I know I never link to game industry stuff, as it’s mostly indulgent tosh (I should ahve prefaced this with Dear Dairy myself, perhaps) but Ralph Koster’s Piece on game design here is just very well done. He probably says about one original thing in there, but it’s a doozy.
I feel like I’ve not slept in days. I’m subsisting on booze and junk food. My flesh swells, cotton candy floss brushes against the back of my eyeballs, I just want to have some time off, and spend it wisely (if I can remember a way of doing that.) We got the second issue out,
From Jonty. An office worker struggles to cope with working; the final episode to the tune of Radiohead’s Creep is particularly special.
Griliopoulos’s User Page – Last.fm I’ve just installed this on my computer; a piece of music preference tracking software that uploads its results to the interweb. It’s been around for ages, but the combination of a small, easy-to-use radio player and a tracking plug-in for almost any media player means I can finally work out
Reading Gore Vidal’s great historical potboiler Julian (I suspect this is a repeat reading, though I may be confusing it with Count Belisarius by Robert Graves) I’m puzzled about Eunuchs. Yes, castration can retain a good voice and guarantees that the recipient won’t fuck around / think about his genetic legacy as he has none.
Wired 13.11: The Mystery of the Green Menace: “One of the ingredients is thujone, a compound in wormwood that is toxic if it’s ingested, capable of causing violent seizures and kidney failure. Breaux hands me a bottle of pure liquid thujone. ‘Take a whiff,’ he says with an evil grin. I recoil at the odor
This has been sat on my desktop for some time now, so I’d better get it out. Books are my life. I feel depressed and hungry when I can’t read, I lose my sense of self when I’m not defining it in relation to a piece of literature. My primary horror in life is book
Fantasy Basketball Advice – Fantasy Basketball Cafe 2005: “There are two ways to define the phrase “Drafting with your eyes closed”. Number 1: Flushed with confidence, you breeze through every round, knowing that whoever you pick will turn out just magical, like a new-millennium, high-definition version of the original Dream Team, but with sexier shorts.
So it’s Sunday morning, and this is the fourth weekend I’ve slept Saturday night in my clothes. I’m sitting in the Olde Pie Shoppe in Maritime Greenwich, eating a hearty 10 a.m. breakfast of ‘meat’ pie, mushy peas, limpid mash and gravy. It’s the cheapest meal I’ve found in London at £2, so I’m enjoying
I hit twenty-six last week and, suddenly, I feel old. Really, old, depressed and tired. “My skin’s losing its texture, I’m putting on weight”; the complaints are real, but the motivation behind them is a maudlin introspection. All the usual complaints of middle age stem from a fear of death, or at least a fear