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Accounting’s idea for Friday’s Christmas party was to host a trivia game, and as this dragged on, I turned in my seat with its back to the front when there was a loud thump, and 老婆 said “oh my God”. Chunnor had collapsed while emceeing, in an apparent seizure; I could see her boots twitching between the crowd rushing to her aid. After she was taken away in them by paramedics and it had settled, Phil surprisingly didn’t call off the evening and asked one of his VP’s to lead a clumsily-worded prayer to the Lord Jesus Christ, then proceeded to karaoke with his wife before a solemn audience. My Office-inspired short film should have been about having to show it afterwards.

Her return this morning:

Dear all,

I grateful give thanks to everyone prayed for me on Friday’s night. The Lord has heard the pray. And now I feel fine and well!

I sincerely apologize to made the situation uncomfortable to you and your children.

Just the kind of thinking that keeps human beings such a fearful mob, less than the sum of our parts (if not a quotient of them), that if you’re sick and alone, you haven’t got a chance at salvation. If God is all around, why does He need that many more of us asking for Him to show up? Even I put the phone down when I saw that someone else had already dialed 911 for her.

It’s been longer since I backslid than I stayed dry, but the effects of my daily vice are undeniable, so my latest undertaking is to run off all (and only) those calories, as determined by the Nike+ counter:

Here’s the BBC’s version, except instead of exercise it translates your consumption into jaffa cakes. And in related news, because even with a fascination with British culture from childhood (bolstered mainly by the naked women on Benny Hill), I’m at a loss what a “jaffa” cake is, SGW looks doomed.

[Update: That “CALORIES TO BURN” formula should be =E3-B3+F2, not =E3-F2, wtf was I thinking. A subconscious attempt to cook the books?]

Was called a “tremendous issue” so I stopped at the local Third Planet after my haircut, and it is quite the hoot. I’m grateful to Grant for this and Superman Beyond, not only tiding me over during Final Crisis‘ erratic release schedule, but for these looks back (and sideways) at the two characters in the settings that bring out their best, the furthest reaches of space and time as only a flying man might, um, reach; and of course, Bruce’s fucked-up brain.

…That he does, and he’s beaten DeSaad before, so no worries there. Batwoman I haven’t seen since this relic from our childhood, which included a Joker story that scared the shit out of me because he specifically mentioned coming to Providence to steal a diamond. Could that have been customized for local distribution, like someone swore was the case when they said Houston was bombed at our screening of Independence Day? Seems as good a time as any to bring up a memory, going even further back to the first grade, of my very early entry into society. Our teacher announced a special story-book had been published (I like to think she used that word, but it would be a while before I’d understand the “as published in DC Comics” credits), and that one of us was the main character! Me being by far the best student, with test scores higher than my classmates’ combined, agonizing to this day over once misspelling “lemnon”, not to add the only Asian and therefore the most interesting candidate as well, I felt a shoo-in. But who should it be but bull-headed bully Melvin, in a forgettable urban adventure featuring the nondescript likeness of a little Black boy in the artwork. And still for the life of me I can’t pinpoint the exact moment in the many years since when I put it all together and realized the intentions behind their program. I can only hope that it succeeded and my suffering then listening to him struggle with each easy word paid off.

It’s good, but no Jovial Race.

I can’t believe I found the one Bloom County strip from the book Ron Giveon brought to our dorm room that will forever illustrate my feelings toward gift-giving:

That picture of Steve Dallas’s girlfriend in the E.T. mask had me ROFLMAO decades before the English language was gutted.

Storm. “Shockingly bad” is right. Might as well have added a buzzer-type shock to each press of the screen. Incidentally I had a dream last night of watching an old Brit comedy show with Hugh Laurie spoofing 60’s spy shows, including the Prisoner.

Cameo. I sent an image attachment via e-mail to the display model in a 3-1 employee-to-customer ratio T-Mobile store and waited for as long as I could before the sad state of tech got to me (approximately 15 minutes), and it never showed. Neither did the picture message one of their guys tested.

Animal Crossing for Wii. Another chance for Nintendo to leapfrog Sony and Microsoft with an online world for their brand, wasted.

My thumb, after dusting off the Super Famicom with the Fighting Commander, having confirmed that the PS3 supports it through the SmartJoy. I pushed the new blister through the 8-star Super Battle, but it broke at Sagat, oozing fluid onto the pad—a new, slippery sensation, to be sure, at least for someone once protected so ably by a callous there. Like a champ who completes that last mile with a torn ACL, I kept up the fireball/dragon-punch combo against M.Bison and reached those ending credits where I used to swear to my friends I saw a beer can in T.Hawk’s hand. Didn’t you get a shot of the whole cast if you completed it without a defeat?