I'm making myself write something here; any creative impulses I might possess have been methodically stifled beneath a barrage of entertaining media. Thank god for Stevie Wonder.
In recent years I've come to develop a certain love-hate relationship with the written word, and in point of fact the entirety of human communication. Bear with me for a moment; all things considered, communication (verbal and written forms especially) is pretty swanky. My irritation stems mainly from trying to communicate the idea in it's most perfect form to others in a smooth and efficient manner. Such attempts invariably end in failure from the first fricative uttered; with the limitations of current information exchange methods, no human being seems capable of interpreting the ideas of another in the exact method intended. While I'm all for human individuality and the impulsive creativity of the unconventional zeitgeist, I find this inherent inability to accurately communicate absolutely maddening.
For example: I turn to a trusted compatriot, intending to regale them with but the latest tale in an admittedly extensive list of tomfoolery and attempted shenanigans. I mention sighting a stray dog; immediately, my accomplice has flashes of perhaps ten to fifteen canines he's observed in his lifetime, likely in order of personal importance. Already, we've deviated from my original account (since it's highly unlikely the dog I mention is the dog he visualizes.) Next, I elaborate further on the setting and mention that this errant mongrel was sighted on a city sidewalk. Eyes flashing and fulgent in the setting sun, my oh-so attentive listener instantly conjures up a wide variety of images of suburban streetscapes pulled directly from a lifetime spent straying across said cityscapes. None of these images is the one I've mentioned; the wrong street compounded with the wrong subject means we're already 0 for 2, and I haven't even gotten to the gorillas. By the time the sordid tale is told, my attentive listener has already surrounded himself with a fairytale fantasy of suburban stupefaction that is utterly unrelated to whatever preposterous point I had foolishly set out to convey.
Anyway.
Tried playing City of Heroes; pretty awesome for the first few levels, but grinding in any form these days is an instant fun-killer. Still, one shining ray of hope emerged from the inimitable tedium: the hottest harbinger since the big man himself, a brilliant bolt of badass sraight outta the Nile Delta, here to kick ass and chew bubblegum!
The newest superhero to hit the mean streets of Paragon City: Guns N' Moses!
Cleanin' up crime, Old Testament style!
Suddenly, nuns! Thousands of them!
In recent years I've come to develop a certain love-hate relationship with the written word, and in point of fact the entirety of human communication. Bear with me for a moment; all things considered, communication (verbal and written forms especially) is pretty swanky. My irritation stems mainly from trying to communicate the idea in it's most perfect form to others in a smooth and efficient manner. Such attempts invariably end in failure from the first fricative uttered; with the limitations of current information exchange methods, no human being seems capable of interpreting the ideas of another in the exact method intended. While I'm all for human individuality and the impulsive creativity of the unconventional zeitgeist, I find this inherent inability to accurately communicate absolutely maddening.
For example: I turn to a trusted compatriot, intending to regale them with but the latest tale in an admittedly extensive list of tomfoolery and attempted shenanigans. I mention sighting a stray dog; immediately, my accomplice has flashes of perhaps ten to fifteen canines he's observed in his lifetime, likely in order of personal importance. Already, we've deviated from my original account (since it's highly unlikely the dog I mention is the dog he visualizes.) Next, I elaborate further on the setting and mention that this errant mongrel was sighted on a city sidewalk. Eyes flashing and fulgent in the setting sun, my oh-so attentive listener instantly conjures up a wide variety of images of suburban streetscapes pulled directly from a lifetime spent straying across said cityscapes. None of these images is the one I've mentioned; the wrong street compounded with the wrong subject means we're already 0 for 2, and I haven't even gotten to the gorillas. By the time the sordid tale is told, my attentive listener has already surrounded himself with a fairytale fantasy of suburban stupefaction that is utterly unrelated to whatever preposterous point I had foolishly set out to convey.
Anyway.
Tried playing City of Heroes; pretty awesome for the first few levels, but grinding in any form these days is an instant fun-killer. Still, one shining ray of hope emerged from the inimitable tedium: the hottest harbinger since the big man himself, a brilliant bolt of badass sraight outta the Nile Delta, here to kick ass and chew bubblegum!
The newest superhero to hit the mean streets of Paragon City: Guns N' Moses!
Cleanin' up crime, Old Testament style!
Suddenly, nuns! Thousands of them!
9:45 AM |
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