After playing the game - something I do not recommend you do - we started picturing Blade on a blind date. I can't say that it is logically connected to our thoughts on the title itself. However, we do recommend that you hear Blade's voice in your mind as you read it. Thank you.
A couple weeks ago, Porkfry and I were tasked with returning a keg to Bellevue, which is a place I find very unsettling. It's the sort of place that has a lot of cars, but no visible people. It's very clean there and the traffic lights seem very judgemental in my opinion. In this zone of suspicion and treachery, it is no wonder that my thoughts turned immediately to alcohol. We decided to do something fanciful, the way friends often do when they have no intention of actually doing it. We decided to make beer.
Our first plan was to just get all the equipment and fuck up many, many times en route to true brew mastery. Pork's wife, whose directives always seem tyrannical until you realize she's just way smarter than you, suggested that we go to one of these places that helps you out when you do it. So, we went to one. Like leather, plastic, or airplanes, I'd always assumed that the production of beer required the unswerving support of the military-industrial complex. I assumed there was a machine, "Beer" emblazoned matter-of-factly upon it, with a single button on it also labeled "Beer," that when depressed produced the aforementioned. Not so! You make it in a large kettle like you would a soup or stew, except unlike stew you make it and then leave it out so that microorganisms will eat it for weeks. I've thought about it a lot, and I'd say that's the main difference. Hugh Hefeweizen should be done in three weeks or so, at which time work will begin on Portergeist.
I am the BBC's bitch. I'd thought I'd be free of daily visits to the video store once I completed the third season of Sopranos - which everyone told me was horrible, but I found marvelous. Well, I'm not free. Now I'm hooked on these Goddamn mysteries in the British section of my movie store, and there's no end in sight for this shit. First it was Cracker, the psychologist that solves crimes. Then it was Sherlock Holmes, the really smart weirdo that solves crimes. Then, it was Poirot, the snooty Frenchman who solves crimes. Now I'm on this Goddamn Brother Cadfael, the monk who solves more crimes in the twelfth century! The BBC section of my video store is insuperable, sheer and impossible, a monolith. I rush to grovel prostrate before it every time I go in. "What must I do, master? Your will is my deed, command me."
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