Bits For Rent

It’s true.  The great grandfather of Africa and timeless hero of the Republican party, the Elephant is a complete FREAK in the sack.  Do not ask me how I know this, for I do not wish to do you any mental harm that cannot be undone.  Simply accept this as fact, and let us move on.

I got so wrapped up in talking about all the awesome movies I saw in January that I left out a bunch of other stuff I got to do that was cool.  For starters, I finally sunk my teeth into V for Vendatta, the graphic novel which inspired the kick-ass movie from last spring. I’m roughly halfway through it now and it is much, much better than the last Alan Moore novel I read, Watchmen.  In trying to figure out why this work seems to click so much more with me than the latter, I have come to two possible conclusions.  First, that this is actually the better book, and Watchmen is simply a nerdgasm that could never achieve the success of V.  The other solution is that I adored the movie so much as to let it’s fineries rub off on the book as I’ve been reading it, like one may pour A1 on a steak to better appreciate the flavor.  Both are equally likely.

I personally felt that the tone of Watchmen was a bit too preachy and self-aware, as if Alan Moore himself were nudging me in the side every time an overheard song or conversation synced with the panel in a very witty and oh-so-clever fashion.  With V, the dialog syncing and musical overtones are used far less frequently (I literally groaned whenever the pirate story turned up on the next page), and much more effectively.  When V sings an interlude between part one and two and the panels depict all the misery and lowliness of this dystopian England, it works, and it feels right.  It’s something that fits with his character- very theatrical and menacing and full of foreboding.  Maybe it was because the characters, the super heroes, of Watchmen, were just mortals in suits.  Maybe it’s because V is such a focuses and single-minded enigma.  I really don’t know.  All I can say is that it’s a fantastic book so far and I’m eager to finish it.

Elsewhere in the realm of novels, there lies a little gem for the DS.  I’m sure you’ve gotten wind of the hype on the internets, as people everywhere are riding high on the game’s unique style and deep well of intrigue.  I speak, of course, of Hotel Dusk: Room 215.  Hotel Dusk is, simply put, a detective novel in game form, with a few interactive puzzles to change the pace every now and then.  Its most intense moments come in the form of grilling other patrons of the hotel about the secrets they’re intent on keeping, its quietest simply strolling the hallways, waiting for your next encounter.  I cannot say that it is a game for everyone, as it does the odd thing and requires you to read.  Shocking, I know.  But you would be amazed at how few people there are in the world that can appreciate a good yarn.  Do not allow yourself to be one of them.  For $30 you can go and get a remarkably well-written noir story that plays across two screens, full of beautiful character art and a fantastic amount of panache.  You can thank me later.

Here, too, is where I shall make my recommendation for Pandora, and internet radio program that let’s you be the DJ, punching in a favorite artist and getting a streaming sample of similar sounds to pick and choose from at your pleasure.  Any fan of music owes it to themselves to try this program out and see if they can’t stretch their tastes a little and try out something new.  How else are you going to get that iPod library up to 6000 songs?

I seem to be slipping back into my normal, mercurial state, avoiding this blog like the Iraqi Foreign Minister avoids the truth.  It was only with the greatest and most profound self-sacrifice that I am here, upon my sword, writing to you, dear blogosphere.  If there’s anyone out there, please send me a game for my Wii.  The damn thing’s as dusty as the PS3 now, and that system is getting near-daily use.

I suppose you’ve all heard about the glorious 1.5 patch from Sony and how it alleviates what was  akin to attaching leeches to one’s own eyeballs in its faulty backwards compatibility.  The sad thing is, even in that horrendous state, it was still more BC than any other system currently on the market.  MS, Nintendo, get to work on pushing some goddamn content to your userbase, plz.

The good news is that in the past seven days I went from near-emo basketcase to tennis-playing lunatic to serene intellectual and right back to good ol’ fashioned me.  The cure?  Home-cooked meals; finding someone to actually TALK with about my life, rather than glare menacingly in reaction to ubiquitous indifference; and of course a couple of beers.  I was prepared to resort to my sure-fire cigar-on-the-balcony method of sitting and re-evaluating the course of my life, but it’s nice to preserve my lungs and throat whenever possible.  As for the liver… eh, I’m counting on stem cells for that.

I guess it would be appropriate for me to illuminate on the matters that drove me to such a shell-shocked state of mental instability, but frankly, dear reader (all zero of you), I’m just not sure we’re close enough to get down to that level.  There’s a whole bundle of issues there I could rifle through, but the jist of the situation is that I am emotionally and perhaps intellectually to far ahead of my age to deal with the petty shit and shallowness of the people currently in my circle of friends.  Yes, that rings alarmingly loud of arrogance and some gargantuan ego, but I assure you I am, in reality, a most humble and genial dude.  It’s when you have to teach people how a dishwasher works or how to put bags in the garbage can before the garbage goes in that I start to become slightly off-temper, internally or externally.

Suffice it to say that the scenario has, for all intents and purposes, received a kiss on the wound and a rather large band-aid.  I have been told that it is waterproof, too, so that makes the proposition of showering far less troublesome.  And so, that ought to wrap it up for now.  I shall, with valiant effort, be back again within the month to write something else less personal and possibly in relation to a certain princess of the night.

Well it seems like I just can’t get out of this bloody tango. The post I linked to probably will be deleted by the time anyone reads this, but at least I knew what was on there, and at the very least you should be able to read the stupefying amount of idiocy in the creator’s topic. Honestly, I just don’t know what to say anymore. I done with worrying about it. In five years I’m going to get a knock at my door and see some guy fresh out of the 12 Steps there apologizing for the monstrous size of his ego, but until then, let’s talk about other stuff.

I took a nap yesterday. Exciting, isn’t it? But the nap isn’t the important part. Actually, it wasn’t the nap that was important, it was the dream I had while napping. In the span of 90 minutes, I created an entirely original science fiction premise, without doing so much as opening an eye. I don’t want to go too much into detail, because I’ve only managed to write a little bit of it down, but essentially in the near future the human DNA splits, creating two heirs to the homo sapiens that are Man. One species is very similar to the height and build of current man (average height 5’10″ male, standard muscular build), only lighter in skin (not like Goth White, but on the whole noticeably wan), with lengthened incisors like a vampire and a sap-like blood color. The other race was taller (6’2″ on average and at minimum), prone to more body hair, but also quite a big heftier in muscle mass.

Now, I was dreaming this all from the role of one of the vampire-like people, although they aren’t vampires, because there’s nothing supernatural about what they do – the length of the canines I can’t explain, it was just a trait. But essentially what was happening was that these two races were battling over the legacy of their ancestors: technology. They had apparently been in war with one another for two decades or so, and came into existence about 30 years ago.

To sum it up: weird stuff was going on in my mind that day.  Having just watched Munich and started reading V For Vendetta while playing Dead Rising is bound to cause some odd stirrings in one’s brain, but to have this dump out of my head is truly out of the ordinary.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go lay down.

I had hoped to never bring up such a personally sensitive subject on my blog again, but when I had someone direct me to such an inflammatory journal entry directed at himself, I couldn’t stand by and bite my tongue. It would be wrong to let this go without a response.

For the unitiated, I said my good-byes to my former stooge and ‘net buddy Afox/Chaz several months ago, after several failed attempts to reconcile what I had considered an amicable and important friendship. Back then, it seemed that one of the parties involved had made a decision to put two years of his life behind him and start his life fresh without any old ties. I understood this, and gave the man his space. However, he still remained in contact with some of our other acquaintances, up to this day even, and this I acknowledged as a simple sign that I had done something to begrudge the good fellow, and it was not my place to speak on the matter of whom he may or may not remain in dialog with. I kept my mouth shut.

Now, though, one of these lingering ties has also received a snarky message of disapproval from this same man I once thought of as a easy-going old chap. The problem being that the third party, who shall remain nameless, has recently undergone personal strife in his life, and was naive enough to share his feelings of remorse and self-pity with another human being, although it is not a person with whom he had ever met in person. Yet hundreds, if not thousands, of people write Dear Abby each year, and she isn’t exactly alive or doing world tours to shake hands with everyone that opens up to her.

To put it bluntly, a person whose mental health hasn’t exactly been the cheeriest of late and who I do have personal concern for tried to express himself to another and was told to not bother that person again until he had sorted his emotions out. I don’t care what kind of “new leaf” you’ve turned over in your life; to shut a person out purely because of your own apathy is disgusting. So he wrote to you about how his life sucks and how hopeless he feels, the least you can do is say, “Hey, cheer up, mate.” But you come across as an absolute dick by publicly posting a message to the guy telling him to fuck off until he feels better just because you don’t want to deal with someone else’s greif. Newsflash: no one wants extra emotional baggage, but if a person thinks of you as a friend and you shut them out because your time is too precious to be wasted on listening to another sob-story, you fail at life. Because if you fall into dire straights, and you need someone to talk to, internet friend or not, you’re only going to feel more like shit when they tell you to hit the road.

People need people, whether they know them or not.  Remember how Edward Norton couldn’t sleep without crying on someone’s shoulder in Fight Club?  It doesn’t take much in the way of human interaction to help someone.  I’m not telling you that you’re a bad person since you don’t think you’re of any help to the guy, I’m saying you’re an ass for not even pretending to care.  It takes less energy to smile than frown, as the saying goes.  The least you could have done was politely stated your thoughts, in private, rather than run roughshod over the poor bastard.

And while I’m at it, let’s look at the rest of that post you made. Hmm… people are addicted to video games because its “Bodiless exultation.” Actually, it’s just exultation. William Gibson uses bodiless because you jack into the cyberspace in his novels, a la Ghost in the Shell. You don’t dive into your mind to play a game, you use a controller with your hands.  Since you seem to detest your former passion, though, I can forgive you for viewing it this way.  (I still like you, just not your current attitude.) And, hell, it’s a nice little phrase to toss around.

I don’t know what your issues with gaming are. You never told me, to be honest, you just left. But you felt the need to repent and so be it, you did so.  That’s fine with me.  Really.  It’s just that now instead of the schizophrenic deluge of nerdy non sequiturs you used to have me rolling in my chair over, all I ever see coming from you reads like a cold handshake and a glassy stare. What gives?

The above title is a statement of pure truth, plain and simple.  Take a look at all the main characters:

• Samus: Bounty Hunter that goes from planet to planet massacring room after room of “Space Pirates” – conveniently named enemies if you ask me.  I mean, come on, she’s got highly advanced weaponry and a suit that turns her into a bomb-laying ball.  How is she not a murderer?
• Fox McCloud: another mercenary, this time hired by a government to carpet-bomb an entire solar system and blast the hell out of a giant floating head that can do little but feebly wave its arms at you and try to swallow your ship whole.  I have no idea how he sleeps at night.
• Donkey Kong: sort of a good guy, since he tries to flatten a fat plumber/killer with barrels… but then again he did kidnap some poor girl.
• Mario and Luigi: a tag-team pair of homicidal maniacs that enjoy crushing their victims with the sheer weight of their ass cheeks.  They are known to terrorize up to nine different worlds of innocent creatures – creatures simply walking around or practicing hammer tossing and boomerang throws – at a time, and have even been known to burn some victims alive.  Bastards.
• Yoshi: it’s a fucking dinosaur that swallows people.  Ever see Jurassic Park?
• Kirby: some horrible science experiment gone wrong.  Like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, this strange blob of God-knows-what sucks its victims up like a vacuum and then absorbs them into its fleshy pink… skin?  Kirby is, if nothing else, a sign of why man shouldn’t play God.

And finally, there’s Link.  Link is the poster boy of Nintendo’s mega-hit series, The Legend of Zelda.  Sad thing is, he’s all a rampaging psychopath.  As soon as someone lets him have a sword, he heads off into the world and kills every living thing in sight.  Even blades of grass cannot escape his savagery, falling left and right despite their offering of rupees to sate the child’s madness.  Link sees fit to invade every person’s home in every square inch of his country, smashing their fine pottery and molesting poor farmers’ chickens.  He rides around like a demon in the flesh, his terrible steed beneath him, bringing terror to every land he crosses.  They say that Ganondorf is the villain of the series because he is always hungry for power or trying to crush the damsel Princess Zelda, but if you had heard word of a man in tights and a weird tube hat rampaging across your homeland, would you not do everything in your power to defeat him?  I would certainly hope so.  Link is no hero, ladies and gentlemen.  He is a disgrace to the title and we should be ashamed for purchasing any game to play as him, let alone a new console.

But, after beating Twilight Princess, I must say… being a psychotic killer never felt so sweet.  Next post brings you all the impressions you can ask for.

Bummer. It looks like the mythical Wisdom Tooth removal was not nearly as serious an operation as I had been let on to believe. In fact, I’m pretty much able to eat normally today despite the stitches and minor swelling. My bite got a little messed up but I think I’ll either accustom to it or it’ll sort itself out by Christmas Eve, when I hope to be kicking back the egg nog and shovelling all sorts of fine treats down my fresh-from-surgery gullet. But since the painkillers weren’t that fun (if they were I probably wouldn’t be writing this), and the healing has gone rather well, what do I have left to write about? I suppose it’s about time to break the “news” and recap the weekend. Let us begin doing so presently.

So I went to the surgeon around 11am on Friday (two weeks ago), and got suited up to be opened up. After donning the blue apron and safety goggles (so blood and teeth would not fly into my eyes, I assume), the practitioner entered the room and made some nice casual conversation. I then offered my arm to him for swabbing and a needle–a nice detail that was left out from my consultation–and remarked grimly that the pinch I felt then was but a taste of the pain to come. “Nonsense,” the doctor replied, “that’s what painkillers are for.” I smiled and let out a small chuckle. We’ll see, I thought. And then I woke up with a numb mouth and an ice pack in my hand. My head still foggy, I was instructed to get out of the chair and head down the hall to wait in another room, where I would be debriefed. Apparently I had been shot up with a sedative, and the surgery was over, 55 minutes from when I last checked my watch.

I was upset to learn that the bastards had gotten the better of me. I wanted to go out with a fight, resisting the anesthetic with tooth and nail, but apparently it had quite literally knocked me on my ass. Ah well, at least I was still in one peice. Now was supposed to come the fun part, after all.

But even that caught me by surprise. I iced my face down for the rest of the day, and once the novacane wore off I did feel some pretty serious pain working it’s way in on me–I’m gonna need a refill on these pills, I mused–the next day brought little in the way of punishment. I took the standard three doses of the painkillers, and couldn’t chew worth a damn, but the swelling was minor. Come Sunday, the pain was almost completely gone, and only one pill taken. I was slowly relearning how to chew. Monday: no pain, no swelling at all, and I was getting soft foods gobbled up with frightening alacrity. Did they really take all four molars? By Wednesday the healing was complete, and I was eating soft tacos. I’ve got four of the pills left from the amount prescribed (safely stowed away for medicinal purposes), and am scatching my head over why this surgery was described to me as an experience nearly as undesirable as death. Maybe I was just lucky, or perhaps I have superhuman oral healing abilities. Either way, the drugged up gaming and movie marathon I had planned for the week did not exactly come to pass (though there was much Zelda being played), and so I’ve been struggling to get back on track and cut down my monumental “Games to Beat” pile.

Anyway, this was a post I’ve have drafted up for a week, and felt like I needed to publish just for completionist’s sake, or perhaps my own. Moral of the story? Wisdom teeth removal ain’t so bad. Don’t let them scare you.

I’ll be back soon with a big write-up on Zelda and some of the other games I’ve been playing.

I’m still holding off on reporting on the news of last week, which got considerably bigger the day after I posted, largely because I’m undergoing removal of the third molar tomorrow. You may know these as Wisdom teeth, and I must say the only thing wise about them is not keeping them in your mouth. So, in approximately 10 hours I will be knocked unconcious and have my mouth torn apart by a caffeine-fueled oral surgeon that looks oddly like Pete Sampras. Anyway, this is going to lead to two things: swelling and pain. Thankfully, there’s a cure for such a problem, and that cure is heavy fucking painkillers. I’m not sure if I’m getting the drowsy kind that make you cranky or the fun kind that make you high, but rest assured I will do my best to blog while their chemicals are coarsing through my body in full effect. With luck, it’ll turn out to be either incredibly memorable or fantastically dull. All I know is, I’m in for a helluva week, and with the past 10 days to reflect on starting tomorrow, I’m not so sure it’s going to be all that bad.

Tune in soon for lots of life stories and game coverage. With luck, I might have two 50+ hour games beaten in a week’s time. I could afford to free up some room in my to-play pile.

Just to let you know, dear lurker, I’m going to bed after a solid hour of Dragon Quest Rocket Slime, and a long trek through the heart of Castlevania Dawn of Sorrow.  I’ll be back tomorrow with words on both of those, plus hopefully I’ll have beaten Okami.  Until then, I am most unconsciously yours.

-Stealth

I wanted to write up a post dealing solely with The Departed, Martin Scorsese’s latest balls-out drama that will undoubtedly not net him the Oscar he so rightfully deserves, but I don’t feel like tonight is the right time.  Instead, I’m just going to vent on a few loosely connected things going on in my mind right now.  Please bare with.

First: Fucking GameStop dared to actually sell only TWO pre-orders for the PS3 here in Gainesville, while it’s neighbor in the bloody mall EB had a dozen.  I’m not sure exactly how 30 people, myself included, all managed to do the 100-yd dash to the same store WELL before the place opened, but I knew I had screwed the pooch as soon as I caught a glimpse of those large, neon letters.  Only at the time they didn’t appear to spell out EB Games.  It looked a helluva lot more like a big red and white “FUCK YOU.”  But hey, that asian kid stole the Tony Montana standee and I told the random mall-folk we were waiting in line for Pokemon, so at least I got to have some fun while my hopes of a PS3-fueled November burnt to cinder.  Joy!

I’m also finding that I’ve developed a rather significant interest in picking up writing.  Not the usual typed entry into the ol’ blog, mind you, but actually sitting down with my notebook and pen and letting my mind roam free.  I think the idea came from when I had the privledge to have Joe Haldeman speak at several of my classes on American Science-Fiction.  In case you didn’t know, the man wakes up at 5am every morning and writes for a solid two hours, regardless of the topic.  Now that is some seriously respectable dedication to your passion in life.  I just wish that I could find a talent in myself able to be refined in such a manner as that, without feeling as if I’m imitating or idolizing the habits of some other person.  Specifically, I want to find some outlet and pour my soul into it, and not just my snap-crackle wit and cruel tongue as I do here.  I want to do something that feels like art.

Conjoined with this urge to mightily swing my pen across paper and triumph over the lined sheets with each and every etched character is my sudden spurring interest in assassins.  Yes, once again it’s that sense of “hey, ya think that Assassin’s Creed has something to do with it?”  No shit, Sherlock.  That game looks like Prince of Persia on crack, but whether the story can be nearly as moving as what the Sands trilogy gave me is yet to be seen.  More importantly, I feel the need to write something down about assassins, but I want it to factually based and accurate.  I have the general idea for the character’s mentality already floating around in the ether of my mind, but when I jump into stories with character and no sense of direction, I tend to end up wallowing in my own sty.  My 60% complete but never to be published Star Fox noir featuring Falco as protagonist suffers from such a fate.  Only my second “fan fic,” but with my inability to create compelling clues or ties the threads in my head together sufficiently, the whole thing kinda hemorraged and went kaput.  But that’s another story.

Hmm… what else is there?  I just watched Edmond, a David Mamet project starring William H. Macy as a cheap, racist, cathartic businessman throwing his life into a garbage disposal and then jumping in headfirst after it.  Mamet excels at crafting some serious metaphysical, psuedo-realistic shit, and this is no exception.  It’s not so much a collapse of the individual as it is the sudden dominance of the id… so dominant that it acts as its own ego several times throughout the film.  I don’t know what else to say other than it’s crazy and it’s Mamet and tarot cards are a motherfucker.

Anyway, I’m off to spend some time with Okami.  Hopefully the overflowing hi-art style of the game will inspire me.  Hopefully.  And hopefully I’ll figure out just what the hell I’m trying to do with my life and stop putting my life on hold.  Ugh, but let’s not go there tonight.

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light up, light up, as if you had a choice

I feel obliged to blog today, although why and about what have yet to reveal themselves to me. I suppose that for the time being I shall, as the saying goes, “run with it.”

There is a rumor going around that movies are getting too long and overblown on fat budgets that make even Rueben Studdard look like Nicole Richie. (Where the hell is that guy, anyway? Hanging out with Justin?) I, for one, disagree wholeheartedly with this notion. Sure, you may have to take a piss break or two more than you’re accustomed to — those of you with poor bladders, that is — but the fact of the matter is that you can’t rush art. Do people feel ill of Square-Enix when they announce that Final Fantasy MX is going to be over 60 hours long? Hell no. Do people get mad at Stephen King for writing 800-page novels? Well, maybe for the novel part, but not the length. And so why should we take offense when a director decides he wants to leave less than 70% of his movie on the cutting room floor?

The fact of the matter is this: most great movies are over two hours long. A lot of really good ones are nearly 120 minutes. Goodfellas, The Godfather, Apocalypse Now, The Lord of the Rings, The Empire Strikes Back, Dances With Wolves, Taxi Driver… I’m trying to be random and make a point at the same time, but I assume you catch my drift.

The point is, going to the movies is not supposed to be a throwaway experience. Movie sales have declined over the past decade because we’ve become a culture of instant satisfaction and unabashed gratuity. YouTube, Google, iTunes, portable music, video, and TV players. MP3 Cell phones. The world is running on a caffeine cocktail stuck straight into its brain. If we can’t get somewhere within 10 minutes it’s a long trip. If we aren’t watching something with half-second clips every few minutes its boring and unwatchable. Take a look at music videos over on MTV… I mean VH1… I mean Fuse… Or perhaps you should just pull out your video iPod. LOOK AT THAT SHIT BEING SHOVED THROUGH YOUR OPTIC NERVE. It’s like a bad acid trip that you are being forced to look at for 3:30 minutes. If you get upset that a director with actual talent is making movies too long, you ought to lynch the hacks that sync video to your “pop” music for six figures a pop. But it’s all hugs and kisses and forgiveness, because they did bring the sexy back.

The hive mind mentality of pop culture needs to get its ass kicked for being so hypocritical (yeah, that’s the weirdest personification ever, sue me). But I’ll be damned if studios edit the next Ridley Scott film because people’s ritalin wears off before the film ends.

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you can look a hurricane right in the eye