Nerdblogging

Alright. This is how it is. The Wonder Blog will live in infamy, but not much more than that for the time being. You can now find me in a myriad of online spaces, and I've not yet felt the need, the true, burning need I once felt, to blog in some time. 

So where you can find me most is Twitter. I update almost daily, and they're mostly short funny snippets, or links that you, as my adoring public, must slavishly follow for the purposes of finding the newest thing to forward to all of your own followers. 

As to what I've been doing lately, and why I've been so busy, the following video says it better than mere words could ever do. It doesn't address the current symptom*, but it does trace the infection** to its source. (Warning: contains an emulsion of rap and nerdery, not recommended for pregnant women, lest they spawn further generations of nerds.)

And follow me on Twitter, bastards.

* In the form of World of Warcraft. (Legume level 80 Mage, baby!)

** RPG's/Medieval RPG's in general.

Oh god. They're back, and bigger than ever!

They've returned. Despite my best efforts. Despite my warnings. Just when you thought it was safe... They strike!

I thought this was dead and buried. I was wrong. Beware: Wolf Shirt!

It's right flippin' behind you. RUN BITCH!

Don't let this happen to you. Constant vigilance!

Last time on: Wonder Blog

When last we left our hero he was bitching about Facebook. Really, when last your hero cared about this blog it was sometime around September 2007. Let's not kid ourselves, I couldn't give a shit.

Sometimes I think: my god I need to post. Then I just went on living my life. However after the third time I used my position in the office as a soapbox for my diatribes, I decided I should maybe resume venting that sort of thing on the internet, both for the sake of my coworkers and my biographers no doubt reading these very words decades from now and uttering a silent thanks to both my narcissistic proclivities and the preservative power of the internet.

Now, those selfsame proclivities are going to provide you with ~3 minutes of video entertainment. And it shall take the form of: The Cinnamon Challenge.

Browsing YouTube in the presence of the girlfriend and the ex-roommate's fiancee, I was informed of its existence. Prior to this, I had never heard of such a thing. What it entails is a tablespoon of cinnamon, in your mouth, for you to attempt to consume. Emphasis on attempt.

It has been deemed impossible. As proof, here's a friend and fellow SoE alum making the attempt:



Challenge Status: FAIL

I however would not be disuaded. Below you can see my glorious and hilarious attempt at the challenge.

Warning: I make some extremely horrible faces in this video. Aroused women should take note, and possibly redirect themselves to my other videos.





Challenge Status: Victory!

The celebration is to take place this weekend. I'm to be crowned King of "Painful Internet Challenges," thereby dethroning the guy who made it 1:46 into 2 Girls 1 Cup.

Happy Birthday Quien.

God this is nerdy, but...

Nine years ago today, at 7:58 PM Central Standard Time, someone very dear to me came into creation. He was born to the Fier'Dal, they of the city Felwithe, otherwise known to the gallimaufry lesser races as the 'High Elves.'

His name was Quien. He was an Enchanter. And his legend is still sung throughout Norrath*.

Don't mess with me, I've got a scepter, a beer stein, and an ass-full of magic to unleash.

So today I raise my glass to you Quien Amorphous. You drew me in for several years playing a game that was otherwise like a bad first wife: difficult, expensive, and to which I was making payments long after we had broken apart. But I learned a lot, and I would not be the geek I am today had it not been for my tenure in your shoes*.

So Quien, this Minotaur Hero's Brew is for you.

* Seriously, stop into any pub in the Steamfont Mountains and ask about the Enchanter who figured out a way to stop the windmills.
** Hell, I learned about Cisco, pathping, and telnet while out with some stranger in the middle of nowhere camping a super rare spawn mob.

They can take our lives, but they can never take our FACEBOOK

There is a rebellion in progress. The internet is rent in twain! The biggest issue of the year is currently being decided. That's right, Facebook has been redesigned. And people hate it. I, too, hate the redesign, and seeing that they provided me button as soon as I logged in allowing me to "Send Feedback" I had no choice but to do just that.

I share my thoughts with you below:

Dear Sir or Madame,

I recently had an experience that I just had to write you about. I logged into your Social Networking 2.0 site, and I discovered, to my chagrin(!) that it now has a proclivity to take human, male reproductive organs into its proverbial mouth and apply a most prodigious suction*!

Frankly, sir, one might observe that it sucks balls. It saddens me to tell you this, but unfortunately it is also a fan of receiving sodomy** from inmates of unusual size and aggression. It seems to enjoy this.

Please make the necessary changes to ensure that, should Facebook continue its new lifestyle, it does so well away from me. And allow me to enjoy the Facebook that did not suck balls quite so much.

If it's too much trouble, I could always just move on fully to Pownce.

Regards.

* (Not that there is anything intrinsically wrong with this activity.)
** (Again, this is not to pass judgement, it is simply not included in my preferences.)

No, I can't just write "sucks balls." Sue me.

- Scott

P.S. I've wrapped up my side project. And I've got energy for this crap again. So expect an outpouring.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of National Treasure

Last night I made the mistake of going and seeing Indiana Jones IV. This wouldn't be such a bad thing, the movie was passable, the theater was awesome, and I like staying out late. Unfortunately I also woke up at 5:00 in the godforsaken morning that day. As a result by the time I got to the theater at 12:00 AM the next morning I was coming up on 20 hours of being awake.

Unfortunately all the booze, caffeine, and slap happiness coursing through my veins was not enough to stem the high tide of George Lucas's utter bastardization of the Indy franchise. So steel yourself and prepared for the horror as I review Indiana Jones, and the aging director.

Warning! Thar be spoilers past this point.

Let me be clear, I enjoyed a few things about this movie. So I'll get them out of the way first.

The Good

• Indy's back; Harrison Ford doesn't suck.
  
• Still casts the same shadow. See above.
  
• Whip technology in the '50s is as conveniently plot obliging as it was in the '30s.
  

That said, I'll now indulge the bitchy high school gossip queen side of my personality, and tell you all the things that made me want steal the T.A.R.D.I.S., go back in time and kill George Lucas the instant filming wrapped on The Last Crusade.

The Bad

• Shiite LaBeowulf. Or whatever the shit his name is made a respectable showing... for his first few minutes of screen time. Sure he dramatically burst into focus as a hodgepodge of '50s stereotypes riding a motorcycle and broadcasting "douche bag" at 50,000 decibels, but if I could accept Kate Capshaw for an entire movie, this post-pubescent little asshat was not going to bring me down. I would enjoy this movie if it took every last ounce of my rapidly waning alertness.
  
  But then he just kept being in the movie. I think I lasted as far as his bonding with his dad in the jungle... but then it happened. When you've seen the movie you know what I'm talking about already. Imagine the most ridiculous thing that could happen in what is ostensibly an adult action/adventure movie. Now add two suitcases of ridiculous and you're close:
  
  The little shit gets swept up into the vines hanging from trees. There, he quickly befriends the monkey king or something equally cocked up, and learns to swing like from vine to vine like Tarzan. It wasn't so much that I minded, it's acceptable for a swing or two. But the obnoxious little Ben Savage clone used it to chase down motor vehicles racing through the jungle. And when he got there, his new monkey friends all but joined him in a Disney-esque song about how if we work together we can overcome anything, as they helped him fight the film's main villain.
  
  
• The "Plot." It can be described thusly: take the plot of the upcoming X-Files movie. Fuse it with a National Treasure script. Make Indiana Jones the main character. Add feces. Also, if you can find a way for Indy to survive a nuclear blast using a kitchenette set, that's just aces. Really, I'm as into aliens and nuclear holocaust as the next sci-fi obsessed white male, but it does not belong in my Indiana Jones.
  
  
• Did I mention those fucking monkeys? At least in the old series they'd kill a monkey now and then. The modern incarnation is so family friendly, even the monkey that got thrown off the cliff gets to survive.
  
  
  
• Cate Blanchett. Looked like a Romulan.
  
  
  
  Tell me which one is not a Romulan. I dare you.
  
  
• Finally, unnecessary CGI. I've learned from you George. About myself. I've learned that I prefer campy live action stunts over plastic, sterile, boring CGI effects. Is it really that hard to get actors on location? Did you ever even leave the greater Los Angeles area or was this whole monstrosity shot against a green screen a la Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow? Next time (and now I have no doubt that there will be a next time) how about you get those old saggy asses out in the elements and shoot anyone who suggests how much better they could make it look with a computer and eight hours in Maya.
  

So that's what I thought. Overall grade? C+. Though, do I think anyone cares? No. Everyone's going to see this, and damn it, I'm probably going to see it again. Lucas won't be happy until he's bastardized everything he ever made that had any value whatsoever. So enjoy this National Treasure/X-Files/Jones mash-up for what it is; an excuse to see Harrison Ford in that hat again.


Could we all just agree to kick George Lucas in the nuts before he remakes THX1138 with gigantic killer robots as he "always intended," though?

We're present, We like pheasant , Get used to it!

I'm tired of living like a stranger to my own feelings. I'm sick of the lies, the constant clearing my history on my computer. The incessant guilt I feel over lustful feelings. It's time I come out of the closet (or, birdhouse as the case may be...).

I'll be clear. On the one hand I like women. On the other hand, I like birds of prey. What I'm saying here is, put those hands together friend. And if you do, you'll come out with something like the following: Erotic Falconry.

I kid. My interests fall short of hot, cloaca on woman action. But I have to marvel at the human capacity to sexualize anything. For instance, do you fancy the idea of say... sensual guitar playing, naked in the shower? Then WetRiffs.com is for you. I think, because it sounds like easy blog posts, I shall investigate this phenomenon on a semi monthly basis.

Now, take a moment and reflect on how lucky you are if your sexual proclivities do not include /require birdwatching. Though to be fair to our orniphile friends, I'm starting to come (ahem), around. I mean, after all, Eagles are Awesome.

Opaque Foothills

I essentially decided that I could no longer stomach the idea of my 2.5+ hour round trip to work on the day it took me five and a half hours to get home amid snow, careening semi's, and a MacGyver'd route that involved a last minute dash to a ferry like some kind of wild-eyed, fleeing hobbit.

That day, I decided I would start looking at apartments. I did not realize that the snow storm that precipitated the decision would gradually give way to the shit-storm that is trying to find a decent apartment. Trying to find a decent apartment on Craigslist was essentially the same as trying to find a mentally healthy Oprah fan. And just as pleasant. After visiting a few apartments for rent from CL that looked like this online:

Grainy, but acceptable.

And looked like this* in person:

"Oh did we not mention there's no wall separating the bathroom from the living room? But it does come with some lovely random debris spread all over the apartment."

So I drove around and found Whisper Hollow. Now, before I make fun of it, I'll tell you it's a great apartment complex, and it couldn't be more affordable or in a better location. That said, it sounds like a place where the elderly come to die. Which is a problem I ran into in all the more commercial complexes: they have horrible names that fall into three categories.

1.) Retirement Home/Hospice. Whisper Hollow probably falls into this category, but in general, I've noticed a formula to the Retirement Home naming convention. And it is as follows: lighting condition + scenic geographical feature. This is the only explanation for the litany of apartments I saw, and old folks homes I accidentally walked into.

Examples: Sunset Hills. Shady Acres. Dusky Bluff. Smoky Hummocks. Diffuse Plateau...

Ok, one or two of those I made up. But I defy you to tell me which ones. I've found that these tend to be the best quality overall in the apartment market.

2.) Trust Fund Kid. On the other hand you have the faux-ritzy place that blatantly price gouges, but somehow still attracts shady tenants. And invariably they're named like the kid who references the sailing club way too much, and wears deck shoes to the exclusion of all other footwear.

Examples: Camden Westchase. Bercham Tudor. Easton Glen... etc.

3.) The NOUN. This is the absolute bottom rung, and avoid it at all costs. I only ran into it a handful of times, but every time it was bad. So bad in fact, that those in the know can always be counted on for a wistful head shake and a "Ah, yeah... that sounds like The NOUN."

Examples: The Pavilion. The Colony. The Ghetto.

The Colony is a real one, and the name carries weight. Though I'd say it was more like a hive... a wretched hive of scum and villainy. I had to be cautious.


And that... is what kept me so busy for so long. But I've found my place in the STL-verse. And it's near work and bars. What more could you ask?

*Sorry for the terrible image quality. The photo was taken from my phone, which is not regarded highly in photography circles. Also, I am not Tim, and ergo do not carry around a real digital camera in my always-equipped leather fanny pack.