If you’re reading this, it is most likely Halloween, the one day of the year when prejudice is thrown aside and we all indulge in a little mindless superstition. I, myself, don’t like to drive home alone on Halloween – if only because the story of the phantom hitchhiker has forever been burned into my memory since I read about it in a ladygirl magazine many, many moons ago.

A mainstay of this frightful season is the – now overused, tired – zombie. With limbs missing, and flesh oozing they burst through the window of our imaginations to terrify us all. It is why any sane person in the world today has a zombie escape plan. In this blog post I will attempt to run down my own plan, to escape the oncoming horde, and do it rather concisely – I have better things to be getting on with on Halloween, like drawing the curtains and pretending I’m not home.


The infection would likely spread throughout the winter, when our immune system is at its weakest. As a result, old people would be the first to be affected. It is with this in mind that I do not visit relatives over the holidays – ever. Instead, during the first stages of the infection, which is no doubt beginning to take grasp and choke what little sensibilities the elderly have left out, you should aim to stockpile your getaway vehicle with supplies.

Specifically, you should aim to bring tinned food (and a tin opener), food packaged in stay-fresh foil, weapons and fuel. You should also save space in the vehicle for at least one passenger – for the next step of the plan.

It is at this point you should head to the harbour – and if you don’t live near the coast your passenger should be immediately upgraded from ‘comrade,’ or ‘the only chance you have to get lucky’ to ‘meat shield,’ and ‘the only chance you have to get lucky,’ because you have effectively lost the game. Without access to the harbour, and a boat, you are as good as dead.

The roads, will have been blocked – or treacherously coated in a slick sheet of ice from the winter weather, thus leaving you in a town or city with a raging infection of the living dead. Sucks to be you.

Meanwhile, if you’re fortunate like me, you requisition a boat. I imagine driving a boat is much like driving a car, so you’d (I’d) be fine. With the boat you’d stay at sea, until the infection passes and everyone with it dies, or is killed by people who can’t drive a car, or don’t live near the coast (meat shields).

The amount of time you stay on the boat, of course, depends on how the infection is carried. I am, of course, writing this with the view that zombies need fresh flesh to survive, and aren’t capable of surviving throughout the harsh winter season.

So, really, no more than a year should be needed until the zombie population takes over, and then dies from starvation.

There it is, the only plan you’ll ever need this holiday season to survive swine flu. Happy holidays, and stay safe.

Uncharted 2: Drakes Fortune has been out since the 16th of October in Europe. Early reports suggest that the game sold near to 300,000 units on its first day, competing with the hugely successful FIFA 10 series from EA (which, incidentally, sold 1,000,000 units in its first three weeks).

It is unknown how many more units have been sold since then, but with reviews remaining highly positive, it is believed that the Christmas season will be kind to Naughty Dog, Uncharted’s developer.

A sequel to the similarly praised Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune, the player takes the role of Nathan Drake, descendant of Sir Francis Drake, a Tomb Raider-esque, unlikely, and yet highly entertaining protagonist. Throughout a journey that will take Drake from Istanbul to the Himalayas, players will be invited to enjoy stunning visuals and fantastic voice acting from a cast including the likes of the returning Nolan Smith (Nathan Drake) and Emily Rose (Elena Fisher), all of which adding to the chemistry of an action-rom-com, movie-like experience.

Nathan, and his rag-tag group of accomplices, find themselves racing against a Serbian war criminal in an attempt to retrieve the Cintamani stone, a wish-fulfilling object from the Buddhist kingdom, Shambhala – and thus save the world from impending misfortune once again.

Whilst not the most original of stories, essentially a rinse and repeat affair straight from classic adventure movies, one has to remember that there is a reason such movies receive such critical acclaim. Whilst playing, it is hard not to be absorbed in to what any prospective adventure game should be – exceptional (read as: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade).

Having played the first game in the series, it would be forgivable to think that there was nothing to – drastically – improve upon. Therefore, it comes as a welcome inevitability that things have instead been trimmed and tightened since Nate’s last outing. Shooting, for example, is no longer a hit-and-hope affair, with headshots affecting all of the non-boss enemies.

Uncharted 2: Among Thieves, whilst not bringing mechanic and game-play advances to the table of third-person shooters, does move the format from a smack talking, grey-and-brown-scale boys club to a wider audience. It is not a complex, thirty-hour adventure that requires study, nor is it a run-and-gun romp on an alien world. At its core, Uncharted brings the gaming culture – convincingly – one-step closer to Hollywood.

Uncharted 2: Among Thieves is available in most stores that sell games now – a third-person action-adventure shooter that includes several multi-player modes (internet connection required).
Uncharted 2: Among Thieves, was developed by Naughty Dog, published by Sony Computer Entertainment for the PlayStation 3 console.

[9/10]

Positives:
· Game-play: The idea of scaling walls and dispensing enemies to reach treasure has been done before, never, though, has it been so seamlessly implemented. Indeed, these sections are divided throughout the game, breaking up sections of combat and exploration. Sometimes, magnificently, all three parts come together at once.
· Stealth: Albeit a small part of the game, the hand-to-hand combat from the previous title – which was rarely used – will regularly become a fixture in any given play-through, with takedowns and quick-time events rounding off the combat of the game.
· Graphics: The graphics remain as awe striking as the previous instalment, with light reflecting off water, and the same water drenching the clothes of Nathan and his compatriots. Uncharted 2 proves, if anything, that games with guns need not be a dark, brown affair.
· Cast: The voice acting of Uncharted 2 is, without a doubt, the standout detail of the game. There genuinely seems to be a connection between all of the characters, more so than many, actual, Hollywood productions.

Negatives:
· Game-play: Whilst climbing has become fun since the last game, the combat has not improved upon the industry standards. It is, in fact, a standard affair of finding cover, popping up to shoot a few people, and then returning to cover. Worse still is that these sections may as well be labelled. Entering a new area to be greeted with a fallen pillar at a convenient waist-high height will – without fail – mean a slew of enemies will soon be arriving.

With the widespread availability of the internet, people are now able to express themselves at any point of any day. As a result, I have suffered. In fact, everyone has suffered. It is not until you join the ‘social revolution’ of social networking that you find that the people you once respected, even loved, are complete and utter wasters.

I shudder now, thinking of the amount of times someone that I know – who has a university education – has fallen for little more than chain mail. And not even the mildly convincing African billionaire ones, rather the “post this 20 times in the next three minutes, press CTRL+ALT+DEL and your true love will materialize on your screen” type. Essentially, the same hoodoo that forms the backbone of one of my earlier rants, conspiracy theories and paranormal events. A backbone of idiots.

Returning to my point, I once had many friends. It is true; I was once moderately popular, having friends that numbered into the dozens. However, the evil that is the internet has opened my eyes and shown them for what they truly are, and as such, I have had to cull the number of people I regularly associate with. In this sense, it has saved me, the internet, but it has utterly dashed my dreams and hopes for the future, and any notion of it – the internet – being used as a valuable tool for education and peace.

Politicians’ twat these days, on Twitter. Chain mail has evolved from the bane of an E-mail inbox to the disease of Facebook. Once upon a time, when you would have to physically set out to know how your friend (who would have remained your friend at the end of the conversation, probably) was doing wouldn‘t result in you actively trying to think of an excuse to go home on the way there. Things were good. These days, not so much.

Turning on your computer becomes a test to see how long you last without switching it off again, if only to avoid a constant stream of notifications, informing you that ‘Ted’ is brushing his teeth and really likes the new Kaiser Chiefs album.

As a result of this freedom of expression, people in the real world have become walking drones of disappointment. Long ago, you would have to be mildly interesting to have friends, these days you just need to have a profile page. It has lead to people looking, acting and sharing the same interests as everyone else – because people now know what needs to be done to be perceived as interesting.

Understandably, it would be unfair to blame the world’s problems on social networking websites. Therefore, instead, I find solace in blaming the people who use them. Long, long ago you would need to talk out your disagreements, now you can just press the ‘ignore’ button, and never have to deal with any semblance of a grown-up, real problem.

As a society, we should be deeply concerned, as before long a world of index finger strong, socially inept zombies could rule. However, instead of being terrified, or even entertaining the idea, I suspect we’ll all remain rooted to our chairs, updating our status about an interesting blog we read today.

N.B.
I am a zombie: Facebook/ Twitter.

When I was growing up, I would spend my time outside, running away from bees and hoping that my parents would forget that the sun stayed out later at summer. Back then, an exciting day would consist of finding old kitchen appliances in peoples back gardens and playing house. It was a simpler time.

These days, it’s all about finding love. I’ll spend my time giving women the ‘look,’ from across a bar that smells of stale beer and fried food from the lunch service. Occasionally I’ll speak to these enchanters of the opposite sex, but it’ll all end in an awry moment where I realise my future flashing before my eyes, a nine-to-five office job, the mini-van, and the semi-detached house in the middle of the street. I simultaneously see the good times and the bad, the mounting debts, the arguments, and the niggling thought that I may have one day found someone better if I hadn’t settled.

Then, I smile, look at her, and as I’m about to suggest I buy her a drink, her boyfriend returns from the lavatory. I order another drink, for myself.

I convince myself that it would have ended in an ungraceful heap anyway, not unlike back garden appliances from my youth, and that makes things better for a while. Really, I consider myself better off without a significant washing machine. People are too eager to fall in love, and because of that eagerness, they end up alone, without a washing machine.

The latest figures in the United Kingdom confirm this, with one of three new marriages in the United Kingdom ending in soul crushing divorce. Yet people do not seem discouraged by these facts, everyone wants to feel needed, everyone wants love.

Really, it is an idea – real love – it is a fictional, fabled emotion. Instead, you can love a food, a product or even a place. Love, actual love, can be bought, and like anything that can be bought, it is most likely made poorly, in a sweatshop, and will break or require updating at sporadic and inopportune times. It is unreliable, it is not a constant, and people who fall in love before reaching this realisation are only fooling themselves, I continue to tell myself.

Old fridges are a lot like the fictional love, meanwhile. They spend their lifetime looking after the people who depend on them, reliable until the end. Taking stock and never judging you about what it is you stick in where. Like fictional love, it ends abruptly. You’ll find a newer, better, fridge, one that can accommodate your new, more demanding needs, and you cast aside your love, claiming that you never did love her. All she did was take up space, and she was big, and was starting to smell of spoilt milk anyway.

More likely, your fridge will fail on you. You’ll neglect to care for your fridge, and she will break. Regardless, you will be forced to cast away your old fridge, resign her to the back garden of life, where someone stronger than you will pick her up.

Indeed, as I finish my drink, I’ve begun to realise that love can’t be found in the bottom of a glass, if it can be found at all. Real love is found if you’re strong, and patient, because one day a good-as-new back garden fridge that suits my needs will show itself from across the room, and I don’t want to have to make space in my kitchen when she does.

Of late, I have felt a little under the weather. I blame the people I associate with, naturally, but it has given me some time to get away from the hectic struggles of regular day-to-day living. Instead, I have spent my time picking faults with the people I know, and myself – but mostly the people I know.

No one appreciates the arts anymore, you see. Just the other day I was humming away to a score of Wagner’s when all of a sudden I realised complete strangers were watching me. Likewise, when one goes to the library (remembering to wash one’s hands after leaving such an archaic establishment, what with swine flu and all) – a place of enlightenment and education – you can consider yourself most lucky if it has anything other than [name omitted, an average author] in stock.

Indeed, I seem to attract morons and plebs from all occupations.

Just the other day I found myself literally, face palming my way through a dreary conversation about alcohol. Before then, I had just assumed that everyone knew that alcohol was only good for finding inspiration in the darkest of front living rooms, and for swirling around in a large wine glass whilst plotting world domination. Not unlike how tweed is only useful for sitting on park benches, reading a broadsheet, and how tabloid journalism is only useful for preoccupying the working classes, lest they form an opinion. However, it seems quite acceptable for people to go out and gorge themselves into an early grave on the juices of morning after regret.

In fact, the social climate is so terribly poorly – man-cold poorly, in actuality – that it is now socially acceptable to be unread. It verges on being acceptable to be unkempt, too, but I have faith that tattoos of nautical stars will die out soon enough, much to the chagrin of the trendy people with them.

(Soul crushingly) Remembering the point at which faith was lost in this generation, oneself finds it has irreparably scarred his very equilibrium. Undeniably, it was a sad day for all involved. Stephen Fry most likely had an upset stomach on that day, and Charles Dickens probably span.

It was a day like any other day – the sun was out, the sky was blue, and everything and everyone was well. Then someone said it:

“Shut up, I’m trying to read.”

Literally, a mouse fart could have been heard at that very moment. I believe I may have actually fainted from a head rush of unbelievable rage and contempt for the speaker. The very thought of what that person was thinking, as if silence was a prerequisite to reading at a higher level, angers me to this very day. I believe it is referred to as post-traumatic stress amongst the medicinal several, and by those of us slightly less ambitious, the angries.

Returning to the track I am paving, I am faced with an odd predicament. The thought of joining the ranks of these people chills my soul – or the place where the soul is located, if it is located there – and I simply refuse to believe that they cannot be beaten – with a stick, perhaps with a nail in it.

Arguably, we could remove these people from society, but that still leaves us with the problem of having vegemite.

Allow me to explain, you can remove the vegemite from the cupboard, but you will still have vegemite. Likewise, we can remove ourselves from the circles of people we dislike, but they will still be there, waiting to turn a good night awful, or a bad night worse, when we least expect it.

The problem is, of course, that vegemite cannot be disposed of. Some people actually like the stuff, they are terrible people for doing so, and as such, we should want to disassociate from all form of social contact, lest we accidentally find ourselves encroaching upon a herd of likeminded loons. Indeed, removing oneself from human interaction seems like the only solution for such a horrible state of affairs.

However, they will all still be out there – that is what most likely has me feeling under the weather, and that is why I hate everything.

Politics in America is rife with backstabbing, plot making and media coverage. Britain, meanwhile, takes its politics far more sensibly. Indeed, the closest thing we have to [name omitted] is a tabloid newspaper that no one reads. That is how it has always been, and that is how we like it. With a stiff upper lip, and a mug of Earl Gray, we are better for it.

Sky News wants to change that, though. Having no doubt seen the ratings that all the major news broadcasters, worldwide, accumulated during the Obama-McCain presidential race, Sky wants a slice of the British alternative. It is hard to blame them, really, with one candidate in Britain essentially carbon copying the speeches and slogans of one President Obama, albeit he stands for the complete opposite of what his American counterpart does.

A petition is currently circulation, from Sky, in order to coerce Prime Minister Gordon Brown, Conservative leader David Cameron and Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg to appear on television to “re-engage disillusioned voters.” Indeed, it is a noble idea, until you realise that is the first step on a long road of Americanizing British politics. The cult of celebrity, I maintain, should stay far, far away from political agendas.

In fact, the leaders will convene in front of a green screen, and state their reasons for being elected (or re-elected), and slander the opposition whilst they make their case. Essentially, for the run up to the vote, each political leader will forget that they are representing the moralities of their country, and their people, and instead become little more than talking boxes for the tabloid newspapers. With the finances scandal, the economic recession being blamed on Britain, and the impending doom of swine flu, the last thing we need our foreign counterparts doing is thinking us even madder.

You see, there can be no winner in this case of madhouse politics. Those who look strong, on this tele-debate, will be slated by the tabloids for resorting to such low levels of sensibilities not befitting of a politician. Meanwhile, those who look like the second best will receive a substantial boost in the opinion polls, because we British love an underdog story. This is the first time, perhaps, where we should learn from the mistakes of – the relatively new – history of our American brothers.

It is a terribly sad affair. If the petition gains enough signatures, and the leaders (one or all) decide that a television debate is not the best interests of the country, they will be labelled cowards – killers of modern politics, fearful of losing votes by the inadequacies of what it is they have to say. Meanwhile, if the do make a television appearance, they risk losing once established votes to another party, and humiliating the institution that is British politics. Unwittingly, Sky has created a situation that is most uncomfortable for all involved, including the disillusioned voters who were disillusioned because of the fame politics needlessly attracts as is.

Sky News.
Leaders’ Debate Campaign.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinomara/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

I may have mentioned this earlier, but I love gambling. I don’t enjoy loosing, mind you, but I enjoy winning, and that’s a gamble – ergo, I love gambling.

Gambling, you see, requires a certain amount of skill, not luck. Luck is hoping you win the lottery, or you find someone willing to touch you without payment. Skill is knowing how your fellow gambler will play the game, what to do in any situation that arises – from the opponent checking your king with a rook; to knowing not to use one of my many pick up lines that never quite work.

Since I was introduced to the game of Texas hold ‘em poker, which was way back at the turn of the millennium, thanks to the cinema masterpiece that is Rounders (I suggest you find it, buy it and watch it), I have played the game. It has taught me a lot, poker. Such as never playing your hand, instead relying on the actions of your counterpart to determine how the next move should be made. In this sense, it is like chess, albeit I am only moderately successful at chess, whereas I am quite positive that I am the best poker player in the world.

Arguably, this is how politicians play their policies. The discerning few among us will, no doubt, know that most of what would-be in power candidates say is for the red-tops, sensationally claiming that worldwide disasters such as H1N1 and the recession wouldn’t have happened if they were in power. I have no idea why, and I suspect they don’t either. Clearly, they are bluffing, which smoke screens the weak argument they really have, and scares the fear mongers, who’s sole insight into the news is a ‘rag that refers to immigrants as something derogatory, and in caps lock.

Meanwhile, those in power – scared by the bluff, too – keep quiet and muck their hand.

I digress; I find poker ridiculously enjoyable.

However, I do not find political piss contests to be much of an escape.

Those in power can never be seen to stoop to a level displayed in tabloid journalism, or humiliate another politician, if you like. Though, for those seeking to gain power – and I’m sure you know who I’m discussing here (and someone that keen on being in power should never, I believe, be allowed to hold candidacy) – it is quite acceptable to invent lies in order to blacken the eye of current policies, in order to make themselves, and their party, look better. Never mind, if what they’re disgracing is an institution that was strongly backed by a member of their own party, way back when.

Therefore, unlike poker, it is not a true contest of skill. It’s a contest of how educated the current generation of voters are.

Looking at the current polling results, I would argue that they aren’t very – smart that is.

In conclusion, I have reasonably analysed the table, and I can only suggest that when it comes time for you to vote, you scribble down my name. Why? Well, because I’m a man you can trust to get out his pair. I’m pretty good at poker, too.

Several decades ago, the powers-that-be were fearful that television would rot our impressionable minds, subsequently turning us into drooling at the mouth dolts.

How right they were.

New to digital television, Sky Real Lives’ Angels introduces us to the outrageously low production values of the psychic and medium worlds. Trying to convince ordinary people that what they’ve seen wasn’t a dream, or flash of light, but a ghost or angel, the shows panel of renowned psychics peddle their trade to the ignorant masses, through a number of highly scientific methods. Tarot card readings, for example.

With the strong backing of a heavily biased group of mediums, each angel sighting is told as if it were irrefutable proof for the existence of life after death. Sadly, hearing this ground shattering news from the working classes – who themselves can provide no evidence, other than their feelings and beliefs – the programme has become something of a running joke, making its rounds across the information super highway.

This is not because they are necessarily – but probably – wrong, but because they are so overly seeking allowances from people who weren’t quite smart enough to gain a degree in psychiatry, or social sciences, and instead fell back on the old coup de maître of spirit whispering and psychic guesswork.

Therefore, in most cases, the people telling these stories of being abducted by extra-terrestrials, and witnessing the ghost of the purple lady walk through their dead relatives picture frame, are attention seekers. Not unlike the mediums, themselves, trying to validate their pseudoscience of cold reading.

Cold reading, the technique employed by mediums, psychics, fortune tellers, palm readers, mentalists, whisperers, not snowmen, and illusionists, aims to convince the subject that the reader knows details from beyond the grave. This is achieved through a series of analytical questions concerning subjects that are so broad that, well, they‘re broad, and focusing on details from body language to gender. With the subject so consumed by their need to believe, they forget giving intimate details away during the reading, and instead believe that it was the medium who psychically plucked the information from an other dimension.

Each cold reader will claim that the images they see and receive are fuzzy, at best, as to avoid being completely off the mark, but when they are it is a truly sad affair. For the subject, though, it is a tragedy, and that is why I can so easily assume that the person willing to exploit something that they themselves know is complete nonsense for television time and fame is not only morally bankrupt, but also sick.

Rarely, these psychics will happen to stumble upon a fact, and then reference that fact whenever someone so much as suggests that their work contributes less to society than tabloid journalism.

Of course, it would be ignorant to say that everything paranormal is utter nonsense, but it is most likely the case when a psychic has to call out the names “Mike,” and “John,” in every television appearance, two of the most common names in the English language, praying that someone in the audience has a dead relative who’s name resembles the aforementioned. Then, by analysing the subjects age, concluding that it was a father of some sort, and thus the cycle continues.

Sadly, for many people subjected to the deceit of a medium, they will never accept truth. So, television executives, looking to further humiliate and drain the wallet of these poor people, will supply the attention they so eagerly seek, and the mediums, card and palm readers, the whispers, witch doctors, and like-minded believers, are all too willing to play along.

So, whilst I bide my time until my splitting, post-drunk headache subsides, I have been looking at the pictures in the papers. It is the usual affair, sadly.

People are blaming other people for the recession, and other people are keeping busy with a red suitcase, which seems to be falling apart. A scene that reminded me of the ending of ‘Raiders.

I also caught sight of a new hybrid car advertisement, claiming that it is infinitely better than its predecessor, and considering that the average mid-engine saloon did better mileage than the old hybrid, it’s not exactly a statement that wows me. The problem is, of course, that electric cars are terrible, and electric cars with emission producing petrol engines, that use nickel batteries, more than put a dent on any potential good a hybrid can do.

Mentioning the average hybrid’s less-than-average mileage, the overly green people have arrived.

“It’s not meant for long journeys, it’s for suburban travel,” one told me, some time ago.

Well, I always thought that walking was for suburban travel, or the public transport system. A car is, specifically, what you need for long journeys.

Evidently, hybrids are for people who want to think they’re being green-friendly, and then tell you that you’re the problem for the nuclear summers and blisteringly cold winters.

They’re the people who stand in front of your supermarket, waving a flag and handing out flyers suggesting that we vote “no,” for any proposed nuclear power plant, albeit it’s infinitely cleaner than other sources of power, and has become similarly safer since the late 40s.

However, sadly, whenever a hippy hears the word ‘nuclear,’ alarm bells begin to sound and the acoustic guitar is broken out. Then, they all bundle into their hybrids, filling up on unleaded petrol – which is bored from the Earth’s crust on the ocean floor, by a gargantuan drill – to stage a protest, for our benefit, directly in front of the door of wherever it is you’re trying to get into.

The only condolence I have is that, with the recession, they may perhaps suffer the most, and won’t be able to afford a hybrid to travel with – which is ironic – or will have to sell their guitar. Either one would make my trip to the supermarket infinitely more pleasant.

No one reads anymore. I blame this fact on there being better things to do, like watching John Q. Public crashing headfirst into a wall on the YouTube. Much like how, several hundred years ago, no one went for healthy jogs; because they were all too busy not dying of the plague.

There are simply more important things to be getting on with. As such, the media people have suffered, not unlike how the banks have suffered now that their dependency on the British consumer to spend money they don’t have, on objects they don’t need, has taken a turn for the worse. Now I’ve officially written about the recession, and therefore never need to mention it ever again, because – frankly  – it has only affected two kinds of people: bank managers, and the overly rich. People that aren’t you or I.

Moreover, that is happening here, now. Just last week we were engaged with the never-ending onslaught of breaking news stories, which claimed that we were all going to die and be poor, and then die again. We were lead to believe some fellow with an umbrella and bowler hat had lost all of our moneys. We all ran around screaming, buying supermarket-own-brand wheat biscuits, and took to hiding money in our socks.

The rational of us even went on television to blame the Government, and by the rational I, in fact, mean those us who wear tracksuits when we’re not anywhere near a gym or track.

It was all reaching an explosive climax, and then it happened. New breaking news, serious world-threatening news, actual news from an actual 24-hour news broadcaster. We were all, actually this time, going to die because some pig on a farm gave us the flu.

Swine flu, sinisterly known as pandemic H1N1, is estimated to make good times bad, and with 1,424 reported deaths thus far, I’d say it’s a pretty bad time.

However, it is a good time for anyone involved in the recession. This is because everyone has simply forgotten such a thing even matters, and even if they haven’t, they’ll most likely be taking up space in the ground shortly. Meaning, that if you do happen to be one of those umbrella carrying, bowler hat-wearing chaps, you’ve every reason to be whistling whilst you, ah, well, not all idioms work [sic] all the time.

Meanwhile, public transport executives have every right to be feeling the strain of the mounting pressure of the pandemic-y recession. To avoid the flu we can’t be in crowded spaces, and to avoid being poor we can’t afford to spend money to be in a crowded space. I won’t pretend to be sympathetic to this industry, it had it coming for a long time, it’s brought me nothing but pain, and now it threatens to kill me.

So, we come full circle. No one reads anymore because they were all too busy counting their money, and soon no one will bother to count money.

We’ll all be too busy disinfecting the money we have.