50,000 Monkeys at 50,000 Typewriters Can't Be Wrong
I think it’s time for a new episode of Radio Free Burrito, don’t you?
I had a super good time with episode eight, which was entirely Q&A, so how about this experiment: I’ll do another Q&A show, and focus it on a single topic, guided by whatever is on your mind: The topic is Geek. (Hey, you should go with what you know, right?)
Send your questions to ask at wilwheaton dot net, (with a descriptive subject line, please) and I’ll get a new show out by Friday.
Presented without comment.
Except, of course, saying that it’s presented without comment is actually a comment in itself, and then commenting on that comment is a meta-comment.
So how about if I just say: WWdN:iX reader Justin sent me this, all the way from far off Canuckistan. I thought it was funny, and I thought some WWdN:iX readers would find it funny, as well.
(Image from: Toothpaste for dinner)
(Click to embiggen.)
(Click for TMBG, via Roughy.)
(Click for absolutely nothing.)
(//slashie)
I wrote a column for The AV Club about my trip to E3, and it hit the web about an hour ago. It’s my first foray into my version of gonzo journalism, and I’m really happy with the way it came out.
Take the largest video arcade you remember from your childhood. Now quadruple its size, put it in the middle of Shibuya Crossing, dim the lights, and crank the volume to 11. Toss in a bunch of celebrities, charge $300 for a stale slice of pizza and a soda, crank the volume up to 11 one more time, and you’ve got E3: the Electronic Entertainment Expo.
E3 started during the halcyon ’90s, when Pets.com ruled the world. Now every May, gaming giants like Nintendo, Microsoft, Sony, and Sega gather at the Los Angeles Convention Center to present their newest hardware and software releases to a very select audience: about 30 percent entertainment media, 5 percent distributors, and 65 percent people who have managed to scam press passes so they can spend a day playing video games and checking out booth babes (who this year are required to wear nothing more revealing than miniskirts—the trade-show equivalent of burkas).
[. . .]
Four televisions, eight guitars, and a small crowd stood beneath a mockup that looked remarkably like a concert stage. I could hear Kiss’ “Strutter” being played with varying degrees of proficiency as Gen-Xers rocked out in the highly anticipated co-op mode.
“Hey, isn’t that Guit—” Spencer asked.
“Muh… guh… huh…” I answered, walking on autopilot to the front of the booth.
“Hi, I’m Wil Wheaton,” I said, “and I love your game.” Probably not the most professional way to introduce myself, in retrospect. “I’m writing about Guitar Hero II for The A.V. Club.”
You can read the entire story at The AV Club, and while you’re there, you can check out my Games of our Lives column for this week: Congo Bongo.
I feel really good about this column, and I’m really happy that the type of writing I’ve perfected over the years on my blog earned a spot in an actual print publication.
Oh, and if you think it’s worthy: digg story. Thanks!
Technorati Tags: E3, Guitar Hero 2, gaming
I found this photograph of Wesley, Beverly, and Captain Picard that goes with the scene I posted earlier today. I look like a total dork who is so excited he’s about to burst, but I’m cool with that — it was exactly how I felt the day we shot that scene. I never noticed until just now that Gates looks like a proud mom, and Patrick looks like a proud, uh, Patrick. I wonder if they were channeling real emotions like I was, or if they were just acting really well?
I had to scan it at a low resolution, because I’m pretty sure Viacom’s goons would come after me if it was printable and whatnot, but if you always wondered what that scene looked like, well, now you know.
While executing a mission in the War on Shit All Over Our House (Operation Feng This Motherfrakkin’ Shui) last night, I came across a little bag of stuff in my closet. Inside it, with a bunch of business cards, some old incense (Nag Champa is a constant in my life, it turns out) and a bunch of change, I found my sides and call sheet from the first day I worked on Star Trek: Nemesis a few years ago. (One page of my sides is scanned and pictured at right. Click to embiggen, but it’s 1.3 MB, so don’t complain if your modem screams at you and doesn’t want to have a second date.)
There were a lot of things in my closet that were clearly important to me at one time, but it was as easy to throw them away as it was to open the closet door and dig them out: old T-shirts, shoes, hats, and a few little bags of stuff like the one which contained my sides. It was a sort of time capsule of the 2001-2005 versions of me, and I loved identifying the threads that have tied me together all these years: Converse shoes, collared bowling and lounge shirts, nerdy T-shirts, and baseball caps from the Cubs and Dodgers (why I end up with new caps at least twice a year is a great Mystery of the Universe.)
Every time I go through my stuff and find things that used to be important to me, only to jettison them into the great beyond, I feel a certain amount of freedom and serenity that I won’t trade for anything. It’s good to feel like my stuff doesn’t own me, because it’s pretty easy to get rid of my stuff. The other side of that coin, of course, is when I find things that I’m happy I kept, like these sides. I sat on my bedroom floor tonight and remembered holding those sides in my hand, even though I’d known the lines for days, when I was walking from the makeup trailer to the stage when I worked on Nemesis, and I’m glad that I have a physical touchstone from that day. The obnoxious red polyester shirt with the houndstooth pattern and slightly-too-big collar was a nice bonus, too.