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| Saturday |
the Twenty-Seventh of April, 2002 |
| Thoroughly rattling, the whole Le Pen thing - hopefully the voter apathy
aspect will be an effective enough lesson for the blankly proud
"protest abstainers" I was bludgeoning last year,
but someone really ought to sort out a fairer voting system with such an (importantly, for my money) fragmented left. Democracy still scares me more than it reassures me.
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Four fairly random sentences about Cheapass games:-
- It's mystifying that Kill Doctor Lucky doesn't have a rule
for making ranged attacks (within line-of-sight, so long as
no opponents can see your pawn) with the Revolver and the Cannon.
- Miniature solitaire cards
are very handy indeed for Spree.
- There was a secret
second
version of Before I Kill You Mr Bond with game-balancing
'bomb' cards.
- The Mr Bond picture - appearing on every single
card as well as the box-front - has
a possibly-intentional ambiguity in the trouser area.
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| Friday |
the Twenty-Sixth of April, 2002 |
| Further virulent infection of the Zendo meme yesterday, including a
particularly workable dice variant (with a handful of
red, black and white six-sideds). Good things.
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| Tuesday |
the Twenty-Third of April, 2002 |
| "If everything just evolved, then everything is at the whim of the most powerful, and there is no Maker to whom to be answerable. Hence Stalin's belief that killing millions of people was no worse than mowing your lawn (grass is our cousin in evolutionary doctrine)."
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| I am the Mechanical Sheep, the God of the Lawn Grass, the Electric
Reaper. Bringer of death, bringer of regrowth. The whirring blades
sharply indistinguishable from millennia of teeth, the raking a
fake sleight-of-hand digestion. I lie back on the grass, and breathe it
all in, feel the chlorophyll drinking in the sunshine, close my eyes
and gaze into microscopic details. Truth plus symbolism, on a
sunny April afternoon - it doesn't get much better than this.
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| Monday |
the Twenty-Second of April, 2002 |
| Was strafed with five inescapable minutes of Jim Davidson's Generation
Game whilst waiting for a curry, at the weekend. Thoroughly
surreal that prime-time Saturday viewing is getting more and more
juvenile (Jim goofishly pretends to play instruments, but is actually
miming badly to a recording; cue hysterical audience laughter) while
Saturday morning kids' telly aims itself more and more ruthlessly at the
ironic student percentile. The Earth must be poised to flip about its
axis and reverse the flow of time, or something.
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