“Two minutes to drop. It’s alright to be scared. Remember, there is no courage without fear.”
-Master Sergeant Farell, Edge of Tomorrow
I’ve grown close to Bootstrap-based layouts since tinkering with them a lot earlier this year at the company hackathon. Even very basic Bootstrap layouts were appealing, hence my use of the new theme, Bootstrap Canvas WP. There are no direct CSS customizations—just modifications made in WordPress’ factory theme customizer.
A cover of a favorite Christmas song of mine. Its atonality is refreshing. Enjoy!
It’s an odd game, but it makes a lot of sense if you adjust to it.
Minor spoilers below…
1 – It was good, with some great moments and mildly cringy moments—par for the course for the franchise.
2 – As expected, the production values were top shelf. Some faces, to match the age of the actors seen almost 40 years ago in Episode IV: An New Hope, had to be CGI, and they were pretty much flawless renderings. Grand Moff Tarkin and Princess Leia were the most obvious, and I believe Garven Dreis (“Red Leader, standing by…”) was spotted.
3 – Forest Whitaker and Wen Jiang as Saw Gerrera and Baze Malbus, respectively, were excellent, and Alan Tudyk’s voice work for the resigned, deadpan K-2S0 was top notch. On the antagonist side, Ben Mendelsohn as Director Orson Krennic, the Chief Very Bad White Villain, kept pace with the obvious fan-favorite focus on Darth Vader. Not an easy task. Felicity Jones’ Jyn Erso, the Stock Female Badass Protagonist With Eyeliner, gave an average performance, but in some scenes she had her moments.
4 – As it relates to the Star Wars universe in general, the film was intentionally darkwashed and feminized—two of the film’s writers said so, going so far as retconning the Empire into a white supremacist organization. Fighting against racial imperialism is actually a good thing, but note that nearly no white supremacists/imperialists exist—being pro-white (or pro-any-race) is nowhere near the same thing as being pro-white-racial-imperialism. If you can’t parse that difference, or feel the need to special plead for certain demographics, you’ve been successfully propagandized.
Here’s a spoiler alert: zombies are tied to their lands, like feudal serfs in Medieval Europe. If their “lifeland” is doing well, they are going to be coming at you like strongmen. They draw energy from prosperous earth. A solution: drop every dead body far away from where they died so they will end up totally confused. They can’t assimilate well, but they don’t get assaulty or rapey like Syrian refugees—they’ll just stalk and eventually eat you with no pretense of shame or inhibition. I don’t know which is worse. If we’ve deported them enough distance (the zombies, I mean), they’ll have a hard time of all of it. Maybe drop them onto Antarctica? Google Maps fetishists will clamor for more coverage in the area to see the folly for themselves.
Not a spoiler: you wind along cramped, old-city streets, not necessarily running from zombies, but possibly. You end up at a narrow courtyard where lots of hip, young, attractive types are lounging in the spring sun. There’s a low-lying terracotta roof bordering at the back of the courtyard. You make your way onto it with your lover but you can’t seem to get physical with her. You both can’t stand the sight of having your carnal indulgences on display for the starved undead. Maybe it’s like a mirror for you. Or them. You’re pretty much content with just sitting there.
Her car is full, but that’s not the reason she leaves you on the side of the road. The scenery is pleasant enough, though. You end up back at the gymnasium bleachers soon after and take a nap on the top bench. You fall asleep wondering why there are so many snack food wrappers sticking on the scaffolding above you. She wakes you up by rattling the bleachers apart; she must’ve have some tool on her. You fall off but land safely among the dismantled wood and metal. She seems a lot taller to you this time, like she inhaled too much and kept it in. She forces you to swear never to come near her or the place again. You feign acquiescence but have no intention of keeping the promise. Next time you’ll have a knife on you and gladly make use of it.
The skeleton king sidestepped discretely to one edge of the throne room, and up a wall. He had made a mess of things, right in front of the dais, on the strip of crimson carpeting: a pile of bones. His confused courtiers gathered around the pile. The king disappeared into a dark corner of the ceiling and everyone below could sense his embarrassment.
One night I’ll wake up to find an apocalyptic movie scene being projected onto the bedroom ceiling. Suburban ceilings have the light-colored, canvassy quality that’s needed to accomplish this. I’ll note this fact, and the accuracy of the projector’s keystone adjustments in how the image’s corners neatly fill parallel the ceiling corners. The cinematic hell actually playing will pass my notice, because I don’t have the empathetic capacity to take in all the fictional destruction. I can’t ingest the constant dopamine hits from every sentient fold of molecule that brushes up against me and remain in a sane state. The end of the world in general wouldn’t be so bad—the end my world is the problem.
Later, scientists argued that the clouds are a signal of global warming, while others said they came from space dust remnants in the atmosphere, the theory that NASA now supports.
Stupid academics and their instruments. Knock on your EKG meters until they work. It’s not a cloud, it’s Mordiggian. He don’t care ’bout no timetables, only what you taste like.