Oh, how I wish it were a parody...

Proving that the real world has become a parody of itself, here's the latest toy for high-rollers now that Hummers have become déclassé

http://www.internationaldelivers.com/site_layout/severe/cxt.asp

Yes, folks, you're looking at a semi with a pickup bed on the back. According to a NY Times article, Ashton Kucher's got one, and the "Pimp My Ride" company, West Coast Customs, is working on fitting one with oversized (!) rims. Jay Leno, who took one for a test drive, hasn't bought one yet, but so far, International has 200 pre-orders.

The thing weighs seven tons empty, and stands just over nine feet high. You don't need a commercial truck license, because that's for trucks over 26, 000 pounds fully loaded, and a maxed-out CXT weighs... are you ready?... 25, 999 pounds. Now, isn't that convenient?

International is overjoyed, because they haven't sold any consumer-lever vehicles since the Scout went out of production 20 years ago. They're already in discussion for toy licensing rights, and two slightly smaller versions are in the works... for people who only wish they were Ashton Kucher, I guess.

Mileage? About 7-10 MPG. I say about, because the government, in typical fashion, just gives up when confronted by such monstrous toys of wealth: Larger SUVs and trucks aren't required to provide mileage data like normal passenger cars. They DO still have to pass emissions, though. Thank God for small favors.

Now, aside from the fact that I think it's just about the stupidest-looking thing I've ever seen, you all know that I generally support an individual's right to drive--or leave rusting in the backyard--anything they choose, but I have to draw the line at vehicles that will so obviously never get near their maximum operating parameters. If you own a Hummer, then you by God better drive it off-road at least twice a year. And whoever orders up one of these monstrosities sure as hell better occasionally haul six tons of concrete while towing a 20-ton trailer.

Run, Gordon, Run!

Just fired up Half -Life 2 and gave it a try... and I am so not cut out to be humanity's sole hope. Frankly, it's just too much pressure.

The game does a phenomenal job of creating an oppressive world. Not a cartoony, oppressive world so far removed from our experience that we can safely indulge in its fantasy; this is something straight out of Orwell, and seemingly just around the corner. Inhabitants aren't made to march around in lockstep. Rather, they're given a great deal of freedom--just as long as they don't travel outside their authorized neighborhoods or fraternize with the wrong people. Just enough freedom to let you know you're in a cage.

As in the first outing, you play Gordon Freeman, unassuming lab flunkie, except this time you have a rep as having done some amazing heroics the first time out--which makes everyone expect a great deal of you. However, the adventure you're thrust into isn't the classic kill-everything-and-go-on-to-the-next-level stuff we've gotten used to. This is more like run-like-hell-'cause-the-jackbooted-thugs-are-everywhere. And they're tracking you with annoying little drone paparazzi, which fly right inside your hiding place and take flash photos of you.

You're completely weaponless and vulnerable in the beginning, but soon enough you get Gordon's signature gear: a hazmat suit and a crowbar. And that's it for a while--you're running in sheer panic through tenements, rooftops, railyards, and sewers, whacking fascist bullyboys with a crowbar before they can pump you full of lead or beat you senseless with an electric billy-club. Not exactly your average first-person shooter's swaggering dealer of death.

Anyway, after a couple of hours of running for my life while my resistance-fighter allies get gunned down right and left, and I was a nervous wreck. Yes, the graphics are easily the best I've ever seen. Yes, the fully-interactive environment--you can pick up, stack, and throw almost any object in the game--is wonderful. Yes, the level design is nothing short of brilliant, always organic, never contrived, yet still guiding you along a fairly linear path.

But frankly, it's just too much pressure! Every time you think you have a few moments to rest, the freaking gestapo kicks in the door, and you're running for your life again! God, my nerves are shot!

So I suppose, what all this boils dow to is this: If the jackbooted thugs start kicking our doors in, don't look for a lot of impressive heroics from me!

In keeping with tradition, and in light of possible scarcity, I decided that I must have a Nintendo DS. Why? No rational reason I can think of, except for my fascination with new gadgets, and maintaining my status as a "bleeding-edge" gamer.

Actually, I resist calling myself a gamer. When asked, I usually reply that I am a "game enthusiast," reluctant to include myself in that group of hardcore warriors. IMHO, a gamer would be one who actually games. I, on the other hand, am a digital tourist. I visit various game technologies, fiddle with them for a couple of days, then stack them on the mantle. Like Slartibartfast in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, "I'm a great fan of technology."

In any event, I was thwarted in my pre-sale efforts at electronics boutique, so I girded my loins for a pre-dawn queue-up in front of the Best Buy. As it turned out, there were only a dozen or so people there--and it was well after dawn, as the store didn't open until 10 o'clock--so I was actually a bit disappointed. Perhaps a launch-day DS wouldn't be the rare pearl it seemed. I guess time will tell.

Got my DS, made my escape, played the included Metroid sampler and the launch title Super Mario 64 DS, marvelled at the hand-held's ability to replicate the flagship game of the company's cutting-edge console of a few years back, played until I hurt myself (It's not the most ergonomic device, I'll tell you that!) zipped it up in its case, and there it sits.

So... when's the street date for the Sony PSP?

Hey, kats and kittens,

I'm busy writing, but Halloween is passing me by. My cemetery grounds lie fallow, no bony hands shall sprout here! Hundreds of dollars in latex and industrial surplus, just rusting away... like my car.

On top of that, my dog is dizzy.

Yes, my poor little girl is suffering from ataxia and increased salivation. She's happy as a little clam, but she keeps walking slightly askew, and tilting her head to one side. Her customary nimbleness has yielded to occasional stumbling as she tries to cope with her slightly tilted world.

We'll get the bloodwork back in a few days, and hopefully we'll know more. It's very worrying... but perversely cute at the same time. She doesn't seem to be in any mortal danger, but I feel sorry for her. She gets so embarassed when she stumbles.

I have made a rather surprising discovery about myself: I am not a fan.

Those who know me would no doubt find this startling, or even challenge the statement. After all, my obsessions are numerous, and until recently, my collections threatened to bankrupt me and leave me homeless, unable to even clear a space to sleep among the action figures, yo-yos, and obscure tsatkes .

However, even a casual perusal of the internet reveals that the bar has been raised on "true" fandom, approaching the level of an obsessive-compulsive disorder. It seems that the ability to easily locate, connect, and communicate with others who share a particular interest has resulted in a sort of concentrated hyperfandom. It's almost like cultural inbreeding has created a master race... and an awful lot of mutants (But as long as they're happy mutants, I wish them well.).

As for myself, I can point out the location of the Jeffries tubes, but I couldn't pick the Enterprise "C" out of a line-up. I have the dictionary and phrase book, but I only know one word in Klingon. I know that Ferengi women customarily go unclothed, but I don't recall who wrote the Rules of Acquisition. Embarassing.

I know that a Wamprat is roughly the same size as a Death Star exhaust port, but I can't name the members of the Jedi Council. I can tell Red Three from Red Five by the markings on their S-Foils, but I have no idea where Darth Maul was born. Pathetic.

I'm not sure I can even be called an otaku. I've seen all of Cowboy Be-Bop and the original Dirty Pair, but I've still only seen one episode of Evangelion.

I can't honestly say that my level of interest or commitment to anything even comes close to modern fandom. One might say that I am an aficionado, or perhaps a dilettante (I've always liked that word. It sounds so blasé and Oscar Wilde-ish!), but I would never claim to be a fan in this day and age. To do so is to invite a humiliating trivia challenge, or at least risk public embarassment at finding oneself hopelessly treading water--or peddling bull$#!+--in a conversation.

And the last thing I need is to get served by a guy wearing a cheap prosthetic forehead.