Thursday, August 19, 2004
Every now and then something comes along to remind me that anyone in the world might well be reading this journal, and that, perhaps, I should keep that in mind when opening my big yap about whatever I happen to be yapping about. Yesterday, for example. I received an e-mail from Ashley Cheng of Bethesda Softworks, one of the minds behind Morrowind. He was very pleasant, complimentary, didn't seem the least bit pissed about the snarky things I'd said about his game, and he has kindly sent me a copy of the "Game of the Year" edition of Morrowind. Upon reading his e-mail, I had four thoughts more or less simultaneously: 1) Cool! Now I can get Nar'eth off that frelling balcony in Vivec; 2) Crap! Now even more of my life will be devoured by this game; 3) Weird! Next I'll be getting e-mail from Roland Emmerich for slamming The Day After Tomorrow; and 4) Damn! This is one of the most embarrassing things to happen to me since I got the cat's head stuck in the garbage disposal. Honestly, it does freak me out how all points on the web are more or less equidistant, and there's absolutely no telling who's reading you. It makes my brain itch.
I am not even half awake.
Okay, because getting all this pink makeup off to reveal my true grey self isn't cheap, we're mounting a HUGE eBay sale, and because I'm sick near unto puking death of drawing little monster doodles, everyone who uses "buy it now" will get a FREE!!!! copy of the Nyarlathotep: The Crawling Chaos CD, Our Thoughts Make Spirals in Thier World. This album was composed by the band as a soundtrack to Threshold, and I contributed vocal samples (as well as liner notes). We'll be running this offer right up until Dragon*Con starts on Wednesday, September 2. How can you resist? What? You already have a copy of this brilliantly, beautifully creepy CD? What's the matter? Don't you have friends? Don't you believe in giving them cool things in hopes they'll exchange the favour? Don't be a fekik! Suuurrre, you do! There. Problem solved. Click here because, as Captain Kangaroo used to say, supplies are limited.
With the Fiddler's Green essay out of the way, it's time to start the new story for subpress and manage somehow to get my brain lodged firmly in the place where Daughter of Hounds waits to be written.
My helpless, compulsive gaming is going to be the frelling end of me, I dren you not. Last night, I was up until 3:30 playing the incredibly addictive Crimson Skies. I wanted to stop and go to bed, really I did. But then Betty went and got herself kidnapped by a bunch of fascist thungs in Chicago, and I accidentally blew up a police zep while trying to deliver bootleg whiskey for the gangsters who've promised to help me find her. The story swallows me whole. I'm weak as a kitten. Finally, I hauled my sorry ass off to bed, my hands still aching from the controller, too wired to sleep, and Spooky read me her special adults-only edition of Dr. Seuss' McElligot's Pool ("'Cause you never can tell, What goes on down below..."), which, combined with a Lisa Gerrard CD, brought me back to Earth.
1:02 PM
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