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Mrs. Owl reminds me that some of my topics are pretty obscure. I find that I can rarely entertain all the people all the time, and at best, make some of the people some of the time chuckle lightly before clicking away , baffled. Chomsky covering L4D comes to mind. So I'll be putting little preambles to these strange mashups to give you all a heads up. I hope it doesn't break the flow too much. Ira Glass is the host of the show "This American Life" on NPR. It's a quiet mini-documentary covering some theme about American Life; say, Summer Camp, or Work That Takes Over Your Life. They are thoughtful, urbane, introspection, and high-brow with a patina of blue collar earnestness. The various reporters sound like they are sitting with you, in a small well lit corner of your restored colonial, sitting on opposing quaint antique chairs (restored, obviously) with floral upholstery, they are possibly touching forehead to forehead with you, explaining in quiet tones why Un

In what can only be thought of as an "Office Space" moment, the small group I'm in has been moved. The first of two moves, actually. This one being to a set of abandoned rooms in a deserted office area. (The second move will be to our permanent digs, in our very own space set apart from the rest of the larger cubicle farm. It looks, on paper, to be some sort of quarantine.) So now we each have our own offices. Doors! A modicum of privacy! We feel important and whatnot until we realize that we look out onto rows and rows of hastily left cubicles. Somewhat reminiscent of an office fleeing a zombie apocalypse. Or an ebola outbreak. There is a sense that perhaps we should be stocking up on k-rations or scouring the rest of the rooms for supplies. The smell of a kerosene lamp would not be unwelcome. Important-looking people with business attire, tape measures and a decided professional air wander through the offices, taking measurements for when they move their department i

I had to do my presentation for the Young Adult Fiction class I'm in. It was on steampunk. That rad trend that is already on it's last legs. I wrote up a bit just to get everyone's gears going before going into boring examples and why it's an excellent genre for YA. Warning. IT'S SERIOUS! AND FAUX LITERARY AND SHIT. You've been warned. Steampunk is evocative. Of cogs brass and valves. Wood and leather. Of massive unwieldy but beautiful machines made not by the hyper-efficient engine of a assembly-line society, but by artisans. People who worked close to the metal, as it were, where every part of a machine could eventually be broken down and explained to a schoolchild. The Machine made quaint, the Machine made monstrous, the Machine as an aesthetic imperative, whether that be a stunning contraption of whirring gears and highly polished oak, or a belching, heaving mass of pistons and heavy fly wheels churning to some indefinite but sinister purpose. A world covere

Photo from Eleanor Traubman who wrote an excellent interview with the man behind Elmo. I try not to post single links to YouTube. It's kinda cheap and not at all what this blog tries to be: original, amusing pieces froms scratch. However, sometimes videos come along that are so superlatively funny, so rupture-your-colon and slightly soil yourself in paroxyms of giggles, that I'm compelled to link them (previous videos I've linked to are Patton Oswalt and Terry Tate: Office Linebacker). What makes this link so awesome is that Kevin Clash has to riff off Gervais while in character, without making Elmo too, uh... NSFW. Cute is hard to do without alienating anyone but kitten-poster loving cubicle lifers or 3 year-olds with early onset diabetes. I think he does a pretty damn good job of cute and funny, while staying in character, while improvising against Gervais. See for yourself.

     A nearly imperceptible whir filled the air; a noise that spoke of invisible gears and infinitesimally small valves opening and hissing and spinning at tremendous rates. The air was filled with a light steam and the smell of oil. The Analytical Engine. A massive room with a single catwalk running through the centre, various ladders and ropes leading to the walls and ground and ceiling, where, through the faint orange light, the gears and switches of the massive machine worked on and on.            Breaking into places like this made Will feel uneasy. The room was too dignified. The security was perfunctory, like the base act of being burgulared was above it. The locks were simple, the guard automata were easy to bypass. Most thiefs would only get angry at the presumption. Will just felt he was in a place he wasn't good enough to trespass.            At the end of the catwalk stood a rolling sheet of paper across which several inked needles printed output. In front of the roll w

And now to mock a game I've never actually played. (thanks betaray for the topic!) breaking your pieces into smaller bits, colouring them your enemies colour, then inserting them in an opponents country to instigate low-intensity counterinsurgency warfare a la America versus every socialist South American country, ever. recruiting Cthulu to your cause. putting the word 'clockwork' in front of all your units thus granting them +3 to every stat. stating Afganistan and Vietnam are impervious to offense. mortgaging Park Place to leverage one more hotel onto Madison Ave. announce the dissolution of the Soviet Bloc 20 years before it was actually formed and then make a killing on the FIRESALE OF TANKS. announcing yourself Emperor of the Republic and spilling black paint over the entire board. stringing a "Mission Accomplished" banner between an artillery and cavalry piece. using a 1D20. while in control of the USSR, throwing away any units who do not win. declare you h