July 9th, 2006



My prose is awful, my technique is awful, every idea I've ever had is awful and not worth the time I wasted thinking about it. Everyone else is much, much, much better than I can ever hope to be. I have no idea why I waste my time attempting, because the last hundred sentences I wrote are terrible. Most of all, this particular story is terrible. I should stick with writing software, at which I am mediocre, but at least they pay me a hell of a lot of money to be mediocre. And thousands upon thousands of people actually use that software, unlike these stories which are read by about twelve people at most. Which, since they are terrible, ought to be a consolation, but somehow it's not.

This has been a regularly scheduled fit of depressive writerly neurosis. Normal programming should resume shortly.

Edit: Dammit. This was supposed to make me laugh at myself. Not working yet. Must stomp off into a corner and catastrophize some more.
  • Current Music
    The Chemical Brothers : The Sunshine Underground : Surrender
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That's better

There are few depressive fits that can't be cured with an afternoon spent playing pinball. At least if you're me. I played some new tables (the Williams Flintstones pin) and some old favorites (Whirlwind, Black Knight 2000, Medieval Madness, Taxi). Alas, could not play my favorite pin of all time, Funhouse, because it was in a section reserved for tournament players only. Darn those tournament players.

Hit jackpots and won free games outright on the Flintstones and Whirlwind. That crack of the solenoid smacking the side of the machine is one of those sounds I have such positive associations with. Guaranteed to make me smile. Multiball!

So, okay, back to the prose mines with a much more cheerful attitude. I suck and I love to fail!
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    DJ Tiësto : In My Memory (Airwave Instrumental) : In My Memory
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TEA evil can wait

Research help: cricketers

I need the name of a cricketer, one with an excellent batting form. I'm looking for the cricketing equivalent of Barry Bonds, who is arguably the best hitter to play the game of baseball. Left-handed, like our man Giles, with a sweet & balanced swing that gets all of the power of his lower body into the swing of the bat. Lower body solid, front foot planted, hips snapping around.

Not an urgent request, and not even a necessary one. But a sweet left-handed bat swing was a metaphor that occurred to me. Alas, it is as alien to Giles as cricket is to me.

[Edit] I had a long talk with an Aussie coworker today about cricket and cricket batting and how it differs from batting in baseball. It's quite different, as the cricket bat is springier than the fairly dead baseball bat. Also the bowled ball comes at you differently. The form of an American batter would be shocking in a cricketer. The upshot is that I can't translate the metaphor. Not entirely surprising.

An interesting conversation, that was.
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    Chicane : Halcyon : Behind The Sun
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