Oh okay so Ditko actually created a couple of the characters the Watchmen are based on. There you go.

I know you're all massive spiderman fans, so here's a documentary that's up on youtube about the creator of said superhero, Steve Ditko. I saw it on Neil Gaiman's blog, and it features the Secret King of Northampton, Alan Moore. When he says he's a 'magician' he don't mean prestidigitation, boys and girls.
What really strikes me though is how much the art of Watchmen was based on Ditko's style. Moore doesn't say it directly, but the panel layout, the facial expressions and the pirate comic within Watchmen in particular are definitely inspired by Ditko. Anyway, here's part one:

Speaking of zombies...

Peruvian scientists probe fumes from meteorite crater. Apparently there's gases coming from the crater that's giving the locals headaches. Just keep an eye on the recently dead. That's all I'm sayin.

The concept behind Darklands was one of exploration and achievement. You went about exploring medieval Germany and doing whatever you wanted and reaping the rewards. The wasn't much of a story to it, and I thought the combat kinda sucked on my one attempt to play it.
There have been attempts made to convince whoever-the-hell owns the rights to it now to open source the game and bring it into the modern era of computing. I say, screw that. The concept is good but we can recreate the game without stepping on any intellectual property.
What we need is a new dark age to set the game in: the Zombie Age. Instead of cities you've got enclaves, each with political goals and ideas. And you go around these places, trying to survive, maybe helping out if they need it, possibly moving supplies or trading, or becoming a Fallout style bandit if that's more your style.
Now all I need is the time, the ability, and the willpower needed to see something like this through. Heh.

He was a good man

You ever wonder what we're clinging onto, what the death-grip is for?
There's a guy who comes into my place of work. I've known a couple of people who have had electro-shock treatment, back in the bad old days when they used that to 'cure' schizophrenia by burning bits of your brain out. Imagine that for a second. You hear God in the TV and the cure for that is destroying parts of whatever-the-hell makes up you.
Anyway, this guy, he the right age and has the right symptoms for a post-treatment schizophrenic. And he's going away. He keeps telling us, between his demands for tea, his admonishments about the five cents in tips he gives us every week and his clarifying the distinction between God and man, that he's going away to Darwin.
What for, I think. Are they going to perform research on the burnt bits of his brain, looking for God in the sizzled synapses? I dunno. All I care about is that for a coupla weeks he won't be pissing me the hell off.

We all know that's Ash's boomstick. But damn, that shot after he blows the monster away, where everyone's stepping into the camera... awesome.

The ship's single upper deck is broad as long, the whole vessel giving the impression of a covered bowl, circled by a single rail, waist high on an adult male with a gap on the port and starboard sides that are used for moving humans and cargo. It sits low in the water and appears to be unseaworthy. There appears to be no fixtures or artifacts that are part of the deck, but mooring ropes are wound on the railings and a small lean-to has been built near the boat's cargo entrance. Access to the ship is through a hatch in the aft of the deck, and through the cargo hatch a the deck's centre. Both are sealed through powerful mechanisms. The entire boat is made from a rust colored metal which for some reason seems to float, no matter the swell of the sea or strength of the storm.

Another few weeks and the cryptoblossoms will be open. One cryptoflower is pretty enough with its fizz of static pollen. An orchard of trees, each bough held down with hundreds of the blooms is a spectacle that still moves me.
Of course the whole thing triggers the hivegoats rut. We have to let them out of their pens and into the orchard before sunup and herd them back before dusk. They're calm again then. It helps. They eat the parasites that attack the lower boughs and sometimes kill poachers that are stupid enough to ignore the signs. It''s all part of the same system. But for two days I've got long days filled with trees having static sex and electric animals fucking. It's the season that makes us, but we work harder than even the harvest.

Oh fuck me. I just read issue 58 of Y: the Last Man, and as much as I love Brian Vaughn, and really I love him as much as hetero dude can love another, he's gotta fucken pay for that. Ow. Goddamn. Seriously. Not good. Etc.

Sitting here drunk in the dark listening to I Will by Radiohead over and over. Time to go to bed.

Monday morning was the worst hangover I've had in a while. Sure there was that one earlier in the year that lasted three days but I claim it was the concussion's fault and had nothing to do with Russians and vodka. But Sunday night I got through five long-necks of extra stout and a phonecall home. I started drinking pretty early in the day, got off work early and had a few to take the edge off and sometimes that's enough but usually it isn't. I went back, bought more, then called my folks. I still call it 'home' even though I'm never going back for more than a two day visit. Hell, I've lived away from there for about ten years total, a third of my goddamn life. I shouldn't call it home. It was where I was born but not where I live and not where I'll be buried. I'm from there but it's not where I'm going. It's not home.
Anyway, the next day was good. I like going to work hungover. It puts a barrier between me and the world, a cushion so I don't feel everything. I'm not as quick as I could be, can't do things as quickly and I make mistakes, but I can deal with all that far more easily because the same edge isn't there. I like being hungover.