1. This is an older post that I dusted off this morning because a friend of mine mentioned it to me recently. I’d forgotten about it. 2. A couple things before we get started. Game writers have two fundamental fantasies when they get into this business. One is to go to E3 in L.A. The second, somewhat more far fetched fantasy is to one day travel to Japan for the Tokyo Game Show. I’ve been fortunate enough to go to Tokyo—pre-devastation—three times in the last few years. Each time, without fail, I returned to North America wondering if I actually went to Japan…
A couple weeks back I bought a bit of kit to record conversations with people. And, in the name of learning how to use said kit, I’m starting to make relatively brief podcasts. This is my first effort. The audio is all over the place, I know. And, yes, you can literally hear the metaphorical duct tape here and there. But I do love talking to people, and I’m glad I had this chat with a couple of surprisingly articulate counter jockeys at a local video game store here in Vancouver. Click the pizza slice-shaped button up above and give…
I’ve been feeling great lately. Borderline spectacular, even. Been going to Grouse Mountain on a regular basis again. Eating right. Going to bed early. Stepping away from the ice cream (my most indulgent indulgence). Blah, blah, blah, etc. My ferritin level is back up, which makes a pretty dramatic difference in the quality of my days. Low ferritin levels, as I learned last year, are the goddamned worst. Still sucking down the old iron supplements by the handful. (Constipation can be a real danger when taking iron supplements in this quantity, though it hasn’t been for me so far.) (I wish I was a…
I flew to New York City the first week in March to attend a VR conference at the New Museum on the Bowery. I’d booked a room in an upscale flophouse on 29th Street called the Ace Hotel. The Ace’s Expedia reviews were decent enough. And it was on the east side of midtown, which would make it easier for me to get to CNET, which is also on 29th Street. I had an appointment at CNET later in the week. (This is why.) (more…)
I’m 47 years old now. Hard to believe, I know. Though I still look like a sweet little man-angel—for some reason I’ve got the drum-taut, dew-dappled skin of a pre-teen Swedish boy—it’s official: I am really fucking far away from being young. But I am not old, of course. I am ripe. I’m mature. And I’m also immature, too. A few marginally keen observations: I have this new kind of crepe paper-like skin around my eyes, particularly when I squint. I am horrified when I see it in photographs. Is that Burgess Meredith? I wonder. No, Scott; it’s just you and your newly wrinkled visage. Also: As we…
