or possibly downloading a specific hardware driver. This was full-on poking around in stuff that I didn't fully understand but kinda, sorta thought that changing settings here, there and everywhere, might goad the computer to boot up properly. It was a voyage of discovery as I came across settings and options that I often thought I should tweak, but never had the gumption to sit down and just figure it all out. (Of course, if everything was working fine, why would I start tweaking things?) There were completely unexplored areas and diagnostic options that I had no clue were present.

And We're Floating... Inside a Tent

The homestead. February 2008.

It sounds weird when the words tumble out of my mouth.

"We packed up our camping gear, drove down to Seattle from Vancouver, put all that camping stuff on a plane then camped at Walt Disney World. Yeah, Orlando in Florida. That one."

It might have been easier to have those words come out had it just been me and my wife since it reduces the gear factor to a large backpack. Two people camping after a long plane ride doesn't seem weird. (Mercifully we left all the cooking equipment in Vancouver -- we made use of the Walt Disney World "Dining Plan.") But at the time of the trip we had three kids along for the ride, which exponentially increased the amount of stuff to bring. Extra clothes, shoes, a big tent, sleeping bags, air mattresses... And none of them were really at age where they could handle more than a wheeled suitcase and a "fun size" backpack, which meant Jennifer and I were left to lug everything from place to place.

So, you might be able to imagine us arriving at Fort Wilderness Resort. Haggard from an early departure in Seattle and a 6 hour flight, arriving at our campsite in the dark, hungry, irritable. I'm pretty sure my shirt was torn but at least the cut above my right eye had finally stopped bleeding.

Comparing Fort Wilderness Resort to "real" camping is a bit of a stretch. Camping to me is marked with pit toilets, sharing the lake with sucking leeches, and hour upon hour of driving to finally reach a spot we can start to relax. (The wind-up to get "back to nature" and start "relaxing" seems counter-intuitive because it takes so much frantic energy to get there in the first place.)

The Fort Wilderness Resort is high end camping. (Hell, the word "resort" is right there in the name.) There are nearby laundry facilities, two large pools, hammocks, relatively flat campsites, small lizards, a couple of shops. Very nice! But arriving in the dark after so much travelling, there was really only one thought in my mind: My God, I hate camping.

Project NL: Millennium Falcon

Joey, have you ever wanted split open the Millennium Falcon?

Over the years I somehow came into possession of two 1979 Kenner Millennium Falcon toys. I know one of them was given to me by my younger brother, but the other one I don't really have any recollection of acquiring. After kicking around in boxes and surviving a couple of moves, they were both in danger of being offloaded at a thrift store. Rather than see them disappear I started on a project to turn one of them into a night light because what else does one do with multiple Falcons?

I performed a once-over of each Falcon trying to decided which one would be the successful candidate. Neither one was in the best condition to start with but one was definitely in better shape.

Excerpt from Chapter 13: Roy Arrives in Less Dramatic Fashion

The text below is from a novel in progress. First draft so there's still plenty of editing that will need to be done before it's "ready."

“It was marked on the wall outside.”

“Show me,” Tex moved from behind the counter toward the door.

Outside, Roy pointed at the graffiti. Tex considered the markings for only a moment before heading back inside.

“I don't suppose, Canuck, that you carry a sidearm?” Tex was rooting behind the counter. “I've got one here if you don't.”

“A gun? For what?”

“La Madre is one of the local gangs. Involved in drugs, illegal hooch, drug smuggling. People sometimes,” Tex stood up holding what Roy knew was a shotgun, but didn't recognize the type. “Rile up all kinds of trouble in town. When they feel like it; when someone ain't paid up protection money or wronged them some way. Not happened in a spell, quiet lately. We've been marked for target practice, I expect.”

Tex banged a side of the counter top and a small spring-loaded drawer opened on the customer side of the counter.

Roy's wide eyes stared down at some kind of handgun. Growing up in the wilds of Canada, Roy knew about rifles – a tool that his family used on a regular basis to hunt game – but handguns? What use was there for a handgun? Using a rifle was all about keeping a safe distance from dangerous game. The effective range of a handgun made it impractical unless you wanted to make a lot of noise without getting much done. He reached for the gun.

Daredevil

After a couple of episodes of Marvel's Daredevil -- obligatory, "Now available on Netflix!" -- one thing that really stands out to me is just how hellish life is when you're not on SHIELD's helicarrier. Throughout the Avengers/Marvel Universe movies, we get a sanitized version of the results of the kind of violence that meta-humans and gods can unleash (not to mention the aliens) on a city. Those gargantuan Chitari flying whale-things in Avengers easily topple buildings and the Hulk is smashing everything that is and isn't moving but you never get a sense of the human cost behind all that destruction. Thousands must have died in the "Battle for New York." Never mind that "The Council" was going to nuke Manhattan, there must have been massive causualties on the ground.

Daredevil doesn't really get into that aspect of the Battle for New York, but it has featured the aftermath as a boon for organized crime to rebuild sections of the city and swindle huge amounts of cash into their bank accounts. What Daredevil has done is bring the Marvel Universe right down to the streets, grime and garbage included. (And at the end of the second episode, we go under the streets in one intense round of combat.)

Fat-Man & Burger

I think I was 7 or 8 -- somewhere around that age -- when I got hold of a mechanical pencil for the first time in my life. I loved the fact that the tip never blunted, which is still a problem with modern pencils, so I spent and afternoon/evening drawing "Fat-Man & Burger."

The ending lacks a punch, but I'm fond of some of the illustrations, particularly the panel where Fat-Man is sweating profusely.

TV Theme Songs

Something about TV theme songs really appeal to me. It might be because they're short, usually have memorable lyrics, and conjure up whatever good feelings I might have associated with the show. Bojack Horseman (on Netflix) features an instrumental opening that is currently buzzing through my brain. Here's an extended version:

This Headline

A number of days ago, this headline had me laughing every time I thought about it. Even without any context or knowing what the rest of the story is about, it just sums up what a couple of 12-year-old boys would come up with on a hot summer afternoon and it somehow becomes news.

Intentionally or not, it also has the cadence of a headline from The Onion.

Excerpt from Chapter 12 – Why Couldn't It Have Been Tequila?

The text below is from a novel in progress. First draft so there's still plenty of editing that will need to be done before it's "ready."

“This leak, Roy, you gotta do something with it,” his mechanic had told him. “I know you keep topping it up but that ain't gonna keep you going for much longer. I'll give you a break on the labour. Or how about you pay me in instalments?”

Roy cocked his head, winked at the mechanic. “I'll be just fine, mon amis. Not to worry.”

As he leaped out of the car to snap the hood open and restart the car with force of will and a wave of profanity, Aloysious muttered, “I knew we should have stopped at that last gas station to get some water.”

A large semi-trailer zoomed passed them and the pair were left in an eerie wake of silence.

Well, silence as allowed by Roy's incredible barrage of profanity.

It was close enough to noon for the sun to be almost directly overhead. And it was hot. Not the kind of swimming humidity of Toronto, but hot. Baking hot. Humidity or not, suddenly stranded in a desert wasn't how Aloysious thought this trip was going to end. Maybe something spectacular, like a blood-red mushroom cloud and a shockwave of energy blasting out nearby windows, but not this.

“Mechanic told you to get that leak fixed,” Aloysious reminded him, unnecessarily.

Roy paused. “You want to try doin' something useful, boy?” He shouted. “Get up on the road and get us a ride to the next gas station. Tow truck or something, maybe.” He trailed off, popped the hood, and strode out to bellow at the engine block.

Aloysious stowed the camera in the trunk, next to a stack of Reds. His eyes narrowed just slightly.

He peeled off some of the plastic wrap and pulled out a six pack.

There was a muffled, “What the hell, boy?” from the front seat of the car as Aloysious snapped open a can.

“Maybe this'll help,” Aloysious said. “Get the camera ready, I guess. Maybe I can get us outta this with some Red power.”

Roy stood beside the car now, looking at Aloysious. “Leave the naming and catchphrases to me. Red power? What the hell. That's almost as lame as Shazam.”

A Little from Chapter 9: Things Begin Horribly Wrong

The text below is from a novel in progress. First draft so there's still plenty of editing that will need to be done before it's "ready."

It was like some kind of spilled gold that coated his mouth, his throat; he could feel his skin begin to unfurl. The basement lit up and Aloysious could see the skeletons of Sal and the Raspy Man; he could see beyond the walls and floor and saw more bones tangled together. Amid the sudden cool power of being three cans in, there were voices twisted together. Cries of pain, anguish. Sobbing.

Aloysious dropped the empty can.

The walls started crumbling and something cracked along the floor. The bones started vibrating.

Through a veil of mist Aloysious missed the finer points of what happened next, especially every fax machine, cell phone, television, and computer within a twenty kilometer radius spewing out an address. Even car radios were affected. A reassuring feminine voice intoned the address over and over, no matter what station was playing. He also missed the skeletons reassembling themselves and pushing aside poured concrete like a shower curtain and climbing from the earth like voles. The past victims of Raspy Man and Sal grabbed hold of the stunned pair and dragged them to the main yard.

Dad Tip #31

The best way to embarrass your teenage daughter will take some planning and possibly aerobic exercise.

The first step is to learn what music she listens to and memorize the lyrics, especially the refrain because those are the moments you'll want to sing loudest.

It's especially relevant to note that volume is of higher priority that being able to carry a tune or knowing every single word to the song. In fact, it might be best to intentionally make up some phrases that are close enough to the words to sound correct but are completely wrong. Or random insertions of "LA, La!" and clapping.

This should bring about an embarrassment level of a 6 out of 10. You know, for those times when you're driving your daughter and a group of her friends to a movie or soccer game or wherever. Whatever song comes on the radio you must be ready!

For true mastery, you'll need some space to execute specific dance moves that more or less (go for "less") ape the dance moves from the video as you sing loudly to a song that you only know 3/4 of lyrics to. This is where the aerobic exercise comes into play.

If you've ever wanted to see your daughter actually phase-shift to another dimension -- dimension 22 where there is no Time and only Embarrassment exists -- a properly executed (i.e. fumbled) dance routine in time to the latest Miley Cyrus tune (or whatever tunes your daughter enjoys) will allow that kind of inter-dimensional travel.