Friday, November 30, 2012
Can I PLEASE Hang Out With These Guys?
Freerunners decked out in light suits put on a pretty impressive light show:
If you’re into freerunning, then the video above is probably one that you have to watch. While freerunning itself is a pretty impressive feat of athleticism, what makes this video doubly impressive is the fact that these three freerunners – Jason Paul, Shaun Wood, and Anan Anwar – were freerunning around the streets of Bangkok, Thailand after dark while donning light suits. The suits themselves appear to be rather simplistic and basically consists of LED strips, duct tape and some batteries, and like its director Frank Sauer pointed out, these suits look like they could have been taken from the Tron movie. If you have a few minutes to spare, you should definitely check the video out for a pretty spectacular light show!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Did Someone Say ZOMBIES?
Just because ... BRAINS ... zombies are ... BRAINS ... popular, I thought I'd share ... BRAINS ... an except from my own zombie ... BRAINS ... story from my non-smutty sf/f/horror collection Love Without Gun Control.
Btw ... BRAINS...
All in all, Presidential Aide Lawrence Tucker thought, it had almost been one fucking successful administration. He thought this while pushing the snapping, squirming corpse of the Assistant Secretary of Urban Affairs on a gurney. The gurney had one squeaking, spinning wheel, and it echoed down the flickering fluorescents of Access Tunnel B2, deep inside Cheyenne Mountain.
Yeah, he thought, almost –
They’d managed to get Hubbel into the seat with a clear 65%. For the conservative middles they’d used a budget-cutting and job development plank. Rehabilitation and civil liberties had pulled in the sandal-wearers and the granola-eaters. A hands-off business tax approach brought in the big campaign bucks from the old white men. A couple of clean overseas “actions” had cemented Hubbel as a man who took no bull. The loss of Peter, his eldest, in a gangland shooting had gotten him in real firm with the bleeding hearts – that, and his tearful plea to “stop the killing of our children” as he dedicated a big hunk of the domestic budget to education and law enforcement.
At the door of elevator shaft C2, Tucker unholstered the heavy army automatic that Major Clark had given him. Hitting the cycle button, he stepped out of the way of Henry’s clutching hands. The straps were definitely not slipping, but he was being extra careful. He’d had to pump six rounds into Julie, the personal secretary to the Chairman of Foreign Affairs, after she’d slipped free a week or so previous.
Leaning back and lighting a precious Marlboro, he watched the shaft door slowly crack, then ponderously open. Thinking, once again, of Hubbel.
Even the shit that had come up acted as if it had been dreamt up by some divinely inspired spin doctor, Tucker mused. Even that paramilitary wacko had parked a U-Haul packed with fertilizer TNT in front of the White House, Hubbel had insisted on remaining at his desk. “Ain’t going to run from someone who wants ta blow me up with cow shit,” he’d said with his cool smile.
Remembering Julie, Tucker carefully pushed the gurney to the edge of the empty shaft. Popping the safety snaps on the restraining harness; Tucker lifted up his end. Flailing all the way, the corpse slipped off and hit the bottom with a meaty impact. Very meaty: Cheyenne’s basement was a fetid, undulating sea of the dead.
Yeah, it had almost been a great administration, Tucker thought. That is, until the fucking dead rose from their fucking graves. Taking a long drag on his Marlboro, he slammed his palm down on the CLOSE switch.
“Learn to fucking adapt,” Tucker said, puffing his Marlboro and clumsily twirling his pistol. Hubbel had used it as a catch-phrase, a way for people to deal with the problems of modern America. Tucker, though, used it as a mantra. He said it over and over again to keep his mind off canned pork, stale Marlboros, weak booze, canned air, intermittent power, the rising of the dead, and imminent starvation.
Tucker jammed the pistol back in its holster. Major Clark would rip him a new asshole if he caught him playing with it.
He was at the intersection of B2 and D2: The fluorescents there were more stable, jury-rigged with loops of rainbow wiring. At first, Clark had almost split a gasket. But after six months in Cheyenne the fire had gone out of the starched Major.
Nothing like “adapting” like fucking mad to make a West Point asshole shut up about “damaging military equipment.” If Moe made the lights work, then they worked. Who cared if he violated the sanctity of Cheyenne’s cold-steel guts to do it?
In addition to the working lights, Moe Travel had re-rigged the air- conditioning ductwork and Cheyenne’s computer system. Now the corridors were draped with cascades of fiber optic cable and great patches of duct tape inches thick.
Moe had been a pleasant surprise, the only one Tucker could remember. Everyone else had panicked, swallowed bullets, cyanide, or simply started crying at unexpected moments. Tucker’s old college buddy, though, had simply dealt with it with by quoting “adapt” right back at them – and went about fixing what was broke.
Magenta 16. The door was painted with a mad collage of splattered paint. The crazy tie-dye had been an impulsive decorating job by a GI to indicate that the room was livable. The same GI had later stepped calmly into shaft C2 to “join his buddies.” His screams as they tore, chewed, and swallowed him alive had lasted for almost twenty minutes – till Clark calmly dropped a grenade down the shaft.
“You decent, Moe?” Tucker said. Taking a final drag, he carefully ground out his cigarette on a bit of unpainted door and stuck it in his pocket.
“Compared to you?” came a squeaky voice through the thick metal, “I’m a saint.”
If the outside was splattered with paint, the interior space was spattered with improvisation. Tucker was again struck dumb at the conglomeration of Moe’s spit and-bailing-wire gizmos that had filled the room. Shaking his head against the riot of hodgepodged gear, he said “Anything?”
Moe’s face, stained a bilious green from a ramshackle computer monitor, looked at him. “You always ask me that.”
“Only ever since you’ve been trying to crack it.”
“And I always say–?”
“‘No’. But, shit, Moe, gotta hope for something, don’t I?”
“Better fucking hope that Clark will develop a personality. Better luck than hacking this motherfucker.”
Tucker made his way through the wheezing, dripping, beeping mass of claptrap machinery. When he was next to Moe he was also a sick green from the monitor’s glow. “Did you try – what did you call it, ‘random number sequences’–?”
“Yes, dear,” Moe said, turning back to his monitor. “Yes, I did. And every other fucking trick I know. Nothing, okay? This fucker uses an eight letter combo – you know how hard that is to crack? With fucking numbers you at least get nine tries per character. But this fucker uses the alphabet so it’s 28.” Moe blinked for a second, disconnecting that part of himself as he remembered... “I thought you were feeding the dead,” he said, looking up at Tucker with pale, but strong, eyes.
“Just dumped Henry down the shaft. No one else bought it during the night.”
“Fucking creepy, man. Can’t see how you can do that shit. Still gotta blow their brains out?”
“Nah, Clark says we’re just wasting bullets.” Tucker shrugged over the first part of Moe’s question. “I got the short straw.”
“Yeah, and I get to think like a fucking dead man.” “Speaking of which, anyone fed the chief exec yet?” “Don’t ask me; I’m just trying to save all our asses.”
Btw ... BRAINS...
BURIED WITH THE DEAD
All in all, Presidential Aide Lawrence Tucker thought, it had almost been one fucking successful administration. He thought this while pushing the snapping, squirming corpse of the Assistant Secretary of Urban Affairs on a gurney. The gurney had one squeaking, spinning wheel, and it echoed down the flickering fluorescents of Access Tunnel B2, deep inside Cheyenne Mountain.
Yeah, he thought, almost –
****
They’d managed to get Hubbel into the seat with a clear 65%. For the conservative middles they’d used a budget-cutting and job development plank. Rehabilitation and civil liberties had pulled in the sandal-wearers and the granola-eaters. A hands-off business tax approach brought in the big campaign bucks from the old white men. A couple of clean overseas “actions” had cemented Hubbel as a man who took no bull. The loss of Peter, his eldest, in a gangland shooting had gotten him in real firm with the bleeding hearts – that, and his tearful plea to “stop the killing of our children” as he dedicated a big hunk of the domestic budget to education and law enforcement.
At the door of elevator shaft C2, Tucker unholstered the heavy army automatic that Major Clark had given him. Hitting the cycle button, he stepped out of the way of Henry’s clutching hands. The straps were definitely not slipping, but he was being extra careful. He’d had to pump six rounds into Julie, the personal secretary to the Chairman of Foreign Affairs, after she’d slipped free a week or so previous.
Leaning back and lighting a precious Marlboro, he watched the shaft door slowly crack, then ponderously open. Thinking, once again, of Hubbel.
Even the shit that had come up acted as if it had been dreamt up by some divinely inspired spin doctor, Tucker mused. Even that paramilitary wacko had parked a U-Haul packed with fertilizer TNT in front of the White House, Hubbel had insisted on remaining at his desk. “Ain’t going to run from someone who wants ta blow me up with cow shit,” he’d said with his cool smile.
Remembering Julie, Tucker carefully pushed the gurney to the edge of the empty shaft. Popping the safety snaps on the restraining harness; Tucker lifted up his end. Flailing all the way, the corpse slipped off and hit the bottom with a meaty impact. Very meaty: Cheyenne’s basement was a fetid, undulating sea of the dead.
Yeah, it had almost been a great administration, Tucker thought. That is, until the fucking dead rose from their fucking graves. Taking a long drag on his Marlboro, he slammed his palm down on the CLOSE switch.
****
Tucker had moved up the government ladder during a big “down-sizing” era. He’d honestly expected to find Cheyenne looted and barren. Maybe, if they were lucky, there’d be a thousand cans of military rations and a copy of Life from 1963. Yeah, and a billion cockroaches who would look at them with a “what the fuck are you doing here?” attitude.
Luckily, a couple Chief Executives had managed to squirrel away enough to make the interior of the mountain almost a comfy place. They had cable teevee (but no broadcasts – except for a pathetic Texan who’d played Coal Miner’s Daughter 73 times before the blowing his brains out), purified air, an electronic copy of the Library of Congress, a complete surgery setup, more than enough water, and food for about four months if they starved themselves. The cockroaches hadn’t given them attitude, but they did pretty much have the run of the lowest level storage rooms.
At first they’d been almost jovial. They’d wait out the rising of the dead in air-conditioned and isolated comfort. Eat their canned beef, pork, Spam, beans, and carrots for a few months then crawl out to check out the State of the Union.
Then Lawrence O’Neil (R, VA) suffered a heart attack. They found him the next day, merrily eating Slade Dole (D, OR).
Luckily, a couple Chief Executives had managed to squirrel away enough to make the interior of the mountain almost a comfy place. They had cable teevee (but no broadcasts – except for a pathetic Texan who’d played Coal Miner’s Daughter 73 times before the blowing his brains out), purified air, an electronic copy of the Library of Congress, a complete surgery setup, more than enough water, and food for about four months if they starved themselves. The cockroaches hadn’t given them attitude, but they did pretty much have the run of the lowest level storage rooms.
At first they’d been almost jovial. They’d wait out the rising of the dead in air-conditioned and isolated comfort. Eat their canned beef, pork, Spam, beans, and carrots for a few months then crawl out to check out the State of the Union.
Then Lawrence O’Neil (R, VA) suffered a heart attack. They found him the next day, merrily eating Slade Dole (D, OR).
****
“Learn to fucking adapt,” Tucker said, puffing his Marlboro and clumsily twirling his pistol. Hubbel had used it as a catch-phrase, a way for people to deal with the problems of modern America. Tucker, though, used it as a mantra. He said it over and over again to keep his mind off canned pork, stale Marlboros, weak booze, canned air, intermittent power, the rising of the dead, and imminent starvation.
Tucker jammed the pistol back in its holster. Major Clark would rip him a new asshole if he caught him playing with it.
He was at the intersection of B2 and D2: The fluorescents there were more stable, jury-rigged with loops of rainbow wiring. At first, Clark had almost split a gasket. But after six months in Cheyenne the fire had gone out of the starched Major.
Nothing like “adapting” like fucking mad to make a West Point asshole shut up about “damaging military equipment.” If Moe made the lights work, then they worked. Who cared if he violated the sanctity of Cheyenne’s cold-steel guts to do it?
In addition to the working lights, Moe Travel had re-rigged the air- conditioning ductwork and Cheyenne’s computer system. Now the corridors were draped with cascades of fiber optic cable and great patches of duct tape inches thick.
Moe had been a pleasant surprise, the only one Tucker could remember. Everyone else had panicked, swallowed bullets, cyanide, or simply started crying at unexpected moments. Tucker’s old college buddy, though, had simply dealt with it with by quoting “adapt” right back at them – and went about fixing what was broke.
Magenta 16. The door was painted with a mad collage of splattered paint. The crazy tie-dye had been an impulsive decorating job by a GI to indicate that the room was livable. The same GI had later stepped calmly into shaft C2 to “join his buddies.” His screams as they tore, chewed, and swallowed him alive had lasted for almost twenty minutes – till Clark calmly dropped a grenade down the shaft.
“You decent, Moe?” Tucker said. Taking a final drag, he carefully ground out his cigarette on a bit of unpainted door and stuck it in his pocket.
“Compared to you?” came a squeaky voice through the thick metal, “I’m a saint.”
If the outside was splattered with paint, the interior space was spattered with improvisation. Tucker was again struck dumb at the conglomeration of Moe’s spit and-bailing-wire gizmos that had filled the room. Shaking his head against the riot of hodgepodged gear, he said “Anything?”
Moe’s face, stained a bilious green from a ramshackle computer monitor, looked at him. “You always ask me that.”
“Only ever since you’ve been trying to crack it.”
“And I always say–?”
“‘No’. But, shit, Moe, gotta hope for something, don’t I?”
“Better fucking hope that Clark will develop a personality. Better luck than hacking this motherfucker.”
Tucker made his way through the wheezing, dripping, beeping mass of claptrap machinery. When he was next to Moe he was also a sick green from the monitor’s glow. “Did you try – what did you call it, ‘random number sequences’–?”
“Yes, dear,” Moe said, turning back to his monitor. “Yes, I did. And every other fucking trick I know. Nothing, okay? This fucker uses an eight letter combo – you know how hard that is to crack? With fucking numbers you at least get nine tries per character. But this fucker uses the alphabet so it’s 28.” Moe blinked for a second, disconnecting that part of himself as he remembered... “I thought you were feeding the dead,” he said, looking up at Tucker with pale, but strong, eyes.
“Just dumped Henry down the shaft. No one else bought it during the night.”
“Fucking creepy, man. Can’t see how you can do that shit. Still gotta blow their brains out?”
“Nah, Clark says we’re just wasting bullets.” Tucker shrugged over the first part of Moe’s question. “I got the short straw.”
“Yeah, and I get to think like a fucking dead man.” “Speaking of which, anyone fed the chief exec yet?” “Don’t ask me; I’m just trying to save all our asses.”
****
The late President of the United States, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, etc., etc., Armitage Hubbel, was eating the leg of the Secretary of Agriculture.
“This is a fucking nightmare,” Major Clark said, watching from the other side of a sheet of bullet-proof glass.
“Since when did you wake up?” Tucker said, stepping into the room.
“You’re fucking late, Tucker – had to feed the Chief myself,” Clark said, watching the late President tear into a pale, greasy calf. Partially congealed blood splattered down Hubbel’s chest.
“Sorry, Major, was talking to Travel. Won’t happen again.”
As Hubbel chewed, Tucker noticed for the first time that the skin of one cheek (the right) was starting to sag. It stretched like a blister aching to burst, bulging and pulsing with the action.
“See that it doesn’t. What does Einstein say?”
Human blood and flecks of skin and tissue covered the front of Hubbel’s suit. Tucker absently noted that Hubbel’s crotch was one huge stain of blood and bile. The President tore into the leg, stuffing the human flesh into his mechanically chewing mouth. His hands punctured and tore loose stringy ribbons of flesh.
“The same: we’re fucked. We’ll be dead of starvation or dehydration long before he can crack the thing.”
With a few jaw-stretching bites into the fat calf, Hubbel ripped the last few strips of flesh off the bone. Working crackling tendons and gristle like bubble gum, his feral eyes whipped around the storage locker. The prez was searching for something else to eat, to fill his rotting gut.
“And to think I actually voted for the fucker,” Tucker said.
[MORE]
“This is a fucking nightmare,” Major Clark said, watching from the other side of a sheet of bullet-proof glass.
“Since when did you wake up?” Tucker said, stepping into the room.
“You’re fucking late, Tucker – had to feed the Chief myself,” Clark said, watching the late President tear into a pale, greasy calf. Partially congealed blood splattered down Hubbel’s chest.
“Sorry, Major, was talking to Travel. Won’t happen again.”
As Hubbel chewed, Tucker noticed for the first time that the skin of one cheek (the right) was starting to sag. It stretched like a blister aching to burst, bulging and pulsing with the action.
“See that it doesn’t. What does Einstein say?”
Human blood and flecks of skin and tissue covered the front of Hubbel’s suit. Tucker absently noted that Hubbel’s crotch was one huge stain of blood and bile. The President tore into the leg, stuffing the human flesh into his mechanically chewing mouth. His hands punctured and tore loose stringy ribbons of flesh.
“The same: we’re fucked. We’ll be dead of starvation or dehydration long before he can crack the thing.”
With a few jaw-stretching bites into the fat calf, Hubbel ripped the last few strips of flesh off the bone. Working crackling tendons and gristle like bubble gum, his feral eyes whipped around the storage locker. The prez was searching for something else to eat, to fill his rotting gut.
“And to think I actually voted for the fucker,” Tucker said.
[MORE]
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Still Alive
I loved Portal and Portal 2 but the best part of both has to be GLaDOS's song from the end of the first game
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The Walking Pod
(cross posted to M.Christian's Meine Kleine Fabrik)
Be sure and turn the sound off unless you like annoying wind noise
Be sure and turn the sound off unless you like annoying wind noise
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
This. Is. Glass.
(From M.Christian's Meine Kleine Fabrik)
(via smotpoke)
Pakoh x Robert Mickelsen
“Silica Infused Robot Intelligence”
(via smotpoke)
Pakoh x Robert Mickelsen
“Silica Infused Robot Intelligence”
Monday, November 19, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
More Rude Mechanicals
Friday, November 16, 2012
Augmented Reality
The latter half of the 20th century saw the built environment merged with media space, and architecture taking on new roles related to branding, image and consumerism. Augmented reality may recontextualise the functions of consumerism and architecture, and change in the way in which we operate within it.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Reminder: Technorotica - Stories Shattering the Ultimate Taboo - In Dead Trees!
Here's a reminder about my technosex print-only book, Technorotica: Stories Shattering the Ultimate Taboo
Here's a bit of extra-extra-extra-special news! Remember those two ebooks that the great folks at Renaissance/Sizzler recently published? The ones with techno/science fiction focuses - Better Than The Real Thing: Technorotica and Rude Mechanicals: Technorotica?
Well, Renaissance/Eros Editions have just published a very special - print edition only - edition of both ... plus extra-added content: Technorotica: Stories Shattering the Ultimate Taboo
“Love with robots will be as normal as love with other humans, while the number of sexual acts and lovemaking positions commonly practiced between humans will be extended, as robots teach more than is in all of the world’s published sex manuals combined.” -computer pioneer David Levy, in Love and Sex With Robots.
Bondage, science fiction, fetishism, real realities and virtual realities collide in this unique collection by one of the most popular authors of erotica … ever!
In the enigmatic M. Christian’s kinky new collection, two great things – technology and sex – go even better together!
Welcome to Technorotica: a giant-sized collection of human-machine erotica. You’ll find everything from sexy robots to virtual reality lovers, from shameless science fiction to contemporary explorations of technology’s impact on our sex lives and our sexuality. Headlining this stellar collection are two unforgettable novellas: In “Hot Definition,” the story of a future just around our corner, Neko experiences the ultimate domination in a way she never expected; in “Speaking Parts,” two lovers, one with a camera-shutter eye, come together in a scorching, obsessive relationship that takes them both to the limits of sexuality – and beyond. Plus ten more provocative stories of sex and technosex.
“Blow Up” alone makes it “worth buying I highly recommend this book.” -Fire Pages.
“M. Christian is one hell of a writer. A no-holds-barred storyteller, he embraces his reader at the start and doesn’t let go until long after the end.” -Mari Adkins.
“M. Christian’s stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway … feral-eyed, half-naked … Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century.” -Paul Di Filippo, author The Steampunk Trilogy
Cover art: Jade
Book design: Frankie Hill
ISBN-1615084479
Publication date: 4/03/2012
Pages: 170
List price: $15.99
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
I'm Performing At Bawdy Storytelling's Gender Blender
(from M.Christian's Classes And Appearances)
Just a reminder, folks, that I'm going to be performing - on stage (gasp) - at the very fun Bawdy Storytelling event tomorrow night in Oakland.
Here's the info on the whens and hows and what-else's:
Gender Blender
The Uptown Nightclub
1928 Telegraph Avenue
Oakland, California 94612
Buy your tix here: Bawdy Storytelling’s ‘Gender Blender’
$12 in Advance/$15 at the Door
Storytellers include:
- Sex Educator & Role Model Reid Mihalko
- GenderFork founder Sarah Dopp
- Erotica Author M.Christian
- More storytellers to come!
This week, Bawdy Storytelling – the Mr. Right in your tighty whities – brings six sexy sagas of genderfucks, drag queens, drag kings, and one-eyed jacks to the stage of the Uptown NightClub in Oakland. These are real stories told by real people and guaranteed to incite, excite, and if you’re so inspired, invite someone home with you to create your very own bawdy story – and then tell us about it. We love the dirty details!
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Saturday, November 10, 2012
"Constantine In Love" From Love Without Gun Control
Here's another teasing taste from my non-smutty science fiction/fantasy/horror collection, Love Without Gun Control .... available as an ebook and even a dead trees edition:
[MORE]
CONSTANTINE IN LOVE
Constantine was in love.
I know what you're
thinking: “Constantine? Love?” Constantine of the sneer, the acerbic tone, the
sarcastic needling. Constantine who drove too fast, shot too easily, who
slugged a Saville Row clerk who questioned his taste in ties, and who calmly
walked into the Getty and set fire to a Georges Braque everyone else claimed to
be authentic.
Constantine? Love?
Not that he was immune
to libido or heart – far from it. He was, after all, the Constantine of Monte
Carlo courtesans and London 'gentleman's clubs', who defended his friends to
the death and wept openly at Picasso showings. But he was, after all,
Constantine – the same tall, stately, elegant Constantine who infuriated and
frightened more than he endeared or comforted.
This was Constantine,
the information age – James Abbott McNeill Whistler, the living ancestor
embodying The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, a 21st century parlor society rogue
– and, yes, indeed, he was completely, utterly smitten.
Her name was Mishiko
Samurata. Her stage name was Chrome Lotus. Her home was Tokyo. Her first album
was called Notes Lost in Transit, published under the Shijiko Label. It sold
well, mostly to a small but respectable number of avante garde artists and
musicians. Not many had heard Cherry Blossom Tones; but those who had,
described her work as mixmaster Philip Glass but with even more hideously
complex melodies. Not top ten, hell, not even top hundred, but something worthy
of a listen... if your hearing hasn't been polluted by insipid commercial
music.
She'd never been outside
of Japan, until that weekend. A flock of culture vultures in San Francisco had
paid her way from her native land to take part in a experimental music
symposium and performance. Constantine had been in the city to visit his
brother, Nicoli. As with a lot of their visits, they sought out something
unusual to spend the night with. Nicoli, who was much more attuned to such things,
waved a pendulum over an open copy of the SF Weekly and came up with an address
in SOMA.
Rain pelted them as they
stepped from the taxi and walked towards the nondescript industrial building.
As usual, most of the rain avoided Nicoli, veering away from his leather
greatcoat, leaving Constantine to flip up the collar of his Burberry and simply
sneer at the downpour.
Inside: Concrete floor,
metal folding chairs, sculptures made of bedsprings, barbed wire, and melted
dolls (“Fucking awful,” said Constantine,) hung on the walls. Nicoli, as usual,
had a mad assortment of Yen, Francs and Pounds in his wallet, so Constantine
paid the ten buck donation fee to the lithe, purple-haired, multiply- pierced
art student behind her work table desk.
“You sure about this? I
mean... fuckin' 'a'..,” Constantine stage- whispered as they walked around the
space, cataloging the art (“fucking worse than awful”) as well as the patrons
(“fucking worse than awful”).
“Trust in the pendulum,
My Brother. Trust in its mystery, its power. I predict that tonight will not be
a disappointment,” Nicoli proclaimed, sipping something dark red someone had
handed him and making a very sour face.
“Yeah, right,”
Constantine said, “I'm staring at bedsprings, barbed wire and melted plastic dolls
and he says to trust in the power of a bead on a string.”
“Could be worse,” Nicoli
said, passing his half-empty paper cup to someone else. “Someone could start
singing.”
Someone did – after a
point. First there was a moment when a gaunt kid in a puffy shirt and too-tight
slacks called for everyone to be quiet, then he introduced “...quite possibly
the foremost experimental musician on the scene today...”
“God help us,” Nicoli
said, snatching up and finishing another paper cup of the bitter wine in one
quick gulp.
“God help us,”
Constantine said, his eyes wide, thoroughly entranced.
[MORE]
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Wonderful -
But I am so tired of Terminator jokes - this is a huge development that gives so many people options they might not otherwise have
"A father who lost his arm in an accident six years ago has been given a new lease of life by a hi-tech bionic hand which is so precise he can type again. Nigel Ackland, 53, has been fitted with the Terminator-like carbon fibre mechanical hand which he can control with movements in his upper arm."
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
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