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Tycho / 2 days ago

I like Avengers stuff.  Well, I like good Avengers stuff.  My favorite movies in that continuum are Guardians of the Galaxy and Winter Soldier, if that gives you any kind of guide for where I fall in these things.  For lack of a better term, though, there are people for whom “Marvel” is like their Star Wars or something.  It is definitely not my Star Wars.  Shit, kid.  Star Wars isn’t even my Star Wars.  And I think you might only get one.

And I can understand I guess in the theoretical sense why you might grind ribcages, in the realm of pure thought unmoored by mortal practicalities, but I saw Hulk go up to somebody in the game and they had a bar over their head.  I’m just… man.  I play a lot of games where ethereal bars perch upon the crown of the foe.  It’s strictly first in, first out.  You gotta earn one of those spots.  I read some articles about how people were concerned with the endgame and lost my vision briefly.  I awoke soaked in what I hope was my own urine.  Man, I don’t even want the regular game, I’m not here to absorb somebody’s mournful ruminations on its mathematically extended denouement.

And I understand why nobody secured license rights, because they’d never make a thin fucking dime on it with this cast - but RDJ is Iron Man in every way that has currency in our society and I’m fairly certain Natasha Romanova plays Scarlett Johanssen in real life and not the other way around.

Hey!  Having returned to my corporeal form at prodigious psychic expense, I now exist as a fragrant cedar round seven feet high and almost two full feet in diameter.  But that’s not gonna stop me from streaming this afternoon on a recommendation from the Precious Channel, which has at various times been known as The Shadow Council, The Amber Council, and most recently the Pit Crew.  (Oh Hi) Mark and I will be settling in for a bonus episode of our Motorsport Manager stream to start getting caught back up, starting at 4pm and going on until Six or so.  Stop by, if you wanna.

(CW)TB out.

Tycho / 4 days ago

I think of my own father, who was a kind of symbol whose every whorl and serif constituted an insoluble, male maze, and myself, who is essentially just unpaid IT, and I'm glad there's no licensing requirement for fatherhood because no dad I know would be granted it.

I certainly can't compete with Dwayne Johnson, who is called The Rock and is The Rock. I can't compete with this stone man. The optimal scenario I think would be if my children can't print. Or, if they got stuck near the end of a puzzle room themed after classic science fiction and I had the time directly after theirs. Like, maybe it's a Bradbury thing. That would allow me to engage in a very particular kind of heroism that doesn't meaningfully impact the schedule. If there's a warg or something, that's right out.

And I say that, but… sometimes people link me to Further Intrusions Of Actual Life, where I talk about My Dad and The Wasps among other things, and I've always assumed that in a similar situation I would be more or less crushed beneath it. But it didn't happen that way.

I was at some kind of Camp with Ronia, and she and her friend were (as was often the case) preparing for some kind of Concert where I was one of two audience members. The venue was in the Woods, and Backstage here consisted of the only log big enough for them both to hide behind. 

They erupted from the log with the zeal and energy of true performers, with a peal of intense vocal power that seemed as though it had leapt from their Warrior Poet Souls but was in fact deeply Wasp related. Apparently Wasps also appreciated this fallen trunk, and it was fit for their purpose as well.

I remember everything that happened in flawless detail, even though they're things I wouldn't consider doing; grabbing handfuls of wasps, I combed no less than ten wasps out of her hair with my bare hands, swept more off her shoulder. I had booted directly into the BIOS; the mind was all cool grey text on jet black background. There are only two items here: protect, and survive. In that order. I didn't feel the stings until much, much later.

(CW)TB out.

Tycho / 1 week ago

One more index of these corrupted times is that, like some Stygian behemoth, dreaded continuity has reared at least one of its monstrous heads.

It's true that Mark and I haven't been in the same room together since PAX, it occurs to me now that this period of isolation might essentially have started for many of us at the same time. It's a blessing that many of us were able to attend what I have come to call The Last Convention; maybe we were able to store up whatever nutrient we get from such things.

So, yes. While it is true that the PAX East Omegathon was the last time we were in a room, arguably more of a hangar which had somehow come to occupy the third floor of a kind of… urban starship, it's not the last time we saw each other.

He drove over a few months ago to give me his old Logitech wheel, a G29 I think. His hobbies tend to leave an incredible amount of almost good enough detritus that, before he had sons, would often become my property. He set it out by the house, and only once he had returned to his car did he text me to let me know he was outside. I masked up and went out, and we maintained about a twenty foot distance. He left a few minutes later.

I got it set up, but about three turns in I found out that the stuff I'd been shaming him for night after night - high or low entries into turns, functionally impossible failures of proprioception - were, in actual fact, Herculean efforts that generated outsized success in direct opposition to the physical laws we are all bound by. By the third or fourth turn, I'd already absorbed a lifetime supply of failure and shame. I decoupled the wheel and its errant pedal daughter and put it back into the box. I couldn't quite get it all to fit back in, though. The flaps sat jaunty; it had entered its teen phase.

(CW)TB out.

Drawn Together

I thought it might be funny to draw Gabe and Tycho social distancing in the strip. This was not long after we got back from PAX East and none of us had any idea how long this would last. Well it’s been five months now and I’m sick of drawing characters talking into phones. I hope that if you have been taking your public safety cues from our comic strip, you will continue to socially distance and please wear a mask if you’re out and about. With that said, these cartoon characters are going to take advantage of the fact that they don’t exist in this nightmare realm of ours. So when you see them on the couch together again don’t panic, they will be fine. Meanwhile in the real world, I have not been in the same room as Tycho since the final round of the Omegathon at PAX East. Fortunately our friendship works online with essentially zero signal loss. 

Obviously global pandemics suck and the news is worse every single day but, this pause in normal life has given me some time to reflect and being home with my family all the time has been awesome. My oldest son Gabe who is a teenager by no fault of his own was never really into streaming. That is until I started letting him mess around with the production tools. He was already building up his coding skills and he was excited to get his hands on Streamlabs and my Streamdeck. Our family streams are getting cooler by the day thanks to his handiwork. He’s sixteen now and working with him on a project like this is the sort of thing Dad’s dream of so I’m just eating it up. He is currently building a Gabir Motors website to serve as a homepage for all our racing stream nonsense. You can use this site to submit a favorite quote from the stream, a made up middle name for my alter ego Mike Racecar, or a racing themed haiku. These submissions are then incorporated into our pre and post show while the middle names appear during my “magical girl” transformation into Mike Racecar. 

Jerry is still out today so instead of Motorsport Manager I’ll be playing more of the My Team mode in F1 2020. The Pit Crew opens at 2pt this afternoon BYOB. 

-Gabe out

Tycho / 1 week ago

I'm so fucking done with this shit.

(CW)TB out.




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