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.

Still Alive.

This was a triumph. I'm making a note here: HUGE SUCCESS. It's hard to overstate my satisfaction.
< /Portal Quotes>

What can I add? GLaDOS pegged it. I've been reasonably satisfied with my life of late. If my life was the result of an eBay auction the seller's feedback would read something like:

"LOOKS EVEN BETTER IN PERSON! VERY HANDSOME!!! EXTREMEY (sic) FUN AND CLEVER. A+++++++++++++ Would purchace (sic) abstract concepts of life from again!"

And as a result, blogging has fallen by the wayside. You see, my disciples, I started blogging at a time in my life where I had 12+ hours of me-time everyday. I had a me-surplus, and as a result of leading a life too large for one man, portions of it spilled out onto the internet. As a necessity; a failsafe to prevent an explosion of such awesome magnitude as to rip the world in half.

But I've returned. Does this mean my life is going worse? Not really. I just don't like change, and I'm up to my ass in it right now. And in the last two weeks I've had 9 conversations I wrote down later because they needed to live on. So it seems I've got a me-surplus again. I'm just full of myself. And it's time I stopped being so selfish.

I'm back. For real.

And the winner is...

The American People. That's right everyone, I've officially become political. I'll get to that in a moment, but I wanted to make it clear that the car's name is officially Icarus. Again, I blame Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. But also the movie Sunshine. Take a minute of your time and watch the trailer at the very least.

Now, on to business. I've made some drastic changes to my life lately. These have required a lot of time, thought, and effort. I put in my two week's notice at work. I've talked to my friends and family. And I've decided that this is what I want.

I'm now on as a volunteer on the Hilary Clinton campaign. That won't come as a surprise to my closest friends. It's long been established that I'm a campaigner for women's rights. In many ways it was I that started the neo-feminist movement when I was just a lad. I remember fondly the day I struck the "No" from the sign indicating whether or not girls were allowed in my treehouse.

These ideals stuck with me, and now I have no choice but support the best candidate: Hilary. Despite what the sexist liberal media would tell you, she's a lawyer, a states... err... person, an astronaut, an interior designer, a paleontologist, and a stewardess. Actually... I might be thinking of Barbie. But in my eyes, they're indistinguishable anyway.

So I'll keep you posted from the campaign trail. She's currently got an unstoppable momentum, and her lead in the states that really matter is broad. Just like her. I'll leave you with a video the campaign's put together.

Thank you and may you be blessed by one or more God(s) or less.

- Scott

Everything except Road Head

Meet the new car, not the same as the old car:

Pre-Modded-Prius.

Thar she be. The new car, a 2008 Magnetic Grey Toyota Prius. The car itself is no less than fucking awesome. But before I get into all of that, I feel I must defend the choice. I shouldn't have to, but there are people who have an aversion to the car, if not an outright hate, and it's them I address now: read my below post, and piss off.

Now, on to the meat. The car is beautiful from a technical standpoint. I even like its vaguely teardrop shape. But technologically, it's a knockout. Here's a rundown of a few features I went crazy for long before I bought it:

• Joystick shifter.
  
• Hackable.
• Car senses my presence, unlocks when I grab handle.
• Key never has to leave my pocket, even to start the car.
  
• Backup camera.
  
• Touch-screen controls.
• iPod port to interface with the sound system.
• BlueTooth to interface with my phone.
  
• Four doors (screw folding a seat down for passengers.)
• Conversion kits to allow you to plug your Prius into your house to provide power. (Essentially making it a gigantic drivable emergency generator.)
  
• Room enough for 3-5 dead hookers in cargo area.
  

And the best reason; what I call the Prius Moneyshot...

That sweet, sweet, mileage.

The last vehicle I drove that got such awesome MPG was a moped. In the above you can see the MFD (that touch screen I talked about, currently displaying Energy Consumption), the distant speedometer readout and the blue blur that is my radar detector.

Now I've mentioned hacks for the car no less than three times so far, so they warrant a quick rundown at the least. Here's what I've done to the car so far.

Hacks

• Disabled beeping when in reverse.
  
• Disabled passenger seatbelt alert
• Disabled driver seatbelt alert
• Hacked firmware to allow me to dial phone numbers on the touch screen while in motion.
• Enabled voice control (allegedly only available with the Nav system I didn't buy.)
  
• Removed parts of the wheel that didn't do anything (in above photo the "webbing" between spokes).
  
• Increased tire pressure for better mileage.
  
• Hacked wireless sensors in tires to accept higher pressure than expected.
  
• Hacked same sensors to alert me when I lost 2 PSI instead of the standard 18.
  
• EV mode. Allows me to choose to run the car as a hybrid or all electric. Short for Electric Vehicle mode.
  

Now, dear reader, is when I need your help. I haven't been able to sufficiently name this car. The last one was easy; Tom Celica. It hung together so nicely. So I'm turning to you, my audience to suggest names. Here's what I've come up with so far.

Potential Prius Names:

• Priapus. If you're not snickering over that one click the link and find out why I am.
  
• Judas Prius. Self explanatory.
  
• HAL. Open the hatchback door HAL. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Scott."
  
• Icarus. There's really no reason for this one. I just like it and I, like Robert Plant, hold a fondness for the character. Besides, NASA used to give things awesome mythological names. Why can't I? Also, I think that was the name of the ship in Sunshine, which is the best SciFi movie I've seen since Serenity.
  
• Evey. Dual reference, Evey Hammond from V for Vendetta, and the EV mode.

And that's all I've got. Here's my offer, if any of you come up with a name for this car, I'll buy you a 20 dollar iTunes gift certificate. All I need for that is your email, and I'd be roughly 20 dollars worth of grateful. Otherwise just let me know what you think of my potentials.

Annnd... Go.

Don't be hatin'

I've been through conversations like the below so many times now I feel I have to respond in writing. I do so here:

Typical comment #1: "You know that thing is going to break down in six years. I heard you have to get a new one after that."
Typical comment #2: "You know, they don't really pay for themselves. It would take like 100 years for them to pay for themselves."
Typical comment #3: "So... you're an environmentalist now?"

Response #1: Piss off. There are Prii (I loves me words that end in "i" when plural) used as taxis with upwards of 250,000 miles on them, and that have been in service since the first Gen version, and that came out in 2001.

Response #2: Oh no! Really? I had expected for the gas savings to pay off the mortgage of my house, put my grandchildren through college, and give me regular blow jobs! What will I do?! Oh, that's right. Nobody expects a car to pay for itself. Speaking of things paying off, how's that barcodesque comb-over working out for you? You know who you are...

Response #3: Pfft. I just ate veal, and mopped my kitchen with a baby seal fur. This is about cash and techno-lust, not activism. However, a certain type of woman has a very favorable reaction to a Prius, and I do encourage that.

Requiescat In Pace, Tom Celica.

I'm ready to tell you. Let's get into the meat of the posts. The ones that really matter. The ones that really say something. For instance the ones where I end up in the custody of the police. How's that sound?

You may remember my run-ins with the law from posts like this one: Scott Outruns the Law. Well, this one is related. You see, my faithful car Tom Celica, was whisking me off to work once again. I was making good time. I had a lot of personal issues on my mind which I was expressing through the magic of song, when all of a sudden there it was.

It was my white whale. My One Ring. My bowl-of-Trix-snatched-away-from-me-by-cruel-children.

It was, dear readers... a car that had surrendered all semblance of aerodynamics. I had seen it before, and always desired a closer look. It lacked beauty. It no longer even paid lip-service to the concept. Some foul beast had besotted a red Geo Metro hatchback with all manner of antenna. Somehow they made it more hideous and hard for me to visually process. It were a car no longer, but instead a hideous technological abomination, cast back in time from some bygone alternate future. It looked... something like this:

An "artist's" conception of the monstrosity.

And in that fate-laden moment was entranced by the Cthulhu-esque abortion of a vehicle. Unfortunately, the other drivers were not so distracted. The line of vehicles ahead of me suddenly locked up their breaks. Sensing a slow down, I tore myself away from the blood-magicks of the car and looked ahead.

The slow-down was worse than I'd thought. In that split second distracted by the radio and that damn porcupine-mobile, the traffic had come to a complete stop (using brakes... assholes). And I was already less than a car's length away from the next one. There was an instant of bullet-time; I watched the front end disintegrate; I saw the airbags deploy; and I saw the car behind me manage to stop.

Getting out before I was in control of my actions again, I sprinted to the car I had just made an emergency 50mph stop into. I think I got there faster than she expected because appearing at her window I gave her a little jolt of surprise. She was OK. Her car was OK. When I turned back to mine, this is what I saw.

I know I'm in the middle of a four-lane highway, but damn, this looks blogable.


According to Toyota, the car runs best with those fluids inside the engine.


The airbags didn't actually do much besides total the car and make it smell horrible.

The cops showed up, talked to me, read my license plate in the cop phonetic alphabet, and threw me in the back of the squad car.

I figured, hell I'm not here very often. Seems like a good time to take a picture. Unfortunately, I look like hell. But cut me some slack, I just killed Tom Celica.

In the end, the cops were very accommodating. They let me get all my stuff out of the car, and then promptly dropped me off at a Denny's, and also gave me no ticket. What I had instead was a quest. A fire. I would find the man who drives that Red Abomination Machine. And when I had him before me he would have to answer for what he did to Tom Celica (not to mention his own ride).

I'm compiling a dossier on him. So far I know that he frequents 270 between 170 and Dorsett road on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Generally towards the 8:00 hour. My plan is to be late for work one day so that I can follow him, stop him somehow, and demand an explanation for his distraction contraption.

In the next post: my new (and improved) ride.

- Scott

P.S. Sorry this is an immense word-dump. But these memories are seared into my brain. And apparently read-only. So no editing this time around.

With a pang of sadness like a +3 STR dirk to the heart

Gary Gygax, creator of D&D, has passed away at the age of 69 (heh).

I know that I had little to do with his passing, some would say none, and that I didn't do this art (thanks for letting me rip you off Penny Arcade.) But I'm not finished with my arrest post and I'm sick of seeing the Diggnation one every time. Besides, a great nerd has passed away.

A moment of... [rolls d20]... contemplative nerdery.

A reasonable excuse for a filler post.

- Scott

In Diggnation

To answer your question: living the dream, that's where I've been. Thanks for your concern. I could have been dead people! A couple of times over that break it was actually the more likely outcome. And not one "hmm, why isn't Scott posting?" comment. Tish tish. Well, I've shed some distractions, and to fill that time guess what's back: blogging. (And a real website if I can ever get that goddamned thing off the ground.)

Since I had no requirement to blog, I found myself more busy than you'd think. Just living the jet-set geek lifestyle. For instance, last night: I decided to grace a filming of Diggnation here in St. Louis with my presence. (For the non-podcasters out there, that's an internet video show based on Digg.com. It's hosted by Kevin Rose and Alex Albrecht, who were on TechTV back in the glory days.)

Anyway, I look on Kevin Rose the way a Christian might look on Jesus. Or how a Scientologist might look at Tom Cruise. Or how a fat kid looks at pancakes. Because he's lived the ideal life¹, he's quickly developed a shit-ton of loyal followers, and he's yummy², respectively. What? I said it.

I'll not bore you with the details of the show, which you can watch at your own leisure this Sunday (and see me in the front row if they use the crowd footage.) Instead, here's a photo-essay of my night.

Kevin and I play catch, just like in my idle daydreaming³.

By which I mean he threw a shirt, and not only did I catch it, but I also took a picture of him throwing it. The irony here is that I botched my own reaction shot of me with the shirt. Damn you zoom.

Alex: Can I please just take a piss in here?
Scott: Pfft. Seriously, it's not like there's any girls here.

Now, I haven't mentioned that I got to chat with the Diggnation guys. But I did. And, not to brag, but earned a "lol" or two. Perhaps even a few "epic lulz." I even got to use a "buried as lame" joke.

How did I find them? I anticipated where they'd be using the time-honored technique of asking where the only bathroom is before the show, on-which they always complain about how bad they have to piss. Some people "follow the money," I follow the urine. To each his own.

Scott: By the way, where the shit is my Ctrl+Alt+Chicken?
Alex: We're workin' on it dude. We gotta bring it back.
Scott: Alright then, in that case you can take a picture of me.


Kevin: Holy shit, that's the Scott Gresham.
Scott: Yeah, yeah, keep your voice down.

I've framed the last photo. It's being transfered to canvas as an oil painting by Doc Hammer in April. He's dubbed it "A Meeting of Titans." A little ostentatious, but I'm not one to argue with art.

Tomorrow: my ride in the police car, my new quest/obsession, and my mysterious new nemesis.
- Scott

¹ I mean, besides the Dark Tips and Digg, he banged Lala! And Morgan Webb.
² What? That's a completely healthy, platonic assessment. I love women! Show me boobs!
³ Come on, that's not creepy.

Happy New Year, kids.

I've much to say and very little time, so I'll be brief. Last night, after I had some friends over and watched a movie, I decided to make a little dinner for myself. Unfortunately I left the oven going and... well started quite a fire. On the list of 2008 resolutions is not burning down my place of residence.

The good news for me is that I grabbed my laptop, phone, and external hard drive out of the fire. And the good news for you is that I had the presence of mind to take a video of my apartment on fire with my phone.

Check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2b1D5w82yU