I feel bad for the models that work expo halls. Maybe it's better than other kinds of day work, I wouldn't know. I try to avoid making eye contact, on the off chance it's as weird for them as it is for me. It's not their humanity that drives me away, though it's rare to see a person who wouldn't be improved with a few tufts of iridescent plumage. No, it's that I have the run-of-the-mill, God given shame that naturally accompanies interactions with women who are being paid to endure me.
I'm ready to hear these E3 press conferences and be done with it. Not because I can't be bothered with them, or because I'm not excited - both of those things are exactly wrong. The problem is that the expectation of new information causes hunks of my consciousness to be pre-allocated. It's like when you download something off BitTorrent - something legal!!! - and the client begins by creating an entire empty file to contain the wholly legitimate, fully licensed content you are grabbing from an authorized source. The grip of my talons on your linear time is shoddy on the best days, let alone when wide swaths of my operating capacity are reserved. I need those swaths! It's like, where my swaths at.
Do you ever feel that way? Maybe you don't ever feel that way. God, that must be nice.
I have seen The Beast spoken of in Revelations, and I am currently typing this post on it. With the help of Anand Shimpi and our own David Coffman, we've put together something that is genuinely fucking terrifying. The construction was accompanied by premonitions and dark dreams; a pronounced trembling of the wrist as the power studs were inserted and the master switch depressed. I have every faith that Crysis 2 will run quite well, but I did create a vessel for The Beast, so there's a bit of a tit for tat in operation.
I apologize in advance for all the blood.