A dispatch from Ted. He's was in Minnesota, and apparently had a run-in with the rich and famous.
====================
I forgot to mention, and for those *ahem*, Hardcore Dems and Republicans
out there, I ran into Mr. Jesse Ventura -twice- coming back from the
Twin Cities.
Run In 1: Ted Learns Wrestlers Like Candy, Too
Location: Minneapolis/St. Paul International (I guess Canada -does-
count as its own nation, doesn't it?) Airport.
Time: Roughly 1:00 PM Central.
I'd just seen a brief news bit detailing "What's He Up To Now!?" segment
the night before. Jesse, The Body, is doing well and has decided to
braid his beard. I took note of this not realizing that preternatural
forces were at work.
We in the airport, and I decide I want to run into a newsstand type shop
for the latest MacAddict and some candy. While browsing the candy, I
look over and its first an earing, and then an oddly braided beard that
catches my eye.
"Self," said I, "That looks familiar...HOLY CRAP!"
My realization was confirmed when a few feet away The Wife bellows, "Hey
Jesse! Are you going to want to put this in your bag?" To which he
responded, gruffly, "No."
Leaping across the room, I pointed him out to Monica who was...less then
enthused that the former Minnesota Gov and more importantly, one of
Hulk's bitter rivals. Somebody wasn't a Little Hulkster when -she- was
growing up, brother. Sensing where my loyalties truly lay, Jesse 'The
Body' Ventura flees and vanishes into the terminal.
====================
Run In 2: Ted Gets the Drop On The Body, Meeting Out Sweet, Sweet
Hulkster Vengeance and Living to Tell the Tale
Location: T.F. Green Airport, Providence (which is actually in Warwick,
but why nitpick).
Time: Aprox. 5:45 PM Eastern
We've landed and are off the plane, and down into the baggage claim
area.
Waiting...waiting...waiting...AHA!
With my catlike reflexes and finely honed (literally, by a laser)
vision, I spy and snatch our largest and heaviest bag as it attempts to
make a run for freedome with its brethren on the Carousel of False Hope.
Executing a deft Snatch, Grab and Spin technique, I haul the heavy
luggage off the belt and swing it around, to fully claim and deposit it
with our others.
Only to nail Mr. Ventura neatly, and solidly in his right knee.
Let me go on record by saying that he is a mountain of a man, with
startling blue eyes. He was also munching on an unlit but mostly smoked
cigar in one corner of his mouth. Jewelry dangled freely about his
person, the braided beard that had become his trademark swung defiantly
in the air in response to my blow.
"Shit," thought I. "Hulk never said it'd be like this." And the prospect
of sacrificing my dignity and screeching like a schoolgirl in order to
save at least a pint or two of precious blood, suddenly seemed a little
more reasonable.
My apologies, powered with a previously unknown celerity and sincerity,
were met with a guttural mutter, and a steely glare.
"Jesse! Get over here and help me with this bag!" called his wife.
Muttering, Jesse Ventura turned away from the pain that awaited him, and
fled the cruel, cruel fate that I had in store for this beast called The
Body.
The bruised knuckles he surely would have sustained while pounding me,
now made a thing of hypothetic fancy by a damsel in need.
Then I too turned and went on my own way. Two warriors. Two separate
paths. Two different sets of matching luggage.
Fine.
There's always something new and beautiful at
WaterFire no matter how many times I go; it's wonderful to see all the great things about Providence which seem to always be illuminated better by firelight. A lot of my associates seem to have a more jaundiced view of the event and the inevitable traffic havoc it seems to cause, but I think a look at a newfound couple in at the point where the rivers meet can make the extra five minutes to go through downtown an inconsequential sacrifice to the hope of future love struck. At least, I can deal with it.
The gargoyles - two performance artists dressed in stone outfits - are always large attractions at the event and tonight I guess they were joined by two newcomers; females dressed as pillars. The usual crowd in front of the statue of Verrazano was double the size with the addition, handing out small scrolls undoubtedly containing words of infinite wisdom to the gathered throng. I was walking to my car when the quartet of stone emerged from behind me illiciting a shocked response from the cars I was waiting to stop. Sheepishly, I walked amongst them and mentioned, "You make extremely effective crossing guards."
They pleased me beyond compare by staying in character and failing to respond, as the curtain on that act is not drawn until the mask is off.
Last night I had a dream that I was accosted by an evangelical lounge singer on my way to buy a venti no-whip caffe vanilla frappachino and some fig newtons. He had just finished a soulful rendition of "Our God is an Awesome God" who evidently reigns on both Heaven *and* Earth. Some ethereal movement had brought his heart to bear on a heading that intercepted mine and King James Version in hand he asked in familiar tone if I believed in God.
I responded that on that particular night if fig newtons and coffee were not enough, I doubt any God would be. He said there was a world beyond this mortal coil; an everlasting happiness that would make even the finest coffee and the finest fig newtons pale beyond compare. He shared the lyrics of a song that testified to a grace incomprehensible by man. He quoted scriptures that promises infinite life and neverending joy. He said all I had to do to get there was die a Christian.
I said living as a Christian was a penitence for a sin I didn't commit, and that if I was wrong and he was right the ones that I did I've already paid for, and would deserve to pay again.
For the past few days I've been spending my time in Boise, Idaho. Tater toffees and terrible coffee, lo it was a pilgrimage of great sacrifice, but I did make it out alive if harrowed from the ordeal.
In a moment of sheer foolishness, my employers sent me off for an assessment of the infrastructure of a partner company which meant spending a day looking at a bunch of blinking lights and then next floating down a river talking smack with their CTO. Boise was actually a lot of fun at night, but I'm told its only good for one night making me feel fortunate for the rapid evacuation.
The biggest problem on the trip was getting to the damn state. With a whole four flights going out of the Idaho state capital from an airport that makes Wichita's look like a sprawling metropolis. Of course, there is little demand for non-stops from Providence to Boise, so I had to hop a connector in Minneapolis. About 60 miles out Wednesday night, the pilot got on the horn and notified us that the airport was locked down for a VIP and we couldn't approach the airspace.
Who was that VIP, you ask? None other than our
veteran-bashing Commander-and-Thief. I had the wonderful opportunity to circle that airport for an hour and a half waiting for that jackass to get the hell out of our blue state and mosey along to spread some lies elsewhere. Predictably I didn't take the information from the pilot quietly. Loudly I announced, "It wasn't enough that he stole the election, he had to steal an entire airport?"
The cheers from the passengers made me want to kiss everyone of them. Sadly however, an armed air marshal prevented my affections.
I had the opportunity to see the world from the seat of privilege the other day, or at very least a pro football game. As a nice thank you for recent trials and tribulations, my employer took the lot of us to a Patriots game from which we viewed in their luxury box suite at the ridiculously large Gillette stadium. Now, you've heard me espouse the various benefits of their three blade shavers in the past, but I tell you these fuckers build football fields like they build razors... with an absolutely pornographic amount of kickass technology. Sound, enormous video walls running the length of the field, and some wicked precise automatic flushing devices in the little boys' room.
Before the game as we were rallying together preparing the seating arrangements for the trip, my boss comes up to me and hands over the keys to his Lincoln Aviator, as I apparently was going to drive some folks up. Now it should be said that Dave is a fellow capable of only making wise decisions, so this folly of course raised some objection from me. My own mother thinks twice before letting me walk her dog, and this yohan was giving me the ability - nay, the mandate - to drive a vehicle nicer than most apartments. He simply replied, "I have really good insurance."
The wisdom of his decision notwithstanding, it did hold and I drove the ride with 5 of my fellow rockstars up to the stadium making sure to frequently adjust my lumbar support for maximum comfort. On the way out of the stadium after the Patriots managed to not only win the game but injure four Philadelphia running backs consecutively, of course there was some silly plebian attempting to jockey for position upon exit. In her puny, laughable Cavalier she continued to try to duck at the Aviator's nose until finally I spoke into her open window.
"Excuse me, miss... How about you stop now?"
Her reply dripping with faux concern, "Oh... I wouldn't want to hurt your Aviator."
"Yeah," I replied, jumping into my My Three Sons voice, "Cause gee golly my dad would kill me."
I then quickly accelerated past her. How that vehicle has such get up and go I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure it involves feeding live baby seals into an "economical" carbuerator.
Yeah, I could say that I've been busy, but you and I both know I've just been playing
Doom 3.
Being the proud author of DOOMed Pickle, a map heavily favored on the Barber County LAN Party scene, I've been anticipating this game the same way a heroin addict salivates at the sight of a lighter and rusty spoon. Unification of lighting, unbelievable interface design, and, of course, a return to Hell all had me sold from the get-go. What I didn't have before with DOOM was the ridiculous access that comes with having a drummer as the manager of a video game store. While the rest of you saps waited in line, I literally got mine of the *plane* it came in on.
The game itself, obviously, has been well received by the community but is now starting to show some cracks in its polygonal armor. Obviously, everyone made fun of the screenshots but the game itself is an unbelievably immersive first person experience that two dimensional screenshots simply can't serve adequately. The Heat Haze effect alone gives one the feeling that id Software is in fact reading my Hello Kitty diary and building a game engine completely around my my private of secret wishes. The imps alone are obscenely cool with the trademark fireballs brought to life in a manner I don't believe any other format has ever been able to. Pitching heavy, molten lumps like Pedro instead of launching fluffy red balls Hadoken style made me certain that if I was ever to encounter the 3rd ed phenomenon it would look exactly like Doom 3.
I am, however, fucking sick of dropping my flashlight to pump a shell into a zombie's brain. The inside cover of the packaging clearly indicated to me that I was in fact a Marine, one of the toughest of the tough here to save Earth from a portal opened into Hell as the result of an evil corporation teleportation experiment gone wrong. You would think sometime during the entire mess the badass persona I'm supposed to be playing would have picked up some fucking duct tape and strapped the Maglite to the end of the gun. If Ripley could figure out that shit in Aliens, why am I still slowly switching weapons after the sixteenth zombie jumps out of nowhere slapping a wet bloody stump upside my dome?
Further, the sound truly blows. The sound of the rocket launcher from the original DOOM is now completely dated, but for five years following its release you heard it used all over the place. Films, commercials, even White Zombie records used (or abused) the original sounds from that game. The shotgun, in stark comparison, sounds like one of those pop canisters you get at Chuck E. Cheese. Don't even get me started on the machine gun as I think I've heard paintball pistols that inspired greater fear.
We all knew that the graphics were going to be good. Maybe one of these days someone else can build the rest of the game.
