The Two-Year Old Incrediblog!!

GAH!!!  How the hell did this blog just have a second birthday?  Dang!  More importantly, what the hell happened to all the time I used to spend blogging?!?!


Wait.  Let’s step back.  Deep breath.  July 26th.  That’s when this blog o’mine officially reached the two-year mark.  That just seems weird.  Now, the other thing I need to address is the paucity of my blog updates/entries.  I know.  I thin it’s mainly due to my midday time slot at 98.9 The Bear, but exacerbated by a long summer of child-wrangling and such.  Excuses?  I HAZ THEM!!

Pictured:  You, as I post another "search terms" blog.

Pictured: You, as I post another “search terms” blog.


So let’s quickly just try something new.  Ima tell you some stuff, and then you tell ME stuff!  Here, let me get the ball rolling.  (WARNING:  I’ve been playing WAAAAYYYYYY too much Mass Effect 2, and I’ll explain below.  Just know that it’s…it’s getting to me..)




Did you know that Bing Crosby is one of the fathers of Silicon Valley?  He was looking for better recording methods, someone told him about the old Nazi magnetic tapes from WWII, and BOOM!!  Der Bingle invests in AMPEX.  Ampex goes on to pioneer reel-to-reel recording and editing, and then computer data storage, developing the first hard drives ever.  BOOM!  Silicon Valley has its first big start-up.  (And yes, Ampex still exists.) As Commander Shepard would say:  What can you tell me about Silicon Valley?


Mass Effect 2 has become like this huge mountain that I must conquer.   I put off playing the sequel to Bioware’s incredible Mass Effect for way too long, and finally decided to invest the time and energy into another wonderful space-epic.  Seriously, these games are better than 90% of the crap coming out of Hollywood these days.  Anyway, I got close to the end.  I could feel it.  I had the entire team, including (SPOILER!) Legion.  I had the Reaper IFF thingie that would let me use the Omega 4 relay.  And then…my saves disappeared.  Gone.  Lost.  Non-existent.  I was devastated.  FFFFfffffuuuuuUUUUUU…  So I started again. This time I’m making different choices (gonna try and bang Miranda and ignore Jack, even though I find Jack to be the more attractive female) and get through this goddam thing so that I can waste another few weeks on Mass Effect 3.  Wish me luck.  As Shepard would say: Have you got a minute?  I just want to talk about you.


A lot of strange and wonderful things are happening in my life right now  I’ll share the details as they materialize (or as soon, in some cases, as I am legally allowed to discuss them.)  As Shepard would say: I don’t work for Cerberus.  This isn’t a Cerberus mission. +2 Renegade.  Unlocks additional renegade response.






Now then.  Here’s your part in this little discussion.  See below?  Just south of that Ad?   (Ads which I have yet to see a single dime from, BTW.)  Where it says “Leave a reply?” That’s the comments section.  That’s where you come in.  What shall I blog about next time?  We’re in our third year now, folks. Gimme some fuel for this rock-n-roll shuttlecraft of delights and wonders.  Gimme your best in the comments section.  And As the Commander would say: I should go. +1 Paragon




Everlasting Blog Whopper

I wanted to post my full review of The Avengers, but since you prolly just saw it, I won’t bore you.  You know it was awesome, and you know that without the assembled cast (see what I did there?) and Joss Whedon at the helm, it wouldn’t have worked.  Oh, it’s also great to see that SOMEONE finally got the Hulk right.  Not just Dr. Banner, though Mark Ruffalo was pitch-perfect…no, I mean the CGI incarnation of the Hulk was completely awesome.  So much s that I really hope Hollywood rolls the dice again, because I would pay to see an entire Hulk movie if it was done as well as the characterization in The Avengers.

Number One is the winner, but Number Four is a close second.

Moving on…

A couple of random thoughts, one of which I may have mentioned before, but which really struck me when I saw the preview for Battleship.  The US Navy has unlocked a spiffy new digital blue camo pattern for their deckside troops and sailors, corpsmen, etc.  The obvious drawback to this cool new color scheme is that once someone falls overboard they are impossible to find.  “ALL I SEE IS BLUE, CAPTAIN!! WHERE IS ENSIGN JOHNSON?!?!  JOOOHHHHHNSSSOOOOOON!!!!”  Maybe they should be made of a material that turns blaze orange when it gets wet. “Captain, there!  Just off the port bow!  It’s Johnson, sir!  Stupid bastard fell in again, but thanks to that neon orange uniform, we’ll have him back aboard in no time, captain!”

“We’ll wear these green ones in the swamps, people. We want to DISAPPEAR.”

Remember Compact Disc Players?  Those were awesome.  I don’t wanna brag or nothin’, but my vehicle has a six-disc changer right in the dashboard.  Yep.  Well, apparently, if you don’t use your disc changer/player for five months or so, it kinda gets…lazy.  As in, doesn’t work too well.  Keep in mind that my Escape is about ten years old, so the under-used electronics might be showing their age.  Anyway, I wanted to play some Volbeat tunes that I don’t have loaded on my iPod (NO, YOU SHUT UP!!  I’VE BEEN BUSY IS ALL!)  Before loading a new CD, I had to eject one of the discs already in there.  That’s where the problems began.  For those of you that have never spent time with this sort of archaic technology have never experience the numbing fear one experiences when the words “ERROR – – UNABLE TO EJECT DISC–” or similar words of digital madness scrawl painfully, quickly in evil green bits of mocking hate across the primitive LED faceplate.  So you try it again.  And again you are denied.  Panic starts setting in.  You try to change disc slots.  “Let’s try disc five, and then I’ll go back to disc one.  Probably just a little dusty.”  No dice.  Again.  Now the droplets of sweat begin racing one another down either side of your nose and your are suddenly aware of how hot it is in the car.  Then, cruelty: on the thirteenth try you hear it…a sickening subsonic whirring noise.  Somewhere deep inside the analog wiring and Chinese-assembled plastic gears and tiny metal springs and levers, something is trying to work.  SOME part of the mechanical beast is trying to wake up and deliver your cherished CD back to you, back to the surface world and sunlight and hope…so you mash the “EJECT” button with one thumb on top of the other, pushing until the meat of your flesh turns pink, then white…and you hear it…the small “click” and you SEE it…the very tip of the disc, a sliver of silver and greenish plastic…a giant’s pinkie nail barely, almost imperceptibly showing itself like the final silvery sliver of the last crescent before a New Moon.  You hold your thumb on the button and manage to sort of get a tiny little purchase on the disc with the other hand.  “C’mon…please…” you mutter through teeth ground fast together.  You wiggle the disc, pulling, coaxing a nanometer at a time…your sweaty fingers slip off, and you grab it again…a centimeter more is showing…the gears of the monster are grinding and whirring…this black plastic-and-graphite bitch isn’t giving up her prize so easily, but you can feel the beast’s willpower waning…the spell breaking…clearly now you see the sharpie-scrawled label “Summer Mix #3” as the disc is halfway out…now three-quarters…and finally it leaps out of the dashboard and you hold it aloft like Excalibur itself, gleaming in the midday light, motes of dust swirling and dancing and singing your praises, exalting you and this victory of man over machine.  Momentum is on your side, and tide of battle has turned.  Rohan has come at last, and the enemy is routed, fleeing…Disc Slot Two yields the Wiggles Hot Potatoes LIVE!…Slot Three produces Concrete Blonde “Bloodletting” (THAT’S where that thing was!)…Number Four is surprisingly empty…Five angrily spits out Fatboy Slim, and finally Bing Crosby’s “Merry Christmas” (or “White Christmas” depending on the year/label) strolls out of the final Disc Slot and lights a pipe, humming to itself and smiling.  And it occurs to you then how fickle and wonderful are the odds that made this possible, and how you could have been consigned to a fate of hearing “Christmas in Killarney” over and over again in the middle of April.  And then you realize that perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad a fate at all.

My three-year-old thinks Bing looks like me. Probably because I drink too much and hit him. KIDDING! It’s the hat.