ell it's about bloody-monkeyfucking-time. The AMPUTHEATRE website has received an all-new Slashers page, which is far more intuitive, readable, and navigatable than the old photo album I was borrowing from LiveJournal- which I no longer use, and consequently no longer wish to pay for. And as a result, my most meaningful LiveJournal pics are now no longer available for use.
I don't even remember why I needed an avatar of Riley Freeman.
I'm digressing. Nearly fifty Slashers are now available for your perusal, and I will add more and more as they become created/updated. The sweet news is that if you see a Slasher you'd like, there's a link for you on that page to commission me and see that figure built. If it doesn't seem complete, or there are an inexplicable amount of white capital "N"s everywhere, that's my "skull" rating system which is being universalized for any and all web browsers by the awesome and invincible Jen of Pencognito fame.
The FAQ and Links pages have been revised. The Traps page is all-new, and there's also an all-new Weapons page. Instead of just photographing pilfered accessories with strategically-placed red paint, I tried to use only Weapons and Traps I built myself. (My more awesome ones, such as the Outboard Motor and Pole Saw, were in the hands of Slashers at the time of shooting, and probably complicated the page more than necessary...)
Oh and if I haven't mentioned this, both AMPUTHEATRE and Chenille Macabre are on Facebook. Join these groups if you like; just don't ask me to join your applications, and DEFINITELY do NOT ask me to join your Petition To Remove GRRRR PLOTZ AAAARRGH From Facebook. Because I fucking hate censorship. That's why.
I'm playing some AMPUTHEATRE tomorrow at Millennium Games. 7 pm. Friday, Jan. 22nd. That will be fun.
Never once did I ever think of myself as a cat person before I met who would become my wife. Four months into our relationship she decided to find an apartment in Rochester, and she wanted two cats to share it with. One of these was our female orange tabby Thunder.
Thunder never liked me. Granted, I was the shit come feeding time, and I could pet her anywhere I wished provided it was only her head, and provided I didn't mind that she would shake off my touch like it were a pedophiliac tapeworm. Even as two hundred plus pounds of tired pipe cleaner artist slowly lowered itself onto the side of the bed that she deemed hers, she still begrudgingly held her ground as if she had paid in advance on a time slot- eager to squeeze out every possible second she could.
But she loved my wife Dee Fenestrate. Absolutely, unerringly loved her. This love would be forced- sometimes during Final Fantasy XI Online when Dee's Mithra warrior was hair-bun-deep in armed Yagudo Templars- but it was always genuine. As Dee laid down on the couch to watch me play video games, Thunder- ignorant to relaxed protest- would leap onto the couch, comfortably recline on her adoptive mommy and snooze away, her face pressed awkwardly into the backrest. Chasing after string, ultra-long pipe cleaners, and trotting into the room at the first stirrings of her mommy rousing from a nap... Thunder was a fourteen-year-old kitten. A kitten with more nicknames than Satan: "Big Orange", "Mommy's Little Hellbeast", "Cuddles Cuteface"... I simply couldn't take to that one.
Two days ago, Thunder was very lethargic and not eating. We scheduled her for the vet on the following morning. We ran her to the emergency room when she twice snuck off to parts of our basement she had never been to before. What they say about diabetes and heart disease being silent killers is true. After receiving the diagnosis, and failing to receive any assurance that the thousands (thousands) of dollars spent could grant anything more than a fleeting reprieve, we saw Thunder off yesterday morning- painlessly, peacefully, and -instead of a cold cellar corner- her mother's lap. Maybe not so peacefully, as I was around. And my voice always made her tail lash about, like that of an enraged Ankylosaurus. Which was another nickname for her.
Wherever she is now, I'm positive there is plenty of shrimp to eat. And plastic that doesn't gum up your digestive tract when swallowed. And ribbon far from the presence of my sister. Thunder disliked me, but she loathed my sister Danielle. (Danielle once held Thunder for near the duration of an entire Halloween party, which is how Thunder learned that she had powers of hissing and spitting.) Once we had Danielle over at our apartment for her birthday, so she was opening gifts. The sound of torn wrapping paper was a dinner bell for the ribbonvore Thunder, so with an enthusiastic meow! she leapt onto the back of the couch- and realized that she was sitting right behind Danielle. The negative energy from that cat was such that I swore the lights dimmed. And why she didn't just get up and off the couch after leaping there, I have no clue. Maybe all her leg power was instinctively routed towards her internal hate-engines.
...I'm getting a lump in my throat now; can I stop writing and give you a picture instead...? This is from November, 2005- not long after Dee and I were married, and- fuck it; I'm just cut-pasting text from LJ:
It was very, very worth forgetting to return a roll of paper towels back to the counter from the floor (to clean up a spill from last night) and have Thunder destroy the whole roll while Daddy wasn't looking... and then hearing her add insult to injury by hissing and growling at the tattered mess.
"Fuck YOU, paper towels."
"...Think you're all the shit because you're super-absorbent; yeah, you SUPER-ABSORBED, all right! A BEATDOWN from DJ Cuddles CUTEFACE; THAT'S what you absorbed, bitch!"
We're gonna miss you, Big Orange.