tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47054855555366509222012-01-27T08:46:59.122-06:00You must be bored.Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.comBlogger81100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-61112195976168289382008-10-06T21:39:00.005-05:002008-10-07T15:28:59.492-05:00

When I try to remember how I developed such an affinity for Interactive Fiction, I find myself at a loss. Its hey-day was much before my time, the genre all but wiped out with the advent of new-fangled VGA graphics. I guess it happened a bit by circumstance. I spent much of my internet-browsing time scouring the internet for "game makers." After all, what could be cooler than making

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-20849230551977808962007-12-31T20:28:00.000-06:002007-12-31T21:51:50.129-06:00

The good old tale of the "Christmas Miracle" is a trite old thing that tends to be hashed and rehashed every season, reflected in our eyes in the form of heart-warming family TV specials new and old. It's true, the general feeling of good will toward man seems to spark the belief that magical things can happen during the holidays. Christmas morning surprises, sparking (or rekindling) of warm

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-67737582269499772942007-11-21T10:15:00.000-06:002007-11-25T09:29:39.264-06:00

The fiendish festivities of All Hallow’s Eve have long since passed. Children, and children at heart, are done toiling away at cobbling costumes, and the pining for candy has all but been forgotten. Another holiday looms on the horizon, with it the promise of gifts, goodies, and wishes held for the entire year fulfilled. The promise of snow, even where there never is any, weighs heavily, and

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-1817703463562329972007-08-31T22:30:00.000-05:002007-09-02T15:00:23.497-05:00

I remember the beaches. Behind them old homes stood, old wood and brick houses that had been in their place since before I was born, before my mother was born, some before my mother's mother was born. There were old stores that had ice cream in old freezers, old restaurants with old menus and old staff that remembered your name. There were old toy stores, where I still remember grabbing

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-17989327312187180242007-08-14T20:07:00.000-05:002007-08-31T22:54:19.143-05:00

There's a tired old axiom that goes something like: “If you hold onto something long enough, sure enough, it will come back in style.”I think, in ways, it has never been more true. As each decade defines itself, the new millennium has enrobed itself with the idea that not only should our clothes look like clothes from another era, but they should like they were actually from that era, articles

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-87880607705633783952007-07-29T15:45:00.000-05:002007-07-29T17:36:57.563-05:00

Memories retained from childhood always seem to evoke sweeter sensations than their sources would warrant. An old television show, a silly song, the smell of wet asphalt; these things, if experienced for the first time, are rarely in the realm of extraordinary. Yet, armed with the heavy perfume of impalpable nostalgia, these fragments of recollections weigh heavily on our hearts and can elicit

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-3273434509604422672007-07-24T14:06:00.000-05:002007-07-24T14:40:06.495-05:00

It's quite isolating when you realize you are in the vast minority of opinion on a subject. That said, I can't help but verbalize how utterly baffled I am by America's obsession with fragrances. Not a single commercial break lilts by without at least three wholly separate olfactory assaults. Concentrated artificial scent gives me a severe headache, but more than that, I just can't wrap my head

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4705485555536650922.post-15097966262748665882007-07-21T19:28:00.000-05:002007-07-21T22:46:43.744-05:00

I have the infamous habit of playing pianos I really should not be playing. Likely you have seen them before: pianos sitting woeful and lonely in a lobby or salon, their keys displayed unabashed and immodest in some sort of vain hope that it can feel the caress of a pianist before its due appointment, one that night or the afternoon, or in the worst of cases, in the distant future of days,

Clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310812193890245220noreply@blogger.com1