I took the liberty of translating yesterday’s post with Altavista’s Babelfish. What a mess. It certainly gets the flavor across, but little of the grammar. I’m a bit happier now, knowing that, as rusty as my German is, it’s still better than that.

Ich weiß, daß mein Leserschaft alle Amerikanern sind (wenn Sie Ausländer sind, Schreiben Sie mich! Ich will von euch hören), und sie lesen natürlich nur Englisch. Ich habe aber ein unerklärlicher Lust auf Deutsch zu schreiben. Warum? Das kann ich nicht sagen. Es ist eine ganz lange Zeit gewesen, seit ich diese Sprache benützt habe. Ich habe irgendwie viele Wörter und Regeln der Grammatik verloren. Es ist leider wahr, daß wenn man etwas nicht benützt, dann geht es weg.

Sechs Jahren des Unterrichts sind jetzt fast verschwunden… na, so scheint es. Der geehrter Herr Studienrat Zittel wurde echt traurig sein, wenn er wüßte daß ich soviel vergessen habe. Also: von Zeit messer Zeit ich werde hier auf die Vaterlandssprache üben. Es ist wahrscheinlich, daß ich nichts interresantes zu sagen haben werden, und keinen mich verstehen können, aber ich brauche die Übung. Es tut mir leid, ob Sie diese Übungen verstehen können oder nicht, aber… ich muß es tun. Ich will an diese Sprache mich erinnern.

The day before yesterday, I bowed to my genetic imperative and followed the geek herd to a local software vendor, where I purchased Half-Life 2. I’m not going to begin to explain what this is, because if you’re reading this, you likely already know. Mom, you’ll just have to call me to ask.

So anyway. Once I got the precious little box into my car in the parking lot, I whipped it out of its plastic bag and let the delicious odor of glossy printer’s ink waft up to my waiting nostrils. A synthetic, oddly alluring scent, no doubt triggering subconscious memories of glossy porno mags from my distant teenage youth. Hell, let’s not mince words: I was holding pornography, of a sort. A product designed, at its core, to appeal to the savage R-complex urge to smash and kill, an appeal to a pleasure of a most visceral and taboo kind, not altogether unlike the procreative drive also found in the primitive proto-human center of our brains. Like a good porno mag in the hands of a fifteen-year-old, I couldn’t wait to get it home and make use of it.

I’ve been playing Half-Life 2 for a couple of days now, and I must say that I am indeed impressed. The physics engine lives up to the hype, and the atmosphere is every bit as engrossing as the original. More so, in fact. So far, Valve seems to have produced another wonderful title that geeks will be fondly reminiscing about for years, if not decades, to come. Six years the faithful have waited for this gem, and, thankfully, it has not been found wanting. Six long years seem to have produced a meticulously crafted piece of software that is indeed complete, a near-mythical condition in the software industry.

There was, though an initial fly in the ointment, an unexpected barrier erected before which, I am sad to say, I sagged, defeated, denied the bliss that was my birthright ever since I fought my way out of Black Mesa’s dark warrens six years ago. I’m not sure if Valve can be faulted for this; it might be either Sierra’s or Vivendi’s fault. There’s a lame bug in the installer. HL2 comes bundled with Counter-Strike: Source. Well, I’ve played CS in the past, and didn’t like it. It wasn’t for me. I decided, therefore, that I would decline to install it when the option came up in the HL2 installer. After three failed attempts at installing it, getting all the way to the fourth disc of five, only to have it fail every time. I was figuring that perhaps I had a bad fourth disc, I was going to have to shlep back to the store to exchange it, what a pain, blah blah blah.

I decided to see if any of the other members of the herd had encountered similar problems with bad discs, but couldn’t find any buzz in the community. Finally, I ended up at Vivendi Universal’s site, where I was finally told that there was a bug in the installer that was triggered if you didn’t opt to install CS as well. My discomfort vanished, but in its place was a sense of astonishment. Six years and who knows how many millions of dollars later, to say nothing of the untold man-hours spent by extremely bright people to make this game, and this makes it past their QA team?!? An installer defect that obvious?

The mind staggers. It’s still a good game, though. You won’t be sorry if you pick it up.

I wrote the following in response to a friend’s post in her (horror of horrors!) Livejournal blog. It’s about what’s wrong with online communities of freaks. Since I am running one of the few islands of sanity to be found in the swirling chaos of the Web, I figured I am well fit to pass judgement upon them. I also like reading my own words, over and over again, due to my God complex; so much so, that I am now inflicting them on you:

I don’t think the problem [with online "communities"] is so much about the concentration of dysfunction as it is the normalization of dysfunction, allied with the anonymity the ‘Net offers. While it’s fine to band together for support, I think many such groups carry it too far, in essence creating a happy little bubble where the dysfunction is accepted as normal. Well, sometimes one’s dysfunction isn’t normal, it’s just weird (auto-erotic asphyxiation), sick ("furries"), or stupid (Insane Clown Posse fans, Log Cabin Republicans). Sometimes there’s something to be said for the tyranny of the majority, the societal smack-down on the oddball.

The anonymity is a magnifying factor. Being free from personal repercussions or violence in a public venue is a good thing, particularly when bigoted individuals might threaten the personal safety of the otherwise harmlessly dysfunctional, but it also breeds the worst kind of trolls. A gander at some politically conservative blogs shows just how dangerous this kind of online mob hysteria, this "flash fascism" can be. There’s no debating any kind of finer points with such groups, as shrill dogma, without normal societal fetters, becomes the rule of the day within these narrowly-defined groups.

I recently went shopping for some formal clothing. Black-tie stuff. Don’t laugh, you bastards; contrary to many popular theories, I do not melt, dissolve into a noisome vapor, break out in great oozing hives, burst into flame, or simply keel over dead when attempting to don apparel more fancy than a striped t-shirt. I actually happen to look pretty damned sharp in a suit and tie, I’ll have you know.

But, as they say, I digress.

I took a virtual perambulation through several online shops, not to actually purchase a tuxedo online, but to try and get a general idea of the kind of capital outlay I’d be expected to provide in order to acquire such fine raiment. I didn’t expect it to come cheap, and prices, though uncomfortable, were not surprising. What came as a shock, though, is how hard it is to find a plain tuxedo.

I perused many stores, first on the Web, then in person, with increasing exasperation and horror. What has happened to the simple, classy evening wear of yesteryear? While I was thankful I didn’t encounter such fashion atrocities as are seen at the Oscars (faux 19th-century frock coats, self-conscious lounge glam, and carefully damaged post-punk anti-glam), there’s plenty of weird and awful suits out there. I saw so many bad tuxedos that distinct patterns emerged; archetypes became evident. Ladies and gentlemen, I submit for your edification and entertainment the six major forms of what now passes for formal wear in North America. All the suits seen here were originally accompanied by ad copy actually proclaiming them to be tuxedos.

Formerlz known as the "Casual Scientist", this handsome, long white coat without lapels is sure get you noticed at your next formal occasion. Both women and men will be irresistably attracted to you when you wear this fine garment, though it will be primarily to solicit informal medical advice about herpes lesions, corns, explosive flatulence, illegitimate pregnancy, and other horrible things they are too embarrased to ask their regular doctor about. Modeled closely after the prop wardrobe of the classic medical-themed TV show "Marcus Welby, M.D.", this tuxedo is emininently affordable at just slightly less than the cost of two years’ tuition at medical school.

Did you admire David Byrne’s Big Suit back in the 80’s but feel a little intimidated by its sheer size and bulk? Perhaps you need a shapeless, slab-sided coat to hide your weird, misshapen body, contraband, or concealed weapons? Insipidly tailored for the milquetoast nothing of a man, this tuxedo does double duty as banal business wear. Heck, it’s completely indistinguishable from a $50 suit from Wal-Mart, excepting that we tack a zero or three onto the end of the price tag; nobody will know the difference. It’s really only a tuxedo because we’re telling you it is, and if "grey and square" is your style, you’re not imaginative enough to raise any kind of objection, anyway.

Ensconced in luxurious maroon silk brocade with matching necktie, you too can relive those thrilling good ol’ days of yesteryear, sipping juleps on the deck of a Mississippi steamer, cheating farmers out of their life savings. The exciting accessories available with this ensemble include diamond-studded watch fobs, spurs, filigree snuff box or cigar case, and optional derringer pocket. The Riverboat Gambler™ is proud to be the only tuxedo to win the official approval of the Robert Conrad Television Reenactors Guild of the Greater Hoboken Metropolitan Area.

The 1970’s are back on the formal scene with the reintroduction of the Classic Powder Blue. Unfortunately, they are no less ridiculous than they were the first time around. Nowhere is this more obvious than with this tuxedo, colored with the soft and gentle, yet weirdly garish, pale hue normally reserved for footie pajamas. Designed to meet the discriminating tastes of the deliberately tasteless postmodern crypto-hipster retro fashionista, you will be sure to be the envy of all your peers. Until they find out you paid at least three figures for this tuxedo that normally goes for around $15 at most well-stocked thrift stores, that is.

Who cares about the 70s revival, though, when you can go all the way back to the mod 60s, baby? Combining three parts Austin Powers with one part Horatio Hornblower, you can finally live out your fantasies of the Swinging Sixties! No matter that they never really existed, because most people were too busy building missiles and atomic warheads to point at the Commies. Groove your way through your next soirée or orgy, clad in the finest satin. Also available in authentic period colors and patterns like hot pink, paisley, stripes, and plaid.

For all the snazz and pizzazz that pervades our modern lives, you still always return to the basics. Like death. And nothing says "death" like the Mortician, from the renowned Pallbearer line. An excellent choice for funerals, embalmings, and dirge recitals, the Mortician’s heavy fabric and somber, austere look let everyone know you’re "serious as a heart attack" about your fashion sense. No accessories are sold with this tuxedo, since the accumulation of wealth and baubles are meaningless in the grim, cold context of universal mortality. The Mortician is meticulously crafted, comes pre-treated with Verm-Away™ worm repellent, and is available in in four colors: Onyx, Umbral, Stygian, and Black. The Mortician: Because it looks so natural.

There you have it: your formal fashion guide for this season, and, presumably, beyond, at least if you buy that last tuxedo. I know I’ve enjoyed this little jaunt into haute couture, and I hope you have, too. I was sure that I’d have some really clever closing line, or at least a stinging smartass remark, made up before I came to the end of this post, but, alas, the paucity of my wit betrays me yet again. Until next time, gentle readers.