According to this map, there's a criminal convicted of an offense, sexual or otherwise, against children in my building. (Actually, the red dot moves around when I adjust the map a bit, so it could be the one besides mine, but I'll be eyeing all my neighbors suspiciously regardless. Guess it worked.)

Oh yeah, I had this dream last night I mistakenly walked into a ladies' bathroom. No one seemed to mind. But am I ever on my toes today!

I try not to think about the state of the nation these days, preferring instead the relative normalcy of life as a virtual icon in an online fantasy, but it's not much of a strain on my analogy skills to make the crew of Gilligan's Island out as archetypes of our administration. The insufferable aristocrats, that's a given. The Professor's pseudoscience. The airheaded country bumpkin. (I can't decide what to do with Ginger, though. No real scandals yet to tie them to the decadent, powerless Hollywood elite. Nor anyone worth fucking.)

You know, the most troubling aspect of this isn't so much that one human being could force himself upon another in such lurid detail, at least not to anyone who's shared the disgusting experience of intimacy, but the font.

Imagine my amusement to learn that the new SARS, bird flu, has found its version of the mask: 김치. A wall of cotton replaced by one of garlic, eh?

I'm not sure whether to add sales calls to my enemies list: on the one hand, they annoy me, at home and here in the office. Just now a guy from PC Mall asks about our IT projects, and actually held to my every word as if expecting a detailed presentation; I tell him, send us a catalogue, and I'll keep you in mind when I want to order something; and he says, get this, "I'll think about it." On the other, they offer me the delicious opportunity to take potshots at people who go in everyday and submit themselves for a living to my carefully-scripted jerkstore-like repartee.

Remember that scene in Wayne's World where Mike Myers is stopped by Robert Patrick? Now the rest of us here in LA County, too, can relive a similar moment next time we're pulled over by a sheriff's deputy.

…That's the name, from our ever-expanding family dictionary for an extended gaming session (derived from "mara~"), chosen for a long-time idea I've had for a massively-multiplayer online running videogame that's earned some accolade and attention lately, due perhaps in desperation for a life's work with meaning, an end to indentured servitude, but mostly because the same ol' SOCOM3 weekends have gotten boring to us.

My original concept was not so control-oriented (as with my lightgun FPS, which, lo and behold, Nintendo's Revolution is all about), but from fanciful images of a third-person footrace contestant who must brave the challenges of a sprawling, diverse urban environment, e.g., packs of un-neutered dogs, color-sensitive gang-bangers, traffic jams of Segways, to achieve the deceptively simple goal of reaching the finish line on the other side of town. Needless to say much of my inspiration comes from the Grand Theft Auto series and Manhunt as from my own runs—which, however uneventful thus far, I still choose to make on streets for the opportunity at observation and imagination over laps around a static track—but with none of the associated, played-out violence. Well, at least none that the player commits.

Working out the kinks—er, details—that's where it gets tricky. I had first thought to make it as basic as possible an interface, whereby pushing forward on the controller would propel you, and the difficulty would lie in all the obstacles. But then what difference would there be between running and driving, or flying? (Answer me that, Quake fans.) Button-mashing was an option, but even GTA accounted for fatigue; the answer might be in DDR-like step-by-step movement. With less emphasis upon rhythm than alternating left-and-right presses, the speed of which would be determined by the situation, or the remaining strength in your legs.

Of course, enough has to be left for the fingers to control direction and camera angle, as well as both arms, for stiff-arming attackers, knocking over trashcans in an alley, swiping a drink from a food court patron or otherwise interacting with the environment. As you can see, this is no-holds-barred "free" running, in and out of buildings, be they malls (shades of State of Emergency) or private-home porn-shoots, whatever's in the way. And unlike Katamari, the more pursuers you snowball along your journey, the worse your injuries when you run out of steam and are beset upon.

Porn-shoots? Now might be as good a time as any to stop, and do something about preparing for court tomorrow.

Seems our war-mongering war-profiteering Vice President can't be counted on with a firearm. Hey, I've been known to hit my own teammates turning a corner in SOCOM, too, but then again, I haven't lead over 2,000 of our troops to their deaths overseas (or accused anyone against the idea of not "supporting" them). And at least I get in some practice now and then.

And if this (matching plastic surgery for couples, for posterity) isn't the most disturbing sign of the times, then something else surely is.

Finally got this Windows version of a LiveJournal-archiving app like my Mac's XJournal, called ljArchive, which has an interesting word-count feature: in almost 600 entries spanning three years, the most often-used (more than 4 letters) was "maybe."

Dual-boxing my Paladin, even for a measly 10K EXP (when look out, I have only 379,000 more to go), wears me out doubly so, but The Office at 2am on Tivo had me LOL-ing with unusual energy from underneath the comforter on the couch. U2 for a financial presentation, and Michael's favorite pizza at a Sbarro, I couldn't have written it better for myself.

94° today, and Taco Bell was out of Baja Blast. Not the end of the world, mind you, but when you consider global warming, degenerate consumerism and the overall priorities of the everyday man, it sure as hell looks like it.

More science-fiction from our administration—Alberto Gonzales: "President Washington, President Lincoln, President Wilson, President Roosevelt have all authorized electronic surveillance on a far broader scale."

Last night's Battlestar: Galactica was the stuff of filler, as far as I'm concerned, but there was one redeeming aspect to it, probably underplayed amidst everything else: was about the "reincarnation" of Cylon Raiders, and how with each time they're shot down by Vipers, they come back angrier and better. Made me think, in that now almost cliché way, maybe it's all just a videogame, and we're playing the bad guys? We die, then hit retry.

Last I mentioned Sbarro, they were pushing worthless music CD's. So it shouldn't have struck me as much of loss to see the one in the mall close; though, I did go there on the chance that Chicken & Broccoli Strombolis were up, and the greater evil certainly was a teriyaki plate at the place next to it. I hate that shit they throw together with pineapple chunks and sell under a name with "Tokyo" in it, but I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. (And Chick-Fil-A tasted funny here. I think I'll take a break from it.) Food's just become anything cooked and chewy.

What's with the word "broccoli"? I always misspell it with two L's first.

I caught the tail-end of some jokes about "human-animal hybrids" on Stephanie Miller this morning, and it wasn't until I verified it in a transcript that I could hardly believe the state of our union. First it's 1984, and now fucking H.G. Wells. We're through the looking glass here, people.

Okay, this one's better than mine, I admit: