This Is Me
8 Bit Trap
It’s F-BLEEE Charging
I don’t know why they’re swearing but it makes me laugh. Plus I want one bad.
Via GayGamers
Bomb the Moon
I watched the LCROSS impact this morning with an almost nostalgic sense of wonder (SharkBoy wasn’t so in awe), remembering my first big memory as a kid of the lunar landing back in 1969. I’m glad to see that NASA is struggling to get back into the Second Moon race – the Chinese have apparently HD mapped the surface of the moon in attempts to set up factories for the next iPhone.
“Waste of time,” I keep hearing on the web (I’m paraphrasing).
Not so. Water is hydrogen and oxygen. Split that apart and you have fuel and air – great ingredients for further exploration (like off to Mars) or sustained life on the Moon.
“But the Earth needs looking after!” I people moan.
Here’s me flipping both my thumbs up in the air, making an insincere face and saying “Great job, humanity! When the Earth started to fall apart you redeveloped the Hummer and plastic bags full of dog poop for your kids’ kids to find!” Obviously the Earth will not sustain us forever – it will fail us despite our best efforts. Maybe in 100 generations or more, maybe sooner due to war, who can say. I’d be happy if we had a back door to run out of if suddenly the house caught fire. Explore away, I say!
“But why did they have to hurt the Moon?”
Good lord it’s a lifeless rock! We do 1000 times more harm here on Earth in an hour with strip mining and wars than two pieces of a 1 ton spacecraft slamming into a cold, sun-less crater just so we can analyze the debris. Stop anthropomorphizing a heavenly sphere.
“Couldn’t we just send a robot?”
This was cheaper and faster.
“How much did this cost?”
Very little, really, compared to a regular ISS launch. American taxes went to NASA, NASA paid a lot of companies paid good money to have their parts built into the probe. That stimulated the economy locally. Jobs! Cash flow during the recovery of the worst recession in our lifetime is a good thing.
So to the Moon Sympathizers out there I say “Oh suck it up! We’re going if you like it or not!”
Why I Love SharkBoy: Telemarquetting
This is SharkBoy’s side of a conversation with a telemarketer just now. Read all this in ultra monotone:
Hello?
Yes?
Who’s calling?
No. I think you don’t want to talk to us.
We don’t live here.
No. From Montreal. We’re visiting.
And not having a good time.
We hate this city.
Yes.
Terrible time.
I hope things turn around too.
Bye.
How To Write A Dan Brown Novel
Unlock the secrets of becoming the greatest whistleblower of the literary world!
Follow these simple rules and you’ll have to have two driveways: One for the truckloads of cash, the other for the people you piss off to get the truckloads of cash!
Find a secret that everyone knows. Badly.
It’s not that hard these days what with the internet and Lost. Example: If you’re going to use Area 51, it’s pretty damn easy to get a tour of the place if you say you’re not Dan Brown and you’re not making a search engine clogging epic novel of Area 51 – tell them you’re just curious. Make detailed notes of what you see so that make people think you were actually there. Or sounds like you were. Research using Google for the meat of the story helps as long as you go deep, like say… to the third page and past. Still using the Area 51 example: you could write about how aliens aren’t really kept there but aliens might be running the place! Googling “area 51” comes up with all sorts of cool technology myths that can be used by our characters as they run around looking for interconnecting tidbits. Don’t forget to have them stop in mid flight to discuss these interesting tidbits while government agents are chasing them.
Create a lovable schlep.
Make him super smart but somewhat socially awkward with the opposite sex. Think “elbow pads” on “tweed” jackets. He should be an “everyman” kind of guy, no real physical description to tarnish our self-identification with him, but make him bewildered at natural phenomenon. When something extraordinary happens, he should gape in wonder and question his scientific training. Then snap out of it.
Create a love interest.
Hey if you’re going to sell this puppy to Hollywood, there’s gotta be some tail. You can make the love interest equally as smart as the schlep but not in the same field of interest, or else A is going to know how B decoded the supersecret code of C before B does.
Create a villain that makes your skin crawl.
It’s important you make this guy self-hating in some way. Make him pull out his fingernails in some ancient religious ritual you find on Wikipedia. Or better yet, he hurts kittens. But he makes the kittens claw his back in some way to cleanse himself of earthly bonds. Write this person so over the top the reader is actually twirling mustaches and flourishing black capes in their heads as they read.
Create an ambiguous villain.
This person should smoke. Smoking is bad. Smoking makes people hate them. This person should chase the hero and the love interest because they’re unaware of the power the secret the hero needs to locate. Or maybe they do know and they need to stop the secret from becoming revealed and changing the world forever! Then you can reveal at the end that this person was actually helping all along and smoking was just… a smoke screen!
Supporting Cast
Mix in subordinate characters who give their cellphones bewildered looks as your hero bark orders at them while on the run, like “I need for you to find a good tomato soup recipe – from the Mesopotamian Era!” Click, line goes dead. Don’t forget to have the subordinate find this information but with a chilling end to the chapter. The more peril the better: “…but the soup recipe called for live scorpions.”
Flashbacks
Super important. Make sure one of the flashbacks happens in a wood panelled Ivy League school lecture room. Or in a musty library. Hollywood loves that shit. If we continue with the Area 51 story: Flashback to 1947, an absent minded professor who is in his library/lab minding his own business when government agents file in with a small body. They order an autopsy. The professor obliges but at the end of the chapter, he mentions the organs are more human than human. Or some such cliff-hangy saying.
Ending
Of course, the last chapter it’s revealed that the “aliens” are actually Mexicans.
Revenge Is a Dish In 6″ Heels
Dear drunk yobbos on the streets of my brother’s current home town, Swansea:
Be careful who you gaybash. The drag queen you punch just might be a cage match fighter:
Video via I Am Stockier via Twitter via Towerload.
Bits and Bites
Last night, while walking back from the grocery store, SharkBoy was about 4 steps ahead of me and I was overcome to do something to his ice cream (come on, he made ME carry it home and I can’t have any of it!). I quickly ripped off the top and looked down at the pure ecru tub of sugary goodness. I must act fast! What to do? Plant my face into it a la Mrs Doubtfire? Well, close…
I stuck my face/teeth into it and dragged my upper jaw across the top and scooped out a healthy chunk. Lid back on, wipe my face, act natural. Smile!
We get back into the apartment and I put down the tub. I put away the rest of the food and innocently ask “Are you going to have some ice cream during Dexter?”
“ICE CREAM!” he shouts and pulls off the top.
He stops.
He does a double take at the gaping hole.
He goes white when he realizes the hole is actually a bite mark.
I’m dying. Using my best Team America ACTING I say “Holy shit! Those are teeth marks!!”
I think he’s going to throw up. He drops his ice cream scoop and stomps towards the door. I think he’s going to go get a gun and go Michael Douglas Falling Down on the shitty grocery store so I stop him and tell him I did it, relax.
He was actually going to go get his camera to blog about it.
Formative Pop – Halloween Story #2
When I lived in Brantford with my father, we occupied a huge apartment in a restored mansion that overlooked the rail yard. The original builder owned the tracks from Brantford to Hamilton and I guess he wanted to wake every day to oversee his empire every day. The massive house was surrounded by light industrial warehouses and post war-bungalows. It stood out. Especially on Halloween.
Since it was such a unique residence, all the occupants were intertwined with each others business, like a Norman Bates like 28 Barbary Lane, so when it was announced that the boozy upstairs neighbours were going to have a party and that costumes were mandatory, Dad and I pondered this for a few days.
One night shopping, Dad sees a rack of kids onsies costumes, complete with the thin plastic masks. Much like these, over on Plaid Stallions. He grabs a couple and thrusts them at me.
“Here’s our costumes!”
“They’re a bit… small.”
“That’s the fun!”
I shrug and return the Spiderman jumpsuit for something a little more gay: Wonder Woman. Dad chooses Captain America.
The night of the party, we’re forced to strip down to Y-fronts for the sake of squeezing into these sausage skins. As we hit the third stair to go up to the apartment where the party is being held, both our suits split from knee to armpit along the outer seams. Half way up, the ties for the back pop off. And so it goes. By the time we reach the top of the stairs, we’re basically hobo Superheroes with sweaty masks.
We’re two nearly naked guys in infantile costumes. We were the life of the party.





