Went to Costco this afternoon with the boss. For this I went to law school? Disappointing to learn that those great Martinelli's apple juice bottles (well, at least the ones they sell there) have been changed from glass to plastic, more likely the result of cost-cutting measures than my belief that they're perfect for Molotov cocktails come the revolution in baseball country.

Has it really been eight days incommunicado after a decent run of daily entries? WWWA tech support's turnaround leaves much to be desired, but the service is free, and farbeit from me of all people to comment on slacking. To wit:Finished qualifying for and collecting BST AF over the three-day weekend, naturally, 10 levels and 122,900 EXP (that's as many nights as the Great Flood, at my pace) before I can equip it all. A verbose linkshell member referred to the set as "mangy", but I find it more stylish than Marc Singer's.

Server still down, oh well. Took a nap when I got home around seven last night that I kept waking from and saying, fuck it, I got nothing to get up for, so I didn't, until 5:45 this morning. Lovely. Had a dream there was some worldwide apocalypse (always with the apocalypse… needless to say, the work of aliens), and we had lost a substantial portion of the human race, everything else very much intact. Those of us left were reduced to living on kibbutz-like settlements without our usual amenities. A Japanese guy who looked liked the old proprietor of Wanpaku said he used to work at a curry restaurant, but in this refashioned society, he and I had a newer, more important role: patrolling for invaders. Pretty lame—I didn't even have 北斗の拳-like superpowers—but sure beats what I ended up doing today.

Was working on this other rambling, mostly nonsensical post about how I spent the weekend sadly with old DVD's and Chris' leftover beer when someone finally (12 hours being an eternity on the Internet, mind you) YouTubed that FFVII sketch from Robot Chicken last night:
UPDATE: Server down, so by the time I get it up, it'll be old news.

No contest. While the former may come with Quentin Tarantino's Rolling Thunder seal-of-approval (worthless, if you ask me, if not for the clean transfer) and the claim to having used the same jungle march in its soundtrack before the other—which is how I came up with the billing—it all boils down whether Kuo Chui, Lu Feng and Chiang Sheng were better martial arts choreographers than the studio was at building miniature sets. I haven't seen Peter Jackson's King Kong, but I certainly hope the expedition there wasn't just an idea three guys had going through a microfiche at a library. And did they actually think they had a shot at capturing something reportedly ten stories tall with a caravan of a dozen skinny Indians? (Half a dozen, after the elephant blitzkrieg and mountaineering mishap.) How were they gonna get themselves, much less Peking Man, back down that rock cliff? I could go on, but then I'd have to venture into such subjects as interracial sex and primate masturbation, which I'm sure'd get me busted by the NSA.

Now Masked Avengers, how I wish this were up for restoration. Sadistic torture devices, sadistic booby-trapped entrances, sadistic private elevators, all controlled with the turn of a swastika. The tridents were the movie's gimmick more so than the masks, but you sure-as-hell can't fault their mastery of them, surpassing, IMO, even the Flags of Iron (though No. 1's balancing act at the end, makes you wonder, if that was a deliberate act to die spectacularly). But it's not just their skills this time around; there's a mystery, or at least it seems there should be, to this sinister organization that surrounds itself with Buddhist symbols and relishes in bloody rituals. Maybe not quite the controversy of a Da Vinci Code, but way better kungfu.

With as much attention as it's getting, there's no way the flute'll go for $300.It's already up to eight. Stupid FARK—holy crap, Jeri Ryan. What flute?

…Title of yet another prescient episode of Millenium I thought of while watching some Sci-Fi Channel documentary on The Da Vinci Code. Funny (and funnier, I mean, than the Will & Grace finale or seeing Gil Grissom hook up with Sara Sidle at the end of CSI) to see theologians all up in arms separating "fact from fiction." I really have neither the scholarship nor inclination to delve into the historical record, but the two women who wrote the show seemed to know their Mary Magdalene at least as well. And my guess is that any material Ron Howard can adapt for Tom Hanks—not one for taking chances, is he—can't possibly have the depth of Umberto Eco's. I remember reading Foucault's Pendulum back in law school and only grasping the Borgesian conspiracy by the Lupin reference; who the fuck else but me would go from Monkey Punch to Maurice Leblanc in the HRC?

Oh yeah, it's my birthday. Talk about your anamnesis.

What's the deal with fast food? It's a given you may never know what you're paying for, but sometimes it's not even sure what you're paying: take for example the nearby KFC, where a meal clearly depicted on the menu with a $6.59 cost runs the gamut from over eight dollars, when the drink isn't included, to today's low of $5.29 with tax, when it was. (Place was a mess, too. Floors sticky with spilt soda, Mountain Dew dispenser still sticks, and none of it attended to by no less than six employees. It's like nobody cares that society's gone down a notch.) Getting to be where a guy can't determine just how little money he can get by on, which is essential for lunch.

Finally got 5/5 on that fucking Head Count game! (Of course it was on Normal mode. Hard has guys coming down the chimney as well.)Been a while since I've seen a dragonfly, and never one almost 4" long. Maybe all this global warming has something to do with them growing to mutant-size and invading our cities. Alarmism? What if it's still there tomorrow morning, and getting bigger? UPDATE: It's not.

Crashed at 8pm last night, only to wake up close to 2am, so I did another Empress Band's worth on my BST40 (two hours for 3K EXP, with the gear-swapping and teleporting, then auctioning all the Dhalmel Hides afterwards) before oversleeping again. Still, with the exception of competition at a camp, easily remedied by moving to another, it feels good, soloing. Beastmaster is the final frontier in FFXI for me; I've done damage dealer (MNK), party support (BRD) and hate control (PLD). My social foray into the MMORPG has come full circle, and as anywhere else, I've grown weary of the same ol' same ol'—i.e., it's just me and my weiner.

Why was it so hard to come by pics of Hook-ups pin-up girl Ming Tran? I thought everything was archived, somewhere on the Internet. (The trail goes like this: NCS makes fleeting mention of an eight-year-old cosplay pictorial, I recall one particular ad with her as Chun Li, then Google away.)But today's winner is Apple hardware pr0n. I'd buy a PS3 designed by them.

Yeap, I think it's about time I took advantage of the company medical plan and sought some professional counseling. Today I was again frustrated by Chipotle's thoughtlessly small parking lot, eventually got in line behind a woman about my size—if I were dressed like that kid in A Christmas Story—and almost asked her aloud if she really.needed.that.burrito. At least I don't remember anyone reacting to me as if I actually did. Maybe, if my condition is left unchecked for much longer, I will. Or worse. (Last time I looked, however, there was no treatment for anomie in the DSM.)

Justice League is over. Someday when I grow up and have lots of money, I want to finance a mini-series that brings the show back with the same style and high standard for storytelling (or just the obvious love of the source material) based on the Crisis on Infinite Earths or Kingdom Come.—Wait a minute, I already am grown up.

Dreamt the other night (not nearly as funny as Jerry Seinfeld's about the hamburger eating him) that I was having a "tongue" sandwich. The one inside the submarine-length thing, buried under shredded lettuce or cabbage was actually human-looking, and more sickeningly, feeling—well, at least as I remember it; forgive me if it's been a while—which made me think, this had to be the appeal of it. Déjà vu moment came last night when we went out for Korean BBQ and there it was on the menu again. I had the 비빔밥.

Mishima is now Matsui, named after a former waiter, now pictured on their business card as manager. The menu's practically identical, and the interior's been cluttered up with unnecessary woodwork and draperies. His cold but statuesque former companion was nowhere to be seen.Okay, that ought to be enough text to post this nice pic of the Perfect Mate.

After last night's season finale of The Office (the American NBC version, hereinafter "TOUS"), I'm convinced the original ("TOUK") is superior. Michael may occasionally demonstrate David's middle-management ambition, but he's written as more of a sympathetic idiot—one, however, with the business acumen to bring proper written materials for corporate even after the most ridiculous video presentation—than the self-absorbed, over-the-top bastard, which, I'm sorry, makes him little more than the sitcom's evolution of Ralph Furley. And you gotta wonder just what kind of documentary camera crew can capture intimate moments like those between Jim and Pam; compare theirs to Tim's, who at least took Dawn to another room and removed his mic. Or was that merely an example of British politeness?

First E3 in how many years (seven, I figure) I didn't go on opening day. There was the pass fiasco, but even though that seems to have been worked out, I think I'll just drop Chris and Linda off on Friday. Just browsing online coverage reminds me of listlessly moving from one booth to another, ears drowned in loud music that's somehow supposed to keep me from doing so and eyes strained from the same old games regardless of where I go, anyway. And feet aching, because they'd rather not spend the day off helping.

("Who are you, and how did you get in here?" "I'm a locksmith, and… I'm a locksmith." Man, I have to get those Police Squad! episodes on DVD. I rented the tapes and archived them onto Beta too many generations of media ago.)

▪ PS3 is still ugly, down to the inexplicable use of the Spider-man font, and isn't offering anything to justify its price to someone like me who isn't buying into the evil Chinese plot to sell HDTV and destroy the last of middle-class America, one credit card at a time. About the only good news is that the controller's been kept the same. Another year, another batch of CG movies.

▪ Nintendo's press conference was more successful, by all accounts, and though I generally approve of their approach to the console wars, I can't help but miss a jaw-dropping Factor 5 Star Wars game this time around.

▪ Xbox360? Who cares? Go buy one at Target if you think it matters.

My Second Life avatar. Not much more I can do with it, I suppose, unless completely different artistic sensibilities would reveal a better approach towards the basic appearance sliders. (Like when my roommate in college told me I had been tying my shoes wrong all my life.) I kinda wanted a hoodie, but I guess I can just switch to FFXI and put on my Royal Cloak. And have something to do. Flying's neat, but the way I do it in my dreams, there's more than sparse islands below, and I'm always ascending uncontrollably, passing any hope of a safe landing. Once I hit the ceiling of the universe, and decided to stay.

Still not sure if I'll go, but the new Nintendo (the controller, mostly) has got me interested, more so than I've been, well, since, their last breakthrough in interface design. Which would be Super Mario 64, ten years ago!

Got this idea for a "game" using real cellphones, but I'm not certain the technology is there yet. Sure I dream of an MMO Manhunt, but since violence is overplayed (and not likely to be outdone by an original effort), I thought maybe I could have protagonists who solve problem situations with everyday tools, namely their Motorola. Their own Motorola, Sony Ericsson, whatever, though, not a virtual facsimile. Take that Nintendo; you and your TV remote! Make and get calls between your online avatar, and somehow you'll feel like you've made an important difference. At least that's how I hope it'd work. And I don't know why, but the Pillows' "Last Dinosaur" track from the FLCL credits keeps coming up whenever I think about this.

…Okay, so it didn't take long for me to start YouTubing:
Having the whole thing kinda takes all the mystery out of it, don't ya think?

Didn't actually write this on the 5th, but rather the following Monday afternoon, and then just to insert some pretentious text between two image-laden entries. So don't expect this to be another groundbreaker from my travelogue on the search for one's soul—unless, of course, you are willing also to acknowledge that such a journey is bound to be stalled on occasion by such sandbars as Sci-Fi Channel's Saturday evening broadcast of Skeleton Man. Not that I need to go on about it, since so many have already been there, but what were they thinking, an invulnerable Native American spirit in a synthetic pancho demonstrates Predator-like proficiency in the woods then assaults a nearby chemical plant only to be blown up with it? (Earlier in the day I saw the network air, back-to-back, two other B-movie crapfests using identical footage of a rubber dinosaur, raptor, "carnosaur", whatever, tending to its eggs. The night before they ran Law & Order SVU and American Psycho, thereby adding serial killer programming to their definiton of science fiction. Remind me again what I'll be missing on cable after Justice League's last episode next weekend?) With pretty people like this available to them, why even bother with hokey plots and environmentally-unfriendly pyrotechnics? Just make porno.

I guess to complement that portrait of Homer Simpson is this Photoshop of an anthropomorphic Lois Griffin:Why I was Googling her, don't ask.

Today, a Broccoli & Cheese baked potato and Classic Single from Wendy's—not that one, but the location across from the cheapest gas station around, i.e., $3.31 for regular—on the hopes that change, i.e., not Chipotle, might do me some good. Since I have given up on this project, why can't someone else pick up on it and start the next Google? Surely office workers of the world would unite around a site that'd tell them where to go for lunch. Login, it'd know (from paid sponsors, naturally) what you had to choose from, what's on the menu, etc., and make a selection based on your daily log?

So, I'll get to watch the original Star Wars movies now without wincing during a broadcast of the "Special Edition" on TV or troubling with the laserdisc tray. George Lucas is still a flip-flopping asshole, just like Bush:

The special edition, that’s the one I wanted out there. The other movie, it’s on VHS, if anybody wants it. ... I’m not going to spend the, we’re talking millions of dollars here, the money and the time to refurbish that, because to me, it doesn’t really exist anymore.

Fuck you, your shit prequels don't exist to me, either.

Yes, nothing will make me happy.

Thought maybe an ice cream cone during lunch would snap me out of my current malaise. It didn't, big surprise. I think I stopped enjoying them decades ago when eating them became more of meltdown-cleanup work.

So what is it that's missing lately? I was walking through the warehouse when suddenly an Ayumi Hamasaki tune from a JPN dorama came to mind. Maybe that's it? All that outrage (and the accompanying sense of powerlessness) from liberal talk radio got me down on my commute? I'll give the iPod another go tomorrow, with a ドラマテーマ playlist. And the only TV left for me is Justice League, which is going into its last two episodes, ever. I'm as frustrated at WB as I was with Angel, but maybe ending is for the best. Look at NBC's The Office. I mean, these things go on, and the content's bound to suffer, lose its freshness, if you will, repeat itself until there's nothing left but to dwell on the mundane. Very much like life.

There's always Denise and Cora.

Another day, another bolus. Why doesn't food taste good to me anymore? Filling my stomach's long since become just another daily chore, like waking up. Listen to me; I am so ripe for a Michael Douglas Falling Down moment. I wonder how many more like me there are on the freeway everyday. Everybody hurts? Or maybe I'll just trip on the carpet one night, break my neck and die alone, quietly and unremarkably, on the bathroom floor.