No butterflies.

So I bought Rez Infinite when it came out late last year. Played the first four original levels, put it away. Just didn’t really feel like going through it all again.

Today I booted it up again. Looked at the options. Nope, still can’t access the new level. You’ve got to have either played it for at least an hour, or have finshed the whole thing. So what the hell.

I did level 5. Didn’t ever feel like I was involved in it. Just sat back and kinda watched the part of my brain that spent a month playing that level again and again back in ’02 stretch and wake up and, well, I mean I didn’t shoot enough of the targets to get the butterfly ending, but I finished it in Space Baby form without really worrying about it. And watching myself do that – with no tension, with no real conscious thought – felt weird. Was I digging up memories of playing it fifteen years ago, staring at a 30″ CRT plugged into a Dreamcast? Or has playing Polybius a lot lately really given me the level up in playing video games that it generally feels like it has?

I am still not sure I have spent an hour playing the thing but I guess I can play the new content now. It told me I wasn’t really done after the credits rolled, but I was all, man, I’ve done this before, I have sweated out the optimal path for shooting down 100% of the enemies and getting 100% of the pickups, I don’t need to prove this again. Not when this is the third system I’ve owned a copy of it on.

It’s still a very pretty game. You should experience it someday if you’ve never played it.

Rar.

So there’s this thing I do. That a lot of people involved in the furry fandom do, really. When I’m around my ex-with-benefits, I don’t always speak in words. I’ll regularly say “Rar” instead. Because I am a dragon, and dragons go rar. Or rawr, or rrraaooowwwllll, or assorted other growly snarly noises, plus the occasional purr.

We have had entire conversations this way. It carries emotional meanings pretty well; you can get a lot of mileage out of pitch, inflection, and volume. Sometimes when we’re in different rooms one of us will just say “Rar” and get a “rar” in reply; it sort of functions as emotional radar in that case – are you still awake, are you doing okay. It’s not a dragon-only thing; at Biggest Little Fur Con the other weekend, I had a functional conversation with someone who is mostly a cat and thus says “mao”.

But lately I’ve begun using this to talk to myself, too. I’ll be in the shower, not thinking of much, and I’ll open my mouth and just see what sort of emotional freight is carried when I say “rar” to nobody in particular. Sometimes it’s a polite little “Rowr”. Other times it’s an angry “rrRRRRAAAaaahhrrrr”. Sometimes it’s a sad, pleading “Raawwrrraarrrr”. And then I ask myself: why is this the emotion that came out of my mouth? What’s going on with my emotions right now?

It’s a useful tool for self-monitoring. Sort of a chiller version of a primal scream. Just open your mouth, make the cartoon caricature of an animal noise you’ve gotten in the habit of making, and see how it falls out.

Last week, I went out to Reno for BLFC 2017. It was a pretty good con.
I spent the vast majority of it trapped in the chillout hotbox of my room – my roomies were running a Secret Smoking Lounge and it was this incredibly relaxing wonderland of swirling lights and vapors.
Things I did when I left it:
  • Spent an evening flirting with one dragon
  • Got circled by a mob of crows (and got wingsnugs from their leader without having to provide any bribes of shinies first)
  • Saw photos of the utter clawed up mess two dragons left of this one slutty tiger’s back, got thanked for inspiring her to be that slutty
  • Flailed around on the dance floor with a pair of wings on
  • Passed through the swirling chaos of a Femboy Party and threatened to do terrible things to this one pretty mouse but went out dancing instead
  • Waited forever for breakfast in the hotel’s very own Black Lodge Diner, I dunno maybe I was stoned and sleep deprived but they sure were slow and unearthly.
  • Jumped around the edge of the dance floor snarling and clawing at another dragon
But I also ended up hanging around the room and kinda turning it into an ultra downtempo darkwave hangout whenever I ended up being the one whose phone was providing music and that was pretty nice too. As always there’s something to be said for finding a nice place to hang out while the con passes by, instead of chasing around looking for the party; parking my ass in a Chill Lounge was a hell of a nice change from the usual madhouse of the dealers room. Absolutely none of my conversations were about a financial transaction and that was nice. I’m debating doing a table next year with sharply limited hours – take a few commissions in the morning, then vanish to work on them for a while.
On the other hand I’m also debating making some short runs of designey dragon wings and selling those behind the table. I dunno. I definitely wanna do BLFC next year in one way or another, it’s super relaxing for its size. I heard this year broke 5k attendees which is big enough to be real good to the dealers but not insane.
Major thanks to Splice, Amethyst, and Karu for sharing their ultra chill room with me. Especially to Splice for being the motive force behind organizing it and pruning the list of folks who knew about it.

A fragment of memory

So. Let me tell you about a little sore tooth in my mind. A fragment of memory that just doesn’t fit with the narrative of the rest of my life as I remember it. Every now and then it bubbles up and I wonder what the hell was happening; the other day I went for a long walk through the park and… poked at it.
The scene: upstairs in a sunny house in New Orleans. Probably summer. Probably next to Bayou St. John. Probably around 1986-88.
There are two children sitting there listening to a man, dutifully taking notes. One of them is a skinny boy with black hair, who would eventually grow up to be me. One of them is a girl. Was she someone I knew in school? I don’t know. I don’t even have a solid memory of her ethnicity, let alone her name. The guy is white. I want to say he’s slim and possibly balding. I don’t have a solid memory of that either.
My brain says this is somehow related to Future Problem Solving, which was a thing I did in high school. Which is where I get the 1986 guess from.
But the content of what this man is telling me and this girl doesn’t seem to match with any kind of preparation for this very rational exercise in Creative Sci-Fi Thinking. Because I am being told a bunch of New Age sounding stuff about… well, that’s misty too. I mostly recall being shown diagrams. Concentric circles. Rounded off teardrops. A general sense of the text being about the Shape of Reality. Mystical stuff. In a relatively new book.

Something vaguely like this? I dunno. There were labels.

I dutifully took notes on a yellow legal pad. I don’t know if I copied any of the diagrams. Or wrote down the name of this book.
I don’t know where those notes went.
I don’t remember talking to this man ever again. Or anything else along these lines.
I have a memory of wondering what the hell this new age bullshit had to do with anything but this might actually be a memory of remembering this later on and wondering just that.
I’m pretty sure my mother was there. As was the other kid’s mother. I don’t know if she was listening to all this. I don’t remember talking with her about it later. And I can’t ask her about this any more; I’d have to perform a seance for that.
I can’t recall any more details. And to be honest I would be suspicious of the truth of any more details I managed to dredge up; I’ve read enough about how easy it is to get people to remember things that never happened.
It feels weird. It feels like something that tugging on hard enough could be the start of a paranoid conspiracy novel set in the eighties, with children being recruited and programmed into… well, pick your own narrative here, really. Indigo Children becoming soldiers in a secret psychic war or whatever.
My memory of most of my teenage years is a tapestry of holes. I’ve always just assumed it’s due to the depression I fell into after my father died; when every day is grey and sad despite the blazing New Orleans sun, it’s easy to disassociate and just… forget. But pulling this out into the light suggests an alternate story of… something. Something secret and buried and hidden from me.
Part of me is reluctant to talk about this publicly. What if there is some kind of Secret Society involved? What if They see this and decide it’s finally time to activate my programming or whatever? What if I really am in a Phillip K Dick novel instead of the sensible mundane life I’ve always thought I had? Maybe you’ve only ever heard of me because this was a test that I failed, so I was left to make my own way through the normal world instead of being a character in a real-life version of Psychonauts. Or the X-Men I guess but I’d rather imagine the goofy cartoon version.
I wish I could remember anything about the title of that book with the diagrams. Anything to ask Google about. But I can’t.
It might just be a dream I had. I’m pretty sure the time I walked into my parents’ bedroom at night when I was five and saw a glittering crystal cavern hidden behind their dresser was a dream, for instance. But this feels like a thing that really happened.
Welcome to the hole in my head. I don’t know how deep it goes. I don’t know if I want to find out.

VanCaf: a good weekend.

This weekend, I got in a car with Iris and Nero and went up to Vancouver for VanCaf. I brought twenty copies of the Rita omnibus, and 24 of book 1. I came back with, um, two copies of Book 1. And a wallet full of Canadian money that we didn’t get a chance to exchange up there because it’s a bank holiday.

I dunno if I made any connections, though I had a few “Morning, Ralph.” “Morning, Sam” kinds of conversations with the people I see at every single comics con. But I definitely made some new fans, and that’s a lot of the point of going to cons.

Watching the stack of the omnibus shrink throughout the show was pretty exciting. Would I sell out? Would I wish I’d brought more? Would I have to pack these awkward huge books home? About an hour before the end of the second day, I got down to nothing but the one copy I’d unwrapped and put on my table as a reader copy, and decided I was done; I put out a post-it saying “hey you can have this reader copy for $20” and went for a walk outside. When I got back the book was gone and Iris directed me to another $20 she’d taken and stuffed inside my pencil case. I even ran into the guy who got it and signed it for him, and told him the Illustrator Pencil Tool Secrets – I find I usually tell a few people that over my table, and I really should just get some stickers or cards made up with them to be honest.

Anyway. Now I sleep for a day or two. I might get up and go use some of these funds to buy the electric guitar I’ve been wanting the past few months, after I exchange all this maple-scented plastic for boring American dollars…

The Objective Reality of Gender

Every now and then I find myself in a discussion on the Internet of whether or not trans people should be allowed to exist/have their chosen pronouns respected/etc.

And inevitably there’s someone who insists that “penis=man, vagina=woman, that’s the OBJECTIVE REALITY”.

Well. Let’s unpack the objective reality of this seemingly simple concept:

  • people have some combination of X and Y chromosomes
  • most people are XX or XY
  • some people aren’t, maybe they’ve got three, maybe they’re chimeras of two non-identical twins who merged in the womb, whatever
  • these chromosomes are not necessarily perfect copies of your parents’ chromosomes, nor of the ones in the egg and winning sperm – transcription errors happen
  • the body is shaped by the ways these chromosomes express themselves, both as the fetus grows in the womb, and as the child grows to adulthood and beyond
  • the body is also shaped by many chemicals fed into it, whether it be something the mother ingested while the kid was in the womb, something in the water, something in the food, something in the air, or something ingested voluntarily as part of a deliberate gender transition program
  • the brain is part of the body, and is thus shaped by chromosomes and chemicals in the same way, from gestation to death
  • pretty much every human language contains words for the concepts of “male” and “female”, which often combine both expected social roles with expected body parts related to the process of making more humans (penis, vulva, testes, womb, breasts, etc); English has historically combined these two things and considered deviations from that combination to be freakish. Up until relatively recently it also combined expected sexual orientation with both of them and considered any deviation from that to be freakish as well.
  • all children in America are currently assigned a legal gender based on examination of the genitals shortly after birth, either “male” or “female”; babies with ambiguous genitals often have this surgically “corrected”
  • human thought is shaped by the languages you speak; if enough people start using a new word, then the people who make dictionaries will take note of it and put it in the dictionary; if enough people start using an old word in a new way, that, too, will be noted and placed in the dictionary, thus documenting the slow change of the language, and the slow change of the set of concepts available to people who speak that language
  • some other languages contain words for people who are not necessarily “male” or “female”; English does currently allow for separation of sexual desire from genitals (gay/lesbian/straight/bi) but does not commonly distinguish “what’s between your legs” from “what expected gender-based social norms you prefer to conform to” (well, kinda – the fact that “sissy” is an insult but “tomboy” is not opens a whole new can of worms)
  • the community of people who do separate “what is between your legs” from “what expected gender-based social norms you prefer to conform to” has developed its own set of words for the concepts of other parts of the gender spectrum; we can say things like “Steve is a dmab man who prefers traditional male pronouns”, “Nile is a dfab enby person who prefers ‘they’ pronouns”, or “Peggy is a dmab woman who prefers traditional female pronouns, and what she has between her legs is only your business if she wants you to touch it”. (DM/FAB: Designated Male/Female At Birth. Enby: an abbreviation of Non-Binary, presenting as neither male nor female.) Which means queer people have a more nuanced set of mental boxes to put people’s gender into than other English speakers do.

I would argue that, thus, the queer community can approach the Objective Truth of sex, gender, and social roles far more closely by separating “what your primary sexual characteristics were at birth”, “what gender marker was put on your birth certificate”, “what your current primary and secondary sexual characteristics are”, “what gender you would currently prefer to be seen as”, and “what gender do people sort you into when they see you” into separate categories, each of which often contains either “male” or “female”, and often will have the same choice selected in all of these categories, but each category may contain something from a richer set of choices, and is not required to match any other category.

From another angle: Consider the research people have done on color names in different languages, and the way some languages have more color words than others. If the only terms you have for color are “black”, “white”, and “red” is someone who points at two things you call “red” and calls one of them “red” and the other one “orange” denying an OBJECTIVE TRUTH, or are they just using a finer set of mental boxes to categorize the different energy absorption spectra of these things than you are?

TL;DR: Words mean whatever the fuck a large enough segment of the people speaking that language want them to mean, and there is a large enough segment of people now saying that “male” and “female” are simplifications of some complicated-ass things that you may have always taken as Objective Truths.

sure, why not

god did i just impulsively send off an application to a storyboard position at cartoon network

i sure did

well whatever, don’t hold your breath peggy

all goofed up on hopballs

The ex-with-benefits tweeted the cartoony cover to an old book about DRUUUGS and expressed a desire to spend the weekend looking like one of the characters in it.

So I drew this. Illustrator, 30min.

Polybius: a review.

When you begin playing Polybius, all you can really see on the terrain is your tiny ship and the ox-horn gates. There’s other stuff but it all comes and goes so fast; the only constant is the ox-horn gates. You pass through them and you speed up. This is good, right? It’s the goal of the game, right? I mean after a few rounds of smashing into things at insane velocity and dying, you’ll notice a path that leads you to the next gate. You must be here to pass through these gates while shooting as many baddies as possible.

Then why, you begin to wonder, do they turn red when you’re aligned with one?

Why, you wonder, when looking through the achievements, is there one for taking your hands off the controller for thirty seconds?

And then you begin to learn to slow down. To see through the chaos.


Polybius is an urban legend. An arcade game that never existed. An arcade game that caused amnesia. An arcade game that caused nightmares. An arcade game that nobody ever heard of until someone added an entry to a database of Every Video Game Ever approximately seventeen years after it supposedly showed up in a Portland arcade in the late eighties for a mere month or two.

The database entry is quite insistent that this game is not an unusually intense Tempest prototype.


You begin learning the systems layered on top of this simple game of “flying way too fast and shooting things”. You try a few games where you avoid the gates that the game so clearly urges you to fly through. You find the quiet places in the chaos of the early levels to pet some oxen with your bullets. They emit lots of points when you do this.

You laugh when level six urges you to GET THE FRIED EGGS. Until you realize that this incongruity worked nicely to focus your attention on the fact that they play an important part in the game. Seriously. They let you run through things with impunity for a limited time.

You notice that at the end of every level, flashing text floats by. It was lost in the rapid multicolored strobing of the end-of-level sequence at first. But now you can see that, after you’ve spent about a minute staring fixedly at the screen, watching the flashing lights, you’re being urged to EMBRACE ILLUMINATION. To ENJOY ENLIGHTENMENT.

Or being urged to BE SLIGHTLY CROSS WITH LUKEWARM TEA. It’s different every time.

You begin to suspect that this game is not what it seems.


Jeff Minter is a video game legend. He’s been an indie developer since almost the dawn of the medium; his gameography stretches back to the Vic-20 and the Commodore 64. Over the years, he’s done two general kinds of things: abstract shootemups with a goofy sense of humor and a lot of hoofed mammals in them, and what he first called “lightsynths” – visual toys that make seething, abstract images. Nowadays we think of them as “visualizers” when they’re connected to a music player, and he’s done those, too – if you play music on a Jaguar or an XBox 360, you’ll see Jeff’s work up there on the screen. For years he was a solo act despite using the corporate name of Llamasoft; the past decade’s seen him collaborating (and living) with one Ivan Zorzin, who I believe does a lot of the hardcore math stuff in Jeff’s games. (I apologize to Ivan if I’m giving him short shrift here. I suspect he’s used to it by now.)

Jeff’s games are, for the most part, fast paced twitch games, with a tendency towards intense visuals. They flash, they moo, they make jokes about sheep. Some of them are original, some of them are riffs on early classics like DefenderRobotron, or Tempest.

Jeff’s done at least three riffs on Tempest now.

Two of them were definitely Tempest. One was an official modernization, done for Atari’s Jaguar. One wasn’t official; TxK was the reason I bought a cheap PS Vita. It was going to be ported to the PS4 until whoever owns Atari’s trademarks waved lawyers at Jeff.

And then there was Space Giraffe. Which you’d be forgiven for thinking was a trippy Tempest clone. Until you realized that the meat of the game was in letting as many enemies as possible get to the edge of the web. Which was about the worst thing that could happen in Tempest. Realize this and you could start playing the real game, where the challenge occasionally became “survive a level floating in a howling void of gorgeous visual feedback” because the whole thing was actually running inside a refined version of the visualizer Jeff wrote for the 360.

Space Giraffe had deep roots in Tempest. But it wasn’t Tempest.


When you first launched Polybius, you were greeted with a screen warning that “This game contains psychedelic visuals and flashing images”. And a crosshair. Which you had to steer to a symbol representing either psychedelic visuals or flashing images, which gave you a screen going into more detail about how, no, really, this game is going to have a lot of rapidly flickering images, and if you or your family have a history of optically-induced seizures, you should consult your doctor before continuing.

Sure, sure, there’s a warning about that in the manual for every video game console since the NES. But Jeff has been making trippy, flashy things for about forty years. And Jeff made you consciously acknowledge that this game is going to be pouring some seriously intense visuals into your eyeholes. You couldn’t just press X and plow through these screens without thinking; you had to read the first one, move the stick, press a button, then do it again. If strobing lights can break your brain then you should not be playing this game.

You learn to stare fixedly at the center of the screen, watching the little dots that tell you what enemies are about to drop onto the planes and tubes you’re whizzing along. The rest of the screen seethes with flashing lights. But here in the center it is quiet. Here in the center is the future: this dot is a gate, this dot is a jump pad, is that dot a bonus ox? Is that one a fried egg?

Focus on this. Ignore all the flashing in your peripheral vision. The real game is here. Or is it?


Every PS4 game has a set of “trophies” for doing various things in the game. Bronze, silver, gold, and always one platinum trophy for getting all the other trophies. Usually the platinum trophy has a cute name, and a prosaic description along the lines of “Win all the other trophies”. Polybius’ platinum trophy is named “Beast of Universal Love And Light”, and its description is “Achieve ultimate transcendence”. You think Polybius told you to do that at the end of a level once, too.

You wonder how long it will be until the Playstation Network says more than 0.0% of all players have acquired this trophy.


Once upon a time in the sixties, an artist named Brion Gysin created something he called a “Dreammachine”. It was a device designed to produce lights that flickered at about the same frequency as the electrical brain resonance known as “alpha waves”. Staring into it with your eyes closed is said to induce a hypnagogic state. Dreaming while awake. Shapes and colors swirling around and around. Until you open your eyes.

The Dreammachine may also induce seizures in people susceptible to such.


When you close your eyes, you still see ox-horn gates rushing towards you. Ox-horn gates on an endless plain of stars.


Polybius is compatible with the Playstation’s VR helmet. Put it on and you are inside a hallucinatory world full of flashing lights.

As you get better at the game, you start to more regularly enter a mode where you’re going at high speed, and everything’s gone monochromatic. Everything’s rendered in a single color or in black. And that single color is slowly changing. And the pattern of color versus black is flashing rapidly, because your little ship is still careening across the checkerboard ground at some impossible pace, hopped up on fried eggs and crashing through everything in your way. Maybe you’re playing this in the VR helmet. Maybe you’re not. Maybe nothing’s convinced you to get one yet. Maybe this game will tempt you. Does this sound like a thing you want to fill your entire visual field with?

Sometimes you get a fizzing sensation in your skull as you complete a level cleanly. It’s like the chills that run down your spine when a piece of music hits just the right notes. Or when a soft-voiced pair of hands whispers their way through an unboxing video. Perhaps this is a sign that you should, as the between-level advice sometimes suggests, take a break and have a cup of tea. Or some dinner. You’ve been playing this a while now.


You begin to wonder what exactly is hidden under the surface of Polybius. Jeff Minter has taken this modern myth of a video game that gets inside your head and rearranges your brain, and done his best to make it. I do not think there is anyone in the video game industry more qualified to make this myth a reality than him.

Polybius, if you’re willing to give it a little time to learn how to play it, is a powerful brain rearranger. It will leave you in a relaxed state despite the intensity of its play. And while you are at your most relaxed, while you are feeling rewarded, it will tell you things to do. And gently suggest comedically mundane things to avoid doing.

Do you trust Jeff Minter with the keys to your brain?

Do you trust him to be the genially eccentric Englishman who smells vaguely of sheep, llamas, and maybe a little cannabis, that he appears to be?

Do you trust this nice English wizard to have built this powerful delivery system for subliminal messages, and not implant anything worse than RESIST RUNNING OUT OF LOO ROLL or BUY JEFF A DELICIOUS SOFT DRINK?


Polybius is a video game about shooting things that explode into pretty electric fireworks and occasionally say “thank you”. Polybius is not a magic spell designed to lift you out of this world and into a truer reality, nor is it one designed to make you its creator’s slave.

Ten camels out of five. Highly recommended if you have a Playstation; I believe it’s coming out on the PC as well.

Magicians and Mastery

I’m sitting here slowly re-reading Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, whose primary virtues still seem to perhaps be that it is an exceedingly lengthy telling of a tale about magicians making bad deals with the fairies. It’s early in the book – I’m barely in the second hundred pages of this awkward thousand-page paperback tome – and I’m thinking about the contrasts Clarke is making between the Raven King, the near-legendary Great English Wizard of the Past, and the awkward, bookish Mr. Norrell.

Norrell has thus far been portrayed as a man who has pretty much spent his entire life far away from the world, collecting books of magic spells. As the book opens we see him starting to step out into the real world and perform spells. The Raven King, on the other hand, would do things like hop on a horse and lead an army into battle, slinging spells left and right.

And something about this is resonating in the back of my head.


This morning, I flipped through the usual set of Internet distractions on the tablet. One of them tends to be the Adobe Illustrator subreddit, where people post lots of “how do I do X” questions, and I answer some of them. Sometimes I’ll be specific and make little numbered lists of “open this palette, use this menu item” kinds of instructions, sometimes I’ll just say “I’d use x, y, and z” and maybe link to the online help pages of these features if the querent is lucky.

And sometimes I’ll do an epic reply wherein I say “there are many ways to achieve what you want, here’s short but explicit instructions for four of them, and some very brief notes on why I prefer methods 3 or 4 over 1 or 2 in my work”.

When I started doing this, it was an interesting way to push my Illustrator skills: how can I achieve this effect someone wants? And moreover, can I achieve it in a way that makes it super-easy to pick up and use in a future drawing? But I feel like I’ve seen the same questions over and over again, and perhaps I should go back over all these comments I’ve made and write them up as blog posts and/or text expansion macros. I’ve already got some of the latter for “pen tool basics” and “pencil tool basics”.

Or maybe I should stop wasting so much time hanging around that subreddit answering the same questions, and get more drawing done. That’d be nice.


There is a thought I am groping towards here about mastery of a craft, as demonstrated by the way Norrell frequently has to refer to books, while the Raven King just Does Stuff. (Which may be an example that’s invalidated over the course of the remaining nine hundred pages of this brick of paper with text infuriatingly close to the spine, ugh who the hell at Tor thought this was okay, why didn’t they split it into three 350p volumes for the paperback, but I digress.) And it’s something about the process by which people go from being Norrell with his library to the Raven King, who can just cast spells like crazy. After, of course, a long period holed up with a teacher, or a library, learning and practicing them. Eventually you have the library in you; eventually you know all twenty ways to achieve an effect because you’ve tried them all on similar problems, and you can sit around for a moment, think about how the strengths and weaknesses of each method will work with the problem at hand, then do the thing quickly and efficiently. I suppose this is what can be summed up as going from “journeyman” to “master”, which always feels like an uncomfortable thing to implicitly apply to myself.

There is also probably something here connected with my post from last week about visiting Pilchuck Glass Studio with my girlfriend, who is a relative beginner in one of the Nine Arts Of Glass. That probably boils down to “girl you should get out of the studio and figure out how to actually be sociable with people who are doing this small press comics thing if you wanna take it any further”, which, ugh, oh god, I’d have to be social at cons to do that and sitting there at a table selling my stuff all day drains all my social energy and then some, but again, I digress.


Maybe I just need to move back to LA and try working my various connections to find studio gigs, where I can hang out with other artists and work without having to organize a time and place for that. I dunno. I’m terrible at sitting in one place and working for more than an hour or two as a general rule.

Hell if I know. I’m stoned, it’s sunny out, and I’m stuck in the apartment waiting for a delivery of books I’m gonna take to VanCaf later this month. If all goes well it’ll be the first con I’m selling the Rita omnibus at.

If you were looking for a point to this blog entry, I’m afraid you’re not gonna find it here.