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I am angry that this game got made. I am angry that better artists have had their work stolen to make it. I am angry that this game casts a dark shadow over the genre as a whole, and I am angry that indipendent [sic] game designers will probably face greater criticism than they deserve in the fallout. I am angry this game ever got any review score higher than "total and utter failure of humanity". I am angry that the MPAA has decided not to pursue the case of the stolen film clips as Majestic truly deserves. I am angry that a contracted musician has had to defend himself for doing honest work.So I went to sleep early, and woke up before 5:30am after a dream it was years ago and I was walking down "the Drag", was it; it was crowded, anyway, and I passed up eating at an outdoor cafeteria with Tejas and his FOB friend (you could tell from his outlandish orange outfit complete with pointed shoes) to stop outside a familiar Japanese restaurant whose brown 暖簾 read 「かわ」 at first glance, which later became 「たかだ」 after I made better sense of the calligraphy. Or my Japanese. John Chen and Steven went in together and were seated at a small table with two wooden chairs on each side, and I joined them on a fabric sofa between. Earlier outside I stopped on a bench next to my future 老婆, who didn't know me from Adam and didn't even look up from her magazine. I left but turned back towards her like Orpheus.
Don't tell me that Kung Fu Panda ending wasn't inspired by Circle of Iron's!
didn't think we had the time to wait in line, and you know what, she was right, because in the mad rush to get out afterward, I noticed all their posts were very much unmanned and very much not change-equipped.But the anniversary of the birth of our great nation isn't supposed to be about ripping each other off, is it? I repeat my thoughts from a presidential election ago with my transcription of that damning Twilight Zone episode:
I'm the kind of idiot who's sick of young people dying because of too many old men like you who fight their battles at dining-room tables… and I take offense at arm-chair warriors who don't know what a shrapnel wound feels like, or what death smells like after three days in the sun, or the look in a man's eyes when he realizes he's minus a leg and his blood is seeping out… you have a great enthusiasm for planting the flag deep, but you don't have a nodding acquaintance with what it's like to bury men in the same soil… no, you'll go back to your bank and it'll be business as usual until the next dinner-time when you'll give us another of your vacuous speeches about a country growing strong by filling its graveyards. Well, you're in for some gratifying times… there'll be a lot of graveyards for you to fill—in Cuba, and in France, and all over Europe and all over the Pacific—and you can sit on the sidelines and wave your pennants because according to your definition, this country's going to get virile as the Devil. From San Juan to Inchon we'll show how red our blood is because we'll spill it. There are two unfortunate aspects to this: one is, that you won't have to spill any; and the other is, you won't live long enough to know I'm right.
Q: Does the new "hands-free" law allow you to use the speaker phone function of your wireless telephone while driving?I swear, the next guy I see thinking he's so clever by holding his flip-phone up to his face and staring into it as if he's making eye contact at a job interview, I'm gonna jeopardize my own safety, too, by starting a blog of BlackBerry photos of people like him on the road. Did I ever mention the slow fat woman I passed by one morning on the way to work, incredulously, with a paperback rested on the airbag of her minivan steering wheel?
A: Yes.
