woo hoo! yay for me.
this is the last saturday
i cede to this crap.
post script of irony:
the author of this piece would seem a bit of a kindred spirit (can i get a hell yeah for the box o’ 64?!) in addition to being a contemporary.
i would have appreciated the content and tone anyway and independent of my imminent departure from the game gig. still, the timing struck me.
post script of introspection:
i will undoubtedly avail myself of the rich lode of minable material offered by the world of games and toys, and my experience within it… but i’ll need a little time for the roadrash to scab over at least.
It is the attorney general’s duty to defend the state’s laws, and after gay rights activists filed legal challenges to Proposition 8, which amended the Constitution to ban same-sex marriage, Brown said he planned to defend the proposition as enacted by the people of California.
But after studying the matter, Brown concluded that “Proposition 8 must be invalidated because the amendment process cannot be used to extinguish fundamental constitutional rights without compelling justification.”
A truly uplifting development.
I and my spouse aren’t harming or sullying anyone else’s marriage. Don’t think same-sex marriage is a good idea? Fine. Don’t have one. Problem solved. Worry about your own eternal soul, and keep your judgmental meddling out of my business.
I’ve been deferential in my reactions to the various selections and trial balloons for the incoming administration. Some are less progressive than I’d like to see, but I’m willing to give benefit of doubt.
This, however, is too bitter a pill to swallow.
In the wake of Prop 8, this selection of Rick Warren to offer inaugural benediction is simply astonishing.
And frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass about who—Obama himself, or some inaugural committee, or both/all in concert—made the decision. It’s bafflingly and insultingly tone deaf, and serves to remind that the degree of importance of the LGBT community to the Democratic Party varies widely, depending on which side of election day we happen to be.
let’s just see how long this post manages to live, shall we?
ok then. current (very soon to be former) line of work involves playthings—toys, puzzles, games, and the like. vendors will blast my inbox with announcements, sales, product launches, and so forth.
sometimes the content of the communciation will be wholly irrelevant to our merchandise niche. here’s an example from last year.
i found the picture below to be—in addition to completely unreflective of our years-long established purchasing / item category behavior patterns—highly disturbing. it wasn’t immediately clear why, though…
after pondering on it, there was no doubt that it was the disembodied pants that were so jarring to me.
definitely the pants.
ghostly. phantasmagorically perambulatory. pants on, nobody home. but what could could it possibly mean?
aha. NOW, we’re gettin’ somewhere!
I don’t recall the pretext for the thought, nor for that matter, when I had it, nor even where the hell I was–it’s just been that sort of a month, and more on that below–but at some point within the past couple weeks, it occurred to me that the significance of the cultural contribution made by the collaboration of Miles Davis and John Coltrane was beyond measure. Again, I simply don’t remember what precipitated all of that. My bad.
Anyhow, with some rare free time last night before a re-birthday dinner for my better half with a friend of ours, I ambled into and through Oakland’s Walden Pond Books on Grand Ave. I’ve long harbored a soft spot for independent book sellers. More so of late, and especially now.
And I stumbled across this: Clawing at the Limits of Cool / Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and the Greatest Jazz Collaboration Ever by Farah Jasmine Griffin and Salim Washington.
I’m only a round-trip BART ride’s worth of time into it (about 40 pages), but needless to say, I was delighted by the title previously unknown to me, and it’s a nice diversion during a stressful time.
To the legions of fans who check in here from time to time–all ten or twelve of you–wondering about the tumbleweed action in idecosuperecoville, all’s well enough. The seasonal nature of the day gig kicks my ass from one side of the bay to the other, grinds me into a meat nub, and saps any remnant energy I’d like to have as reserve in the tank for the creative output I’m otherwise compelled to aim to put out there.
I look forward to coughing up more regular nuggets of whatever it is I hack forth after the hellidays.