Was going to make a proper feature out of this a long time ago, but they just weren’t turning out well enough to justify continuing. Just found them all buried deep within my archive of stuff. Sharing is caring, and I may as well drop them here. Enjoy.
Just a quick note that you should have a viewing of Antista’s A Cartoon Christmas, a blog that’s nerding its way through December with daily digests of classic Christmas specials, covered in such detail that only an obsessive-compulsive elf, or Chris Antista, could have written them. Also, have some Google, Chris…you just got linked, son.
We focus on focusing all week, but on Friday night we crawl from our fluorescent holes and into the orange and blue glow of street lights and cell phones and we booze until we’re free to laugh and bullshit and fuck ourselves into radioactive beams of Proper Living. Our Gods are loving and vengeful and artificial, and they demand that we take one night to chuck our inhibitions and clothes onto a stranger’s floor and defeat all of our purposes.
On Friday night I didn’t care if she cared, though I cared that the moment felt dramatic and sweetly serious, like a movie directed by a focus group. I spilled my guts to the curb. My lips burned, and chunks of asphalt stuck to my palms. I killed our Gods and laughed at their blood.
On Saturday my head was fucking killing me, and someone had Sharpie’d “TNUC” across my face.
If you hadn’t heard, Mr. Dan Amrich is jumping ship and swimming from the Bay Area to the slightly filthier shores of LA to bring his community management skills to Activision. So instead of lugging his many years worth of useless nerd-gold with him, he decided to drop it like it’s hot in the office’s back parking lot.
My name is Tyler Wilde. I make internets for GamesRadar, paint pictures, and play the
harmonica poorly. If you'd like to let me know that I've won the lottery, you
can contact me at tjwilde [at] gmail [dot] com. And follow my ass on twitter.
We focus on focusing all week, but on Friday night we crawl from our fluorescent holes and into the orange and blue glow of street lights and cell phones and we booze until we’re free to laugh and bullshit and fuck ourselves into radioactive beams of Proper Living. Our Gods are loving and vengeful and artificial, and they demand that we take one night to chuck our inhibitions and clothes onto a stranger’s floor and defeat all of our purposes.
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