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I went through the agony of downloading a couple things from Fileplanet the other night. One was the Tron 2.0 demo, which upon install came up with an “are you joking? Seriously, dude. Come on.” error, mocking my lack of respectable videocard. Looks like I’ll be waiting for the X-box version. What do you say, Byte? I thought you’d say that.

The other file was a video of the blitzball action in FFX-2. Eff that ess. If I wanted to put the controller on the floor and watch as figures throw balls at each other, I’d watch basketball.

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I applied for a job this weekend. I’m not actively seeking a new job, but when this passed my field of view, I knew I could not resist. I’ve been checking in now and then since they posted a writing position a while back, and this position is pretty much the same as my current job. Except with more Star Wars. The Lucasfilm site used to have benefits etc posted, and working on the ranch, taking the company sailboat out for a turn about the bay, and living just a few minutes from Frisco sure sounded pretty good to me.

So, I threw together a cover letter and resume detailing my exploits and explaining beyond any doubt why I’m the guy. I pasted ’em into the provided boxes, filled out my personal info, and sent my little baby out into the wide world to see what he could do. But, as I clicked “Submit”, something seemed strange. I hit the back arrow, and there it was, for all the Employment Office to see. My home phone number was wrong.

I have been the office joke at the Ranch for the last few days. Unconfirmed rumors on theforce.net have stated that the HR folks were seen laughing it up at lunch, talking about “that phone number guy”. “I hope they don’t ask me about attention to detail at the interview, honey.” “Hey, saw you had an opening, give me a call. Oh wait.” Et cetera.

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In the vein of yesterday’s post, a story idea has been rolling around in la cabesa. This dude is skulking around a factory, on his way to assassinate the head of the company. His people have been in the thrall of the owner for ages, since before he was born. Their entire society was transplanted from the homeland to the giant factory, which as far as he can tell is in the middle of a giant city. He and his kind work the machines, toiling endlessly to make specialty foods for the decadent city-dwellers. The oldest of his fellows in slavery call the factory owner a savior, naming some long-forgotten aid he provided, but he doesn’t buy it. So, he’s on his way to kill the owner and free his people. His people being the Oompa-Loompas from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It’s one of those stories.

I think you can see why I’m not a writer. I have zero original ideas. If

a career could be made out of writing “but he’s really the Cowardly Lion!” stories, I’d be a wealthy man.

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I’d like to see an American-McGee‘d-out version of Peter Pan. Some kid falls in a barrel and becomes a Lost Boy. When he shows up in Neverland, he is immediately grabbed by Hookcorp Security and impressed into service in the Fairydust Extraction Complex. The fairies have been hooked up to Giger-looking machines that pull their flight-granting dust directly from their glands. All the fairies have to look forward to is death, but the dead are shipped down to the Reanimation Floor, where former pirates and indians sit in drug-induced comas repeating that they do believe.

With Pan gone and grown-up, the Lost Boys have split into various Lord-of-the-Flies factions. Some are hired by Hookcorp as fairy hunters. Others are bent on rebellion, fired by timeworn stories that the ancient Mother told their forefathers. Their tormented bodies are often seen on display in the Complex, an example of the natural result of non-compliance with corporate policy. Naturally, our hero falls in with one of these bands and brings about the demise of Hookcorp. And there are mermaids in there somewhere.

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Sorry for the wait. You still love me, don’t you?

Sunday was a rough day. All I wanted to do was make a few changes and post. At ten-thirty PM, after a day of demands, I sit down at the new Dell and watch the Blue Screen of Death appear. I know no fear, having seen this screen many times in my travels. A quick reset, and I’m back in business.

Except that I’m not.

A couple hours of bugging (I mean -out, not de-) and it’s time for bed. Couldn’t get through to support. Set up the trusty old Win 98 rig, email support my tale of woe. Much to my surprise, this morning there’s a reply. Like all oracles, this reply spoke in byzantine riddles. I replied to the replier, making sure to use the word “warranty”. Another response comes, this one clear as crystal in February. And now I’m back in the game. I have a weird bruise on my knuckle, which I can only assume cam from me biting it during my tense sleep, but other than that, no harm done. Could this have caused the problem? Who can tell? Either way, I’m buying a new scanner.

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DHKA has updated. Go check it out.

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Well that was a close one.

I went to hook up my scanner yesterday, and it was no go with XP. The company website just came right out and said “we didn’t make a new driver. Too damn bad, losers.” Her Worshipfulness flat out refused to even consider buying a new scanner. Wild suggestions of setting up the old machine on an as-needed basis or bringing stuff in to work to scan came up. Things were looking grim.

I bemoaned my plight to an associate at work today. He wove a wondrous tale of websites with drivers available for download. I had heard of such things, but never anything as grand as he described. XP drivers created by users and distributed on a no-pay basis? Who are these guys? At the first opportunity, I went out and found the promised driver. Weary and roadworn, I neglected to read the instructions before attempting to install. In the events that followed, I nearly went mad, lost in a labyrinth of .ini files and dizzied by the timewarp of restore points.

Finally success was mine. With pluck and wit, I beat the machine at its own riddle game, winning its servitude forever.

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Long-time readers of B A Start will remember this fan favorite, in which I poked fun at people who blog Rhapsody playlists. As a quick click on the comments will show you, this brought the architects of Rhapsody directly to my doorstep. I find this to be awesome.

Now, I know for a fact that a whole bunch of you dedicated B A Starters are equally-if-not-more-so dedicated Rhapsody members. You know the joy. Now get over to Rhapsody Rock School and check it out. Go to the source, dudes.

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Dude. It’s here. The biggest Geek Day since the holiday’s inception. Firefox and Halo 2 on the same day.

A brief history. The Geek Day tradition started long ago with the release of the Star Wars: Episode I trailer online. This event was the first recorded example of a date with attributes we now associate with Geek Day. Work is cut, internet usage spikes, and the IT guys are all abuzz. Modern historians state that the combination of the availability of high-speed internet access and genius marketing decisions made a for heady cocktail the geeks of the world were all too ready to try. Geek Day has been observed recently with midnight vigils at Best Buy, marking the release of Doom III and the extended editions of Lord of the Rings.

November 9th, 2004 marks the first full release of Firefox, the geek’s choice of web browser. It’s safe, fast, and easy; it’s not well-known to non-geeks, thus granting uber-nerd status to those that use it; it’s not by Microsoft. The kids are loving it. A pre-release version has been available for a while, but today’s the day to sport your Mozilla polo shirt and celebrate. The website was frickin’ mobbed this morning.

Also, Halo 2, the highly hyped sequel to one of the most successful games in recent memory, was released at midnight. There exists no decent reason for it to be anything short of unspeakably good.

Now that I’ve downloaded Firefox 1.0 and posted, I’m off to play Halo 2. The geek priests would be pleased with my observance rituals.

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I don’t get a lot of email. This works out well for me, as I consistently go ages and ages without replying, leaving the poor, lonely messages in my Inbox until their big puppy eyes bug me too much and I have to let them go. Best to avoid the situation altogether, whether it makes me a bad friend or not. Regardless of the fact that I receive a paltry one to two personal emails a week, I check my email as if the log-on process was part of the rosary. It’s no longer a conscious activity. Every now and then I’ll notice my fingers deftly keying my username and password on the steering wheel, the kitchen table, the elevator doors. Could the constant movements of my fingers be harnessed as a power source? Could the city hook me up to some device that would provide free electricity to the needy? Would they change the password rules to force me to use more characters when there’s a shortage?

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