Can you do something that would appeal to Leo Laporte? I have an in, and I remember he and Amber did a "cover code monkey" thing at the start of Coulton's career.

Sometimes FiyH is just bitching about shit which isn't relevant in the wrong forum.

Saw it. Didn't like it.

ArsTechnica did an interesting interview with harebrained schemes - the company behind the Shadowrun Returns kickstarter

http://arstechnica.com/gaming/2013/07/f … d-schemes/

There's an interesting, and relevant point made during the interview which comes back to people being but hurt about Zach Braff - or celebrity projects:

This is pretty much the crux of Kickstarter - you have to be able to sell. If you can't, get someone who can to do your pitch video, and manage the updates and community interaction. Your indy film may be high art, and tell a story which changes peoples lives, but at the end of the day you're asking strangers to give you money. That's called sales.

I've seen good projects fail because they have a terrible pitch, and I've seen successful projects under-perform because they didn't know what to do once hitting their funding goal. Before starting you need a strategy for getting people's interest, selling them your solution, then getting the hooks in to increase their commitment.

Sort of, I could probably do an Australian who had lived in London for a while?

If you need an Australian...

Let me add Primer.

I don't have a single film I like the least, or even a bottom 5 - I don't hate film for being bad, as much as missing potential. Some films I really didn't enjoy:

The expendables
Batman forever
Iron man 3
Promethius
Source code

Yep, exactly.

Forgive my indulgence.

I'm not sure my experience is indicative of others, but the pregnancy / birth / child thing is all new to me - and frankly I'm a little worried I'm doing it wrong. I've tried to record this accurately.

Monday

I’ve left work early because I’m still trying to get over the flu. Vi’s due to go in to labour on Friday, so she’s home. We nap.

It’s 15:15.
“I think my water just broke.”

Until this point, being future parents is something Vi and I view from a distance. While we were both aware of her swelling belly, the discomfort, and a slowly approaching date, even watching a little person inside her move around on the ultrasound still felt a little unreal.

We’ve spent the last 9 months acquiring stuff, for want of a better word. Pram, car seat, cot, clothes, bottles, nappies, wipes, towels, etc. Until now, the little man she was growing was really just an excuse to buy more things and redecorate a room. Parenthood is an abstract concept.

“Should we bring the bags, I don’t think we need them.”
“What’s the worst thing that happens if we do, and they send us home?”

She’s growing more uncomfortable as we drive, we’re not sure if she’s having contractions. I always suspected that choosing a hospital 45 minutes away from home could be a questionable decision. It turns out that it didn’t matter too much - we make it in 30.

The hospital is vast and confusing, in the parenting classes we’ve always come up from the basement car park – never the front entrance. We’re directed to take the lift to the second floor, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing, so I get really focused on getting to the delivery suite as efficiently as possible. This is probably unnecessary.

We find the maternity ward and a midwife takes over. With an assertive point she sends me down to move the car while she takes a look at Vi. This is good, clear direction is good. By the time I get back Vi is getting in to bed – an enormous, mechanised contraption which would not look out of place in an anime set in a future where the beds are really transforming robots. It has stirrups. I assume that shortly the bed will be wheeled to a gleaming porcelain white, sterile operating theatre, where doctors and midwives will hover like begowned avatars of clinical, impersonal, serenity.

Television has a lot to answer for.

The Room

In our maternity classes Vi’s mentioned wanting to try a TENS machine, and possibly gas for pain relief. She’s confident in her pain tolerance, and wants to try to give birth naturally. At about 17:00 she is 4cm dilated and her contractions are about 3 minutes apart. As the contractions continue to get stronger, she begins to go quiet with the pain.

At 17:45 we ask for an epidural, it will take about an hour for the anaesthetist to arrive. While Vi continues to get quieter and paler, I do an excellent job of sitting beside her being largely useless. The patting and rubbing we were told to do in the maternity class is unwanted, and totally counter-productive now that the reality of labour is kicking in. I wish there was a manual, user guide, or some kind of case study for this stuff.

The anaesthetist arrives, and administers the epidural in between contractions. Vi doesn’t even feel the needle go in. He tapes a tiny plastic catheter to her back and over her shoulder. This is connected to a drip full of anaesthetic, which is delivered right into a space between her vertebrae. 4 hours ago I would have sworn black and blue that I’d never let anyone fiddle around with my back were I the one giving birth. As of now I couldn’t have been more wrong.

At 19:00 it’s like night and day - everything is better. Vi is sitting up, eating, and watching the news with me. Apparently, we’re in labour. Apart from the setting, you would never know. Vi tells me she delivers here in the birth suite, then we move to our room. That can’t be right; this room is mostly carpet apart from the area around the bed – where will the doctors scrub up? Don’t I get some kind of mask and hat?

At 22:00 our obstetrician, Dennis, drops by to see how everything is progressing. He expects things to get moving around midnight - I begin to wish I hadn’t woken up at 04:30.

Tuesday

I’ve never watched the Tour de France before, but it’s pretty exciting. Midwives tell us Vi’s 9cm dilated, she’s eating lollies and feeling a little nauseous.

At about 02:00 things begin to move. Midwives uncover the bits which need to be uncovered, and lift Vi’s legs into the stirrups. She’s told to push. There is poo. Nobody told me there would be poo. I try to look steadfast and resolute while having no idea what to do next, and being a bit scared.

I’m holding her hand while she pushes. With the epidural she can’t really feel the contractions, so pushes when the midwives say to. The midwives are talking about needing to get the baby around the corner – I’m not really sure what they mean, but Vi is getting tired. The baby’s heart rate drops, then comes back up. The midwives call our obstetrician.

Vi’s been pushing for almost 90 minutes, and has thrown up twice. The baby’s heart rate drops and comes back up again, they make another call, and stop telling Vi to push, I don’t know if that means she should stop, or that they’re just distracted. I don’t ask, keep holding her hand, and try to look confident and steadfast. They come back in with forceps, which really do look like enormous steel salad tongs.

Dennis arrives, and things happen very quickly. At 03:16 there’s a noise of metal on flesh, and suddenly he puts a screaming purple person on Vi’s chest. We have a baby. He looks at Vi, then at me. I reach out and he grips my finger. I remember I was told to take photos. Dennis hands me a pair of scissors.

Birth is horrifying and messy and awful. There is blood, shit, pain, and exhaustion.

I remember him waiting for the placenta to be expelled, and a spurt of blood that covers him from shoulder to shoes that Tarantino would have been proud of. The baby, our Son, is on Vi’s chest. She looks pale, like she’s going in to shock. Dennis begins sewing.

I’m told this is all normal. None of this was in the birthing classes. I’m worried about Vi, and give consent for our child to have a Hep B vaccination and vitamin K shot. I’m giving consent for another human being. He weighs 3.000 kg. They put him in a wondersuit, and give him to me to hold. I have no idea how.