The 90s Disease and The Global Star Wars on Terror

This is the first of two editorials tangential to political things including 9/11, the Global War on Terror, and how much of a cunt George Lucas is.  I have written this particular piece while in a rather spirited mood.  There is offensive content here and its payload has been calibrated to maximize its potential.

I was in a World History class, freshman year of High School when it happened.

This is one class I will not forget, though I don’t know it at the time.  It will teach me far more than I expect.  We are to be taking a short test on some material we recently covered.  I wasn’t worried, my memory always did serve me well in areas like history.  Twenty-five questions, and then a new lesson.  Twenty-five questions on the origins of Islam.  The strange mechanisms of the world already winking at my future self through a multiple-choice pop quiz.

When the television went on I saw the towers burning.  They still stood over New York, then.  At first the world thought “Tragic Accident”.  Then the second plane hits.  At first the news thought the towers couldn’t fall.  Then they did.  We all watched them fall.  We all watched them die.  Many of my classmates had family working in the Pentagon.  DC is very much a company town.  I’d never been to New York.  I knew people there, the internet had permeated my life in a Very Big Way already, and through IRC I knew people who lived and worked there.  My mind was too dumbstruck to register that they might be in danger.

The reactions of the students were telling.  Mine was that of pain and rage.  None of us had known the horrors of the Cold War, the grim sword of damocles that was Mutually Assured Destruction was foreign to us.  War was something other people made.  We were observers, all, and none of us knew that our world had just been swapped for some new monstrosity, a warped mirror that reflected all the wrong parts of ourselves.  I knew there would be a war.  I knew whoever had done this would feel the unchained rage of an empire.  I knew we would feel the same rage.  And I knew that rage would always be more dangerous to us than it ever would to our enemies.

There is no image I can think of that is so primal, so repulsive to the very core of one’s humanity, and so mortally terrifying than that of a mushroom cloud.  Nuclear annihilation.  As I said we were the first generation removed from the Cold War.  We didn’t know the same fears.  A mushroom cloud, the modern face of death itself, was now all that I could see.  I saw the towers fall, I saw the fires and deaths, the jumpers, the secondary collapses.  I saw them and I thought “Yes.”  I saw mushroom clouds rising over some foreign land.  I thought that death by nuclear fire would be too kind a fate for those responsible.  For the first and only time in my life I was posessed of a terrible notion: We Must Kill Them All.  No exceptions, no hesitation, no remorse.  The world would never before or again see a more fearsome reprisal.  This would never happen again.  Not while We stood upon the bridge.

Some of the students, however, watched, riveted to their seats.  I realized something awful.  They were actually being entertained by this.  Whether the sheer magnitude of this was too much for their feeble minds to grasp I do not know, I do know that there was more than one person that I previously thought was smart who actually commented on how “cool” this was.  And everyone knew why this was getting people off.  I’d seen such destruction before, we all had.  We all paid for it at the movie theatres in the summers.  We lined up to eat popcorn and watch aliens or asteroids or some Other destroy us, only to be vanquished by the might, ingenuity, and wisdom of Humanity.  The 1990s was the Great American Victory Lap and it showed in all our media.  We’re All So Fucking Great, because we survived the Cold War.  If we could avoid annihilating ourselves, we could truly overcome any obstacle the universe would send our way.  The 1990s are why George W. Bush would later challenge the terrorists to “Bring it on”.  The threat to us in the 1990s seemed to never be human.  We had conquered our demons, we were masters of our domain.  Without nuclear war to worry about we could build fantastic new wonders like the Internet, cure diseases, bring the world together, throw down tyranny and lift humanity into a brighter future.  We were building a space station, we were mapping the cosmos, the whole world seemed to peek its head out into the blinding light from a dark cave, just for a moment.  We thought everything was going to be okay, soon.  What could this new millenium bring other than the triumphant dawn of mankind?  And, admittedly it was understandable, justified even.

Star Wars should have taught us differently.  Episode One, specifically.  At the ass end of the ’90s the most sacred of our pop culture icons was going to return with all the majesty of modern CGI and budgets greater than the GDP of Sub-Saharan Africa.  A great big fucking fireworks show to cap our cultural bender.  It didn’t even occur to us that it would be remotely possible for Star Wars to be Bad.  Try and remember that time.   The time when Star Wars was always going to be good.  The time when its only blemishes were written off as a minor misstep by the visionary Lucas.  Its important to remember the time when Star Wars couldn’t possibly be fucked up, even if  spasticated rhesus monkeys suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome, smoking crystal meth wrote the screenplay in the AIDS-infested mongoloid spunk of the aborted baby Jesus.  Star Wars was perfect.  Then, Episode One came out.  It was a fuckfest of legendary proportions, childhoods were retroactively ruined, and the insult would only seem to get worse with time.

Why was Star Wars bad?  Why, when the first film was made at the end of the Vietnam War, and the series improved to its crescendo in the last great arms race under Reagan, why was this new Star Wars, forged over years in the victorious, pre-utopian 90s, so bad?  Well, the problem was that Star Wars was perfect.  Only someone who no one thinks can do wrong would or could fuck up Star Wars that badly.  People around this man should have slapped the shit out of Lucas, the studios should have detonated his script.  And it was the ultimate 90s script, no tremendous conflict, just a small backwater trade dispute, some political maneuvering, you know, easy shit.  Shit that normal humans deal with all the time, nevermind Jedi.  Shit that Yoda should have sorted out in five minutes.  The whole of Industrial Light and Magic blackout drunk with money, and the entire production in a dissociative trance of denial, with no one challenging the fever-dream bullshit spewing from George Lucas.

A New Hope was made in the fucking desert with props that constantly broke, never-before-tried effects techniques, a veritable shoestring budget, and more problems than anyone knew could happen on a movie.  Everyone thought the movie was going to be horrible!  It was the exact opposite of The Phantom Menace in almost every way.  The script was chopped, cut, tightened, until it was lean and unrelenting.  Comedy and drama in balance, the Hero’s Journey updated for the modern era, and most importantly: Good Triumphs Over Evil.  Not an ultimate triumph.  Significant, but ultimately just another battle.  It was exactly what it needed to be in that time, in that place in 1977.  Star Wars made everyone remember “Hey, we’re the good guys.  We can do this!”  The Phantom Menace made us ask “Hey, you’re supposed to be the good guys, are you sure you can do this?”.

In its own way TPM is also exactly what it needed to be in its time, which is to say an overproduced monstrosity.  A monument to excess.  We let it happen.  We were so busy telling George Lucas how great Star Wars was that he forgot the adversity that gave it a soul.  In the 1990s, we were all in the business of buying our own bullshit and confirming ever so politely to each other that our shit did not in fact stink.  The Millenial Generation had arrived and the Baby Boomers were going to kick back and get nice and fucked up with the hottest new drug for them: Unlimited Power.  How could America possibly get punched in the dick by the Actual Sand People from Tatooine?  Even if that happened, how could America so fuck up their response as to get bogged down in not one but fully two Vietnam-grade quagmires?  We learned that lesson!  We won, remember?  We’re the good guys!  We can do this! What are a bunch of irritable brown people going to do to us, nothing, because we’re America and we’re so fucking Perfect.

In the 1990s the US Economy boomed thanks to the Internet, we had the largest budget surplus in history, and our biggest problems according to the news were blowjobs and sharks.  We gathered all that money, and all that confidence, and when we were attacked we hit back with our own great big Phantom Menace.  An obnoxious, showy, over-budgeted, over-produced foreign-policy Hindenburg called the “Global War on Terror”.  We named our enemy.  The “Axis of Evil” ooh, scary, very Sith Lords, love it.  For Iraq we even got our own Attack of the Clones complete with equally farcical justifications for a war!

The best thing about those movies, the prequel trilogy is that for all its flaws it does one thing incredibly right:  From start to finish, episode one title crawl to episode three credits, the good guys manage to give the bad guys exactly what they want.  The Jedi, through arrogance, ignorance, and incompetence fuck absolutely everything up.  The bad guys play them like a fiddle and achieve almost every aim.  The only thing that stops them from winning completely is that at the eleventh hour, a couple of people get their shit together just long enough to set the stage for the next generation to fix everything they broke, if they can, maybe.

And America did the same.  We gave the bad guys exactly what they wanted, first we got good and scared.  Then, we got good and angry.  We started a war with too much confidence and rage and no decent plan.  We alienated potential allies with our rhetoric.  After 9/11 even Iran was chomping at the bit to help us.  And why not?  They’re fairly modern, certainly when compared to their neighbors.  They’ve got just as much an interest in making sure the Taliban and Al Qaeda quiet down as we do.  We were on the way towards real dialogue when President Lucas threw it all away by naming them to the axis of evil.  And we got distracted, went off podracing in Iraq.  We give radical groups decades worth of justification for their agenda in places where they were as welcome as syphillis.  Now the western economy has tanked, and what did we get for all of this?  We managed to get our shit together just long enough to shoot the guy responsible in the eye.

This is a tough one.  And now, like it or not, its up to my generation to fix everything the grey-hairs broke.

If we can.

Maybe.

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My Night’s Sleep

Yes, I’ve been away from my blag here for a while, I’ll talk about that some later, but right now I want to talk about how I slept last night.

Seems dull, no?  Well strap the fuck in, because we’re going for a ride.

So I was lounging around with my father last night, getting ready for bed when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so it goes to voicemail. Thanks to Google voice, while I wouldn’t have checked my voicemail before sleep I certainly checked my email, and something didn’t square. The sleep study I had scheduled, to try and pin down whatever gross mutation I am saddled with, for the SIXTH of January 2011 has apparently been spontaneously rescheduled for the FIFTH of January 2011 and I am LATE FOR MY STUDY. So, roundabouts ten o’clock (study was scheduled to begin at nine) I take the world’s fastest shower, pack sleeping clothes (note: I am a man, and do not usually use sleeping clothes, this was not easy), get in the car with my father, and travel to the hospital.

For those who’ve visited or lived here, you will know I live next door to the hospital. These fucking people scheduled it, however, at the affiliated hospital fifteen miles away, with heavy road construction between me and it. I have thirty minutes, so naturally, this was all very relaxing and just the sort of activity you want to partake of right before attempting a restful night’s sleep. When I arrived and got past the prick at emergency reception (you would think they would staff the pricks in a place where they won’t talk to people in need of genuine aid), I was escorted by a very nice fellow who asked me why I looked so wired and if I had been drinking caffeine (which was VERBOTEN).

“OF COURSE I’M WIRED YOU INCOMPETENT FUCKMOOK! I HAVE JUST HAD TO NAVIGATE A CAR THROUGH THE DARK PAST FLASHING LIGHTS AND INDUSTRIAL EQUIPMENT, TO A DESTINATION I HAVE VISITED ONLY TWICE BEFORE! FROM THE GODDAMN PASSENGER SEAT! WHILE WET! NO I HAVEN’T HAD ANY CAFFEINE WHERE’S MY BED!?” I screamed, loudly, in my mind, because it really wasn’t this guy’s fault that it was all bungled and fucked up.

Now I arrive in the room, the room where I am to “sleep” for the “night”. It looks like the room was decorated by a doctor from Victorian London and Lex Luthor’s most diabolical laboratory at the same time. The furniture is alternately horrifying in its unfeeling medical coldness with its probulators and tubey things, and handmade wooden furniture with ornate styling. There is a giant LCD screen that looks as if it is meant to broadcast instructions from Dr. Evil while I sleep to reprogram me into a heartless killing machine, and who knows, maybe it did, we’ll all find out now, won’t we. Directly underneath it there was a lovely little desk upon which sat forms for me to fill out.

“FUCK!”

I fill out the forms, giving the hospital consent to brainwash me and kill me and videotape me doing ridiculous shit wait what?! Videotape? I look above Dr. Evil’s global ransom screen and see an infrared camera that is FOLLOWING ME. This camera, henceforth referred to as the Eye of Sauron/Red Ring of Death for its blinding red LEDs surrounding it, has fixed its gaze on me. “I SEE YOU” I pretend to hear. Oh well, fuck it, this whole affair is deranged anyway, I’ll sign all the consent forms including one for electrical shocks which I really wish I hadn’t just skimmed over before signing.

Right, now time to sleep. I figure they’ll put a nice sleeping cap on that contains all the sensors and brain probes required, plug it into the vaguely dildonic looking machine next to the bed and we’ll be off. Then I see the attendant preparing them.

Electrodes. Old school. Glue to your skull type things. I’ve had an EEG before so I figure, oh well, I’ll just have to wash the spunk-like glue out of my hair tomorrow morning. Turns out there were a few more things to plug in than there were last time. I counted 12 electrodes in my hair on top of my head, six around my eyes, one on my throat, two on my chest, four on each leg and two on my right arm, plus two straps across my torso.

Me, 10% of the way through the procedure

Me, 10% of the way through the procedure

Oh, and four electrodes in my beard.

THEY.

PUT.

ELECTRODES.

IN.

MY.

FUCKMOTHERING.

BEARD.

Well this night was clearly going to be restful. I got into the bed, which was surprisingly comfortable, and was given the nostril-fucker device which completed my ridiculous cyberpunk bondage outfit. The Eye of Sauron looked at me with what I swear was fucking pity, and after some tests to make sure all the gizmos and probes and prehensile robotic copulators were functioning fully, the lights went out.

Now, if you want to play the home version of this game, its simple. Take all the cables from your router, computer, etc, and plug them into your goddamn face. Then put the router and the computer next to your pillow, and lie still enough that the machines will not be displeased. It is essentially what getting skullfucked by our future robot overlords would be like, post-skullfucking when Ribonulator 800 wants to cuddle and suck power from your neurons. And your hair and beard are full of a rich, nutritive glue that is a translucent whitish color, and difficult to wash out. Now RELAX AND HAVE A GOOD NIGHT!

Miraculously I managed to sleep. My sleep was consistently interrupted whenever I accidentally tugged one of the cables and displeased the Ribonulator and had to roll back over. Eventually the stress of the unblinking gaze of the Dark Lord Sauron and the probes damaged my calm and I hit the “GET IN HERE, ASSHOLE” button next to the bed (note that the device all the electrodes are plugged into is on the bed with you, while the button you have to push in case of distress is on the fucking nightstand) to demand my valium from my bag. I would have gotten up and taken it myself, but not only was I plugged into the Matrix, here, the blanket was a special weighted blanket that made it near impossible to sit up without the attendant removing it for you. I eventually fell asleep again. Then, I discovered that in lieu of an alarm clock they fucking shock your torso to wake you up when you’re “done”. This was 5:30 AM.

Now, the long, arduous process of disconnecting me from the mechano-tentacles of the Borg began, and I got up to wash my face and then fill out the “customer satisfaction” survey. If you’re wondering, yes, I did use phrases like “Eye of Sauron”, “facefucked by androids” and so on in this survey.

Then I saw myself in the mirror.

Bleak, bleary-eyed and miserable, hair all fucked up as per usual. Rub my eyes a couple times. Holy shit. It looks like I’ve been bukkake’d by Optimus Prime and all his friends. I wash as much of the vile glue out as I can before hastily calling for rescue.

Now tell me you're a naughty girl...

It is 7:39 now, and after showering and washing my face twice, I still do not have all of that goddamn glue out of my beard.

Sleep tight, everyone!

Media Blackout

The world needs a break from 24 hour news networks.  They’re poisonous, and not just Fox, which is intentionally poisonous.

Over the course of time, and more specifically this campaign season I’ve realized that what some might refer to as the Death of Journalism is not a willful disrespect, or bias, but rather a necessity of format.  24-hour news networks simply don’t have enough news to validate their existence, yet there are three major ones, with several financially-oriented offshoots.  CNN, Fox, and MSNBC all suffer the same problem: Lack of Substance.

There is barely enough newsworthy material in a day to fill the primetime news hours on network, let alone 24-7 coverage on a full three dedicated stations all vieing for supremacy.  Somewhere along the line, everyone realized this, and instead of doing the civil thing, that is saying on air “We, the people responsible for this network have made a terrible mistake, and in doing so cheapened one of the most important professions of the past 200 years, goodnight.” they found a way to serve not as news reporters and journalists, but as news makers and sensationalists.

Apart from Fox, none of the 24 hour networks have any notable bias, any percieved liberal bias is due to their competition with Fox, an unabashedly conservative organization.  Take this election for example.  It is my belief, that if John McCain received the kind of coverage given to Barack Obama, or was simply covered at all in any relatively even-handed way, the race would be over.  America would see a doddering old man, obviously suffering the mental affects of age, and leading a campaign that would frankly embarass even such fuckup luminaries as Michael Dukakis.

That’s a bad story though, the election over in the middle of July?  That’s terrible for ratings!  No, we, as the media, must keep this going by boosting one candidate, be it by polls with shoddy methodology (see: Likely Voters polls, wherein you can strike from the count anyone on the basis of “they probably won’t show up”) or endless “analysis” that does little more than parrot and debate talking points from one side or another.

There’s another business benefit to this, as well.  Its cheap.  Really cheap, I’m talking cable-access cheap.  If you don’t have to send a journalist out to find a story, research it, get their proverbial shit on the shelf, and present it, you save thousands of dollars and hundreds of man-hours right there.  By following the talking-head model of endless analysis and innuendo, you save money, and keep news cycles going indefinitely, long past their organic sell-by date.  It is essentially life-support for 24-hour news networks.

And if there isn’t something political, there’s usually something of horrific violence, or lewd sexuality, or please oh god please both.  You can then mold events ranging from school shootings, Elton John doing something and Hurricane Katrina into more than mere disasters, but political issues, thus feeding your machine, keeping it going.

Finally, when you’ve got nothing left to say, do not worry, because surely someone, somewhere will have called you on your bullshit, and you can then talk about yourselves for a week or two before something else happens.

What we need as a nation, and indeed as a civilization is a media blackout.  A voluntary media blackout.  Everyone should set up a time and date, and agree to not watch a single second of cable news for a month.  perhaps read the newspapers, or watch the nightly news, whatever you feel you need to do to keep current in world affairs.  I wonder if at the end of that month, when everyone returns to cable news they might see it a little differently.  They might view these shenanigans for what they are, and respond with the only proper response to such cynical abuse of the people.

Outrage.

So now I can emerge from my cave…

It would seem that my good friend Barry Obama has the Democratic nomination all wrapped up!  That’s good, I was running low on beans in my apocalypse shelter.

This whole ordeal, just the ordeal of nominating, mind you, has been the greatest circus I have ever seen in my twenty years of inside-the-beltway life.  Well, technically I’m about half a mile outside the beltway but I think that should still count, the psychosis rate is the same (100%).

Who ever would have thought, that in one year, the battle for the nomination of the Democratic Party, and likely next President of the United States of America, would be a bitterly-fought war between a charismatic, first term black senator, and a brilliant, shrewd woman with enough balls to start her own sports shop.  Do we live in the bizzaro world?  Did this good spaceship Earth fall through the titular chaos fold itself sometime last fall?

The experience, for me, has been so harrowing that I’ve suffered no fewer than two politically-induced panic attacks, and those usually don’t begin until the general election season!

For my part, I’m still a fan of the Clintons, especially Bill, I mean, the man is one of the few personal heroes of mine who is still alive.  The man just loves a good fight is all.

And blowjobs.  Can’t forget blowjobs, but if you run the country as well as he did, I think you’re entitled to a little executive head on the side, or under the desk as the case may be.  George Bush on the other hand, well, lets just say he needs to head down to the Man Bureau and turn in his cock once this is over.  And then walk home.

Come to think of it, its probably a good thing Hillary won’t get the nomination.  If she became President, she’d have to sit in the same desk, in the same seat, as the one her husband got blown on.  She couldn’t go for a pen without thinking “That’s where she was… right there…”

She’d be taking the 3 AM phone calls on the same phone her husband used while America’s Favorite Intern dutifully fellated him!  She’d never be able to get anything done.  Poor girl.

I’m a liar

(note: This post contains wildly harsh language, in quotation. For all my love of the word Fuck, this shit shouldn’t be taken as my own opinion. Consider yourself warned)

I’ve not updated in forever, and honestly it’s because the world is so infuriating at a base level right now that I’m barely staying coherent.

Personal stuff aside, here’s one of the more infuriating facets of the world of late: The 2008 Presidential Campaign. Specifically, the increasingly bitter and hateful primary of my own party, the party I’ve known for tolerance, if not ability to win elections.

Once again they’ve proven to me that if anyone knows how to fuck a sure thing up, its the Democratic National Party. They are the world’s greatest losers. Here we have two of the best political minds of our generation all but killing each other on the campaign trail, their supporters so entrenched that I’ve seen things so absurd that they’re challenging my faith in humanity as a whole.

Clinton supporters talking about the “worthless nigger” Obama.

Obama supporters talking about the “stupid cunt” Clinton.

Putting aside my own political allegiances, this is the most shameful behavior I’ve ever seen, on either side of the aisle. I expect this bullshit from Republicans, that’s why I’m a Democrat. But to see the people themselves so bitterly divided, when they agree on just about everything is nothing short of tragic.

When did people start having, no pun intended, dick-measuring contests over what -ism was worse? Discussions between Obama and Clinton supporters, people who by all rights shouldn’t even be fighting, inevitably turn into “Well you’re a racist, and racism is worse than sexism!” versus “Well you’re a sexist, and sexism is far worse than racism!” ad infinitum.

There are no winners.

If Hillary wins the nomination, and let me be clear, I think she’d be a great president, she does so at the expense of the party. By all accounts she’d have to steal the convention with the superdelegates to come away victorious.

If Obama wins the nomination, and I happen to think he already has, he does so at the cost of a great deal of female support, support he needs.

A compromise ticket is impossible, the divisions run too deep, any ticket with both candidates on it will alienate twice as many people as either one by themselves.

You know the most psychotic thing about it all? This election should be a walk for the Dems. No incumbent party has ever, EVER won re-election to the White House during a recession. Ever! It shouldn’t even be a factor, McCain might as well be a sack of sand, he’s got about the same chance! Or at least he should have, now the Democrats are beating the shit out of one another in some twisted Rovian wet-dream, a nightmare that even the most cynical mind couldn’t have thought up.

I’m a very political guy. I’m political despite my cynicism. I’m political because I think the only way to improve the world is to work with it, not against it. I believe in the essential goodness of humanity, the enduring virtue of survival and ingenuity that cannot be undone by our own machinations. I base everything on the assumption that people are good, misguided at times, but good.

The more I live, though, the harder it is to keep believing in that.

Chris Taylor is Wrong

So Chris Taylor, he of Total Annihilation fame, is demagoguing about how to “save PC gaming”.  Of course, he’s got it wrong.

Putting aside the fact that he’s an irrelevant fucktard, a one-hit-wonder of a game developer whose library is a cavalcade of mediocrity, to ape the inimitable Yahtzee, he’s on the wrong path.

Taylor says that the future of gaming is in “Secure PC Gaming” a nebulous term that in hu-man language means “draconian copy protection”.  He claims the problem is widespread piracy, and that the only way to save PC gaming is to inconvenience everyone.  This is wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

As the music and film industries have so valiantly failed to learn, piracy is not the problem, it is the symptom of the problem.  Namely, barriers to entry including, but not limited to, rising costs and draconian copy protection.  Simply put, the problem is that it is easier to pirate something than to acquire it legally.  PC gaming, however, has another problem, a great big problem so glaring that the herculean effort required to ignore it defies the laws of science.

It’s the system requirements.

Let’s put this in perspective, I am a life-long PC gamer, I cut my teeth on this stuff.  I’ve long supported the platform and it is my fervent belief that the mouse and keyboard are the gaming equivalent of lightsabers, that is to say, “finer weapons, for a more civilized age.”   My computer is four months old, it has a processor that can think faster than God and enough RAM to store the collected knowledge of humanity.  It cannot run Crysis above “low” settings.  It cannot even meet minimums for the forthcoming Assassin’s Creed port.  Considering it rarely runs above 1280×720, this is ridiculous.

There are PC games being made these days for a machine that does not fucking exist.  That is the problem, not piracy.  The solution is simple, though.  In fact, several companies are already doing monstrous business by using it!

Stop competing with the consoles.

World of Warcraft can run on just about anything.  Ditto for The Sims.  I bet Spore won’t require a demonically-empowered quantum-shitstomper of a machine to run, either.  The fact is, the PC cannot, nor should it compete for graphical supremacy with the consoles.  They’ve got the high ground, they’ve usurped the mantle of prettiest princess at the ball.  Making games that people can’t play is capital-R Retarded.

Make games that will run on three-year-old machines.  At the very least, don’t develop for hardware that doesn’t exist.  Sell your games through Steam, and for god’s sake don’t saddle retail boxes with restrictive DRM.  A CD-Key is enough.  I don’t know a single person among my friends and acquaintances who pirated StarCraft.  Everyone bought it, and they bought it because the online experience was so compelling that they would rather have paid the cost of entry than found some arcane method of circumventing that barrier.  To my knowledge, it had no copy protection beyond a CD-Key and requiring the disc in the drive.  None.

The audience for PC gaming is there, Blizzard has proven it time and time again.  They don’t want to spend thousands of dollars to upgrade their computers, at least not along the schedules that PC developers have decided upon.  Chris Taylor wants to punish consumers for a problem that he doesn’t even understand.  For my part I’m glad no one in their right mind would listen to him.

It’s been a bad case of February

Life’s been a bitch lately.  It’s about that time of year.

Anyway, I do have a musing to share with you all.  I’ve remarked before about how many of my fucking idiot friends are doing things such as getting engaged/married at ages comparable to my own, that is 20 years old.

That’s retarded.

Another one seems to have fallen victim to this breeder curse, albeit one of the psychotic religious nuts.  Bet you didn’t know I had any of those for my friends, godless heathen that I am, eh?   The whole notion of marriage is a dubious one to me.  It hasn’t exactly worked out for the people I know, so I’m reticent to try it.  Of course trying it would require a woman crazy enough to hitch their wagon to a dumpy misanthrope like myself, which is a whole other blog.  Getting married at 20?  That’s just ridiculous, I mean there’s crazy and then there’s scientology crazy, I think getting hitched at 20 falls into the latter category.

Oh well.  If it weren’t for worshipping space Jesus she’d have been pretty hot.  Best of luck in your descent into madness!