I've seen them before--they live in a storm drain next to where I park my car. I'm calling them Rocky and Nancy for now, though the masks conceal their real identities. They hissed at me a couple times, and I've heard raccoons can actually be quite dangerous, though I seemed to remember it was only when they were cornered.
It turned out to-day's appointment for my car was just to get an estimate--I have another appointment a couple weeks from now, a date I chose myself to fall on another day when I'm not working on my comic. It's going to cost the guy's insurance company 1,300 dollars. I don't know how much he has to pay, but I bet he'll be really careful backing up his truck from now on.
Teenagers sure like their uselessly huge vehicles. Tim pointed out an electric car to me on Saturday in the Fry's parking lot--we saw two that day, and they're extraordinarily tiny. I was reminded of Sam's personal transport from Brazil. I guess if I didn't actually tend to use my back seat and trunk, such a car would suit me pretty well.
Last night's tweets;
Never fully trust Hollywood archers.
Hold your mace carefully, Basil Rathbone.
The parade tuba's ahead of marchers.
Behind, cellist Woody Allen, alone.
I'm really happy with the next Venia's Travels script, which I finished last night. This could be one of my favourite chapters. I finished writing it at around 1:30 am and found myself wanting to do something, but not quite sure what. Lately I've really wanted a good video game to play, but just about everything surpasses my computer's capabilities. I'd really like to try Dragon Age, especially since I've been bad mouthing it so much. I hate being so critical of something without giving it a totally fair shake. I'm thinking I may try getting TIE Fighter to work again--I really miss that game. I was quite addicted to it in the first years of high school. Somehow it comes off as quite a convincing flight simulator which serves remarkably well to get you involved in the narrative introduced--the larger picture created by the missions you, as a TIE Fighter pilot for the Empire, are obliged to go on. It's pre-episode 1 Star Wars fiction, too, which carries a great deal of charm nowadays, artefacts of a time when Star Wars was vast, sort of enigmatic, and full of potential.
I picked up Morrissey's new B-sides album, Swords, to-day. There's a rather nice interview included--this bit reminded me of Akira Kurosawa's attitude toward critics, as he tended to avoid reading all reviews;
I think it's important to ignore praise. If you ignore praise then you naturally ignore criticism. If you let criticism in, then you're done for.
You live, in any case, in a situation whereby the music writers who are inclined to criticise you have never actually themselves attempted to do what it is you are doing, so you wonder how they can fault you for doing something that they themselves have never mastered. It can all very easily unbalance you, especially when most pop journalism is so consistently inaccurate, yet relishing their own wit and their own place within the review of your recording. My own position, therefore, is to lethally disregard anything at all that is said--whether good or bad. It isn't the gluttony of the self-engrossed, but a form of protection. It's true that once you make a recording you then hand it to the appraisers, but your own instinct is the best judge of whatever it is you do. When you first begin, before you've ever recorded, you don't write to music critics to ask them what you should play if and when you finally get a chance to record, so why on earth you should listen to them once you've made your record is baffling to me.