Gin & Chthonic

Judging by its demo, WH40K: Space Marine is almost too good to be true for someone who has spent a lot of time immersed in the universe. Like the recent War for Cybertron, it’s got all the makings of an unheralded sleeper hit.  No bus wrappings here, no Game Informer cover, not even a mention on the XBL dashboard (for the demo, at least.  Yet.).  It probably goes without mentioning that the Games Workshop curse is in full effect here — a franchise buried under buzz and hype for descendants of its own ideas that are generally easier to digest.

Which is almost fine; your average semicasual CoD dudebros are unlikely to make much of a showing in the online modes.  I feel like mass appeal is on one plate of the scale, and a veritable heap of sci-fi Latin on the other.

“Let’s get to the bottom of this” types (of which I am a card-carrying member) may wonder, may have always wondered, why, in the 41st millennium, are we shooting machine guns — with bullets — at slavering xenos and agents of Chaos?  The archetypes of your implements of destruction are immediately recognizable.  Surely technology has advanced, in 38,000 years, beyond the machinegun-pistol-sniper combo?

Continue reading ‘Space Marine, Deus Ex, and the Futures of Decades’

Last night, somewhere in the knotted viscera of ITP, I observed my first portrait in action.  This is the kind of thing I want to happen, because I want to believe that modern life is cooler than it frequently is.

This was all occurring off to the side of a stage being performed upon by buff indiepersons with soundboards and guitars and hair that — Myrddraal-like — were unaffected by the movement of air in the room (basement?).  (There were 8 or 9 industrial-sized fans.)

I was able to pass by the portrait station on a number of occasions over the course of the night, and noted its progress.  The artist begins by filling in the negative space with smudges and strokes to define the figure.  Already the comparison exhibits peculiarities: seated at right, under a where-were-you-on-the-night-of type of lamp, a short-haired young woman in a multilayer skirt, legs making an X that crossed at the knees, bulky platform heels.  The yet-undetailed space on the let’s say 10″ by 16″ canvas has its arms out to either side, crucifixion style, and chin up in the air in pride/agony/both/yep probably both, but without the pride.  The painter constantly looks back and forth between subject and canvas.

Some time later, I pass by again (there were $2 Asahis and the bar is hard to reach without going past the portrait station).  The being now features gritted teeth, sunken eye sockets, blue serpentine veins.

Another peculiarity in the piece: round about junk-level, there is an gaping circle, a round caldera the color of still-hot ash.  I would describe this caldera as “not small.”  Like, encompassing the pelvis.  Maybe in further stages this will become part of some foreground element, and not a giant pelvis-cave of unpleasantness.

Pass 3 or 4 (the bathrooms are also where the bar is) show that, nope, it’s just a giant hole.  A quick glance confirms that the subject herself has no such spacetime infraction yawning in her abdomen, I chalk this up to artistic license, though I struggle to grasp the meaning, which may be presumptuous.

Pass n, as we leave, is perhaps more illuminating — not as in, it starts to make sense, but as in, I think I get it now.  The nearly-complete figure is now covered in dicks.  Like, a dozen; let’s not rule out a baker’s dozen here, either.

So, y’know, mantlepiece material.

I’m not judgmental about people’s muses, in fact I approve of muses.  Muses should be followed first, questioned later, with maybe some exceptions involving theft or arson.  But I did get a chuckle out of how long I was strung along, wondering at the focal point of this portrait, until I got confirmation by the sudden outbreak of phalluses.

Killer comedic timing, that guy, whether he intended it or not.  He may have incorporated elements of trollface.jpg, we didn’t stay long enough to find out.

I just came across this and am enthralled by the key-jingling.  The lure, I think, is: “What is this robot’s impersonation of me?”  So, vanity, basically.

Anyway, here’s this robot’s impersonation of me (Hitting the button enough times tells more about their script than the twitterer in question, I’ve noticed.  Especially on accounts with relatively few tweets):

Agamemnon and Guildenstern are getting smote by putting periods.

A bogus reason to get smote, for sure.

October 9: First sighting of Caesars. A latin professor calls 911.

Latin professors would be uniquely equipped for such an encounter, but calling 911 is probably the right response.

Please, please, please, please tell me you want an iPhone? Listening to make you care about speech!

Sounds Oscar-worthy!

Good visualization breaking down the Chess.com app is a perfect specimen for how to write tomorrow night.

It seems like the more coherent they are, the less coherent they are.

Vuvuzela Concerto in Dhaka. So, so awesome. One of my new album is one is a great if you here.

I bet not.

Occasionally, minimalist gems of Confucian quotability pop up.  Here are a couple of the better ones:

Forsake the perfect word.

and

When PUNCTURED!

as well as the possibly narcissistic

I really great.