I've moved this blog to a new location, as Word Press has more features and control options than blogger does. You can find a blog about common things at http://blogaboutcommonthings.wordpress.com/. My schedule is still Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, with today's blog in the works. I hope you enjoy the new location and layout, bigger and better things are in store.
Thanks for your continued readership and/or bookmarking, it means quite a bit to know that others enjoy my hobby as much as I do.
Showing posts with label background. Show all posts
Showing posts with label background. Show all posts
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Filling in the blanks.
It is right now five minutes to twenty-two. My eyes sting, my neck is sore, and I am very drained. The balls of my feet are peeling. I want to write something stream of consciousness, but I know I can't right now. A free-flowing thought exercise is easy when you're a touch typist with your eyes closed, but it's much more difficult when that touch typist is tired. I know that I'll have to spell check this while thing, and it will annoy me.
I should keep typing despite typos, but I have a habit of going back to correct my errors as I type them. I've not done it at all this line. I'm very proud of that. I'll hate it later on.
I don't plan on typing very long tonight, it was a very draining day. I suspect that I'll be finished by 22:05 by the time I'm done editing. This room is very warm. That was delicious pasta. Sweat is gathering on my brow like protesters waiting for someone to rile them up. I hope no riots ensue. That was an odd analogy. I'll leave it. It seems fun and edgy, vaguely politically charged. I've been making political jokes all day. I hate politics, I hate them so much. Especially local.
I should go back to playing guitar when I finish typing this. I'm too tired for it to sound like any of the songs I know, but it's a nice way to cap off a tedious evening. I should practice piano for class, but I don't think I have the energy for it. I must make sure I do practice in the morning regardless of what else I do.
When I played yesterday for the class I successfully butchered songs that I know inside and out. Two songs that I've spent a good chunk of time playing in my house just wouldn't come out of my fingers when I sat at the old Grand. It's embarrassing to fail in front of your peers when you know that you shouldn't. Normally I don't really get embarrassed. Normally I'm quick on y feet and can easily smooth over any lumps in the frosting of public performance's cake. Yesterday I jabbed my finger down and scooped out the inside of the pastry to smear on the wall and call art with my terrible performance.
It's 22:06. I'm a minute over my writing exercise. Blast. At the very least, I know I can force myself to write when I don't really feel like it. Just like high school.
My wrist is itchy where a friend's dog jumped on me. I don't think she can control her energy (most dogs, children, and people I know can't), but she was very affectionate. The scratches are nearly faded except for that itch.
Itchy itchy itchy. When I think about an itch, other parts get it too. Now my thumb itches. How does a thumb itch? I don't know. And my knee, and now my left calf.
I should stop.
I should keep typing despite typos, but I have a habit of going back to correct my errors as I type them. I've not done it at all this line. I'm very proud of that. I'll hate it later on.
I don't plan on typing very long tonight, it was a very draining day. I suspect that I'll be finished by 22:05 by the time I'm done editing. This room is very warm. That was delicious pasta. Sweat is gathering on my brow like protesters waiting for someone to rile them up. I hope no riots ensue. That was an odd analogy. I'll leave it. It seems fun and edgy, vaguely politically charged. I've been making political jokes all day. I hate politics, I hate them so much. Especially local.
I should go back to playing guitar when I finish typing this. I'm too tired for it to sound like any of the songs I know, but it's a nice way to cap off a tedious evening. I should practice piano for class, but I don't think I have the energy for it. I must make sure I do practice in the morning regardless of what else I do.
When I played yesterday for the class I successfully butchered songs that I know inside and out. Two songs that I've spent a good chunk of time playing in my house just wouldn't come out of my fingers when I sat at the old Grand. It's embarrassing to fail in front of your peers when you know that you shouldn't. Normally I don't really get embarrassed. Normally I'm quick on y feet and can easily smooth over any lumps in the frosting of public performance's cake. Yesterday I jabbed my finger down and scooped out the inside of the pastry to smear on the wall and call art with my terrible performance.
It's 22:06. I'm a minute over my writing exercise. Blast. At the very least, I know I can force myself to write when I don't really feel like it. Just like high school.
My wrist is itchy where a friend's dog jumped on me. I don't think she can control her energy (most dogs, children, and people I know can't), but she was very affectionate. The scratches are nearly faded except for that itch.
Itchy itchy itchy. When I think about an itch, other parts get it too. Now my thumb itches. How does a thumb itch? I don't know. And my knee, and now my left calf.
I should stop.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
We are the Sultans
The street was empty at 11:20 PM, an oddity for a four lane boulevard. It cut through the mostly residential area like a rotten log caught against a riverbed. Formerly green curbs were spotted with refuse from car windows. A McDonald's bag at the stop light, a toddler's car seat next to the freshly poured foundations. A dirt encrusted condom in front of a church. This filth pales to the beauty of the sky, but even that's choked with light pollution.
A man garbed entirely in black paced down the right side of the road, passing houses that should've been more splendid. His side of the street was lined entirely with fences, breaking only for intersections. He could tell the demographics of each family as he walked past by the fences and what could be spied through. A tall white PVC fence with perfectly trimmed grass - the upper middle class family with Mexican lawn care. The chipped brown wooden fence enclosing old Fisher-Price mock houses - the family that suffered when the stock market thought it was best to cower in a corner. The man didn't even bother looking into the chain-links anymore, they depressed him.
His pace was uneven and varied with each song his headphones delivered. He observed that he was shifting more weight to his left side and had been for years, but never noticed until today. He didn't like this fact, but his disdain wouldn't change it. It wouldn't undo his fall down a ladder five years prior working retail, in which he broke his ankle and never bothered to get it looked at. He set it reasonably well himself, but without the aid of medical coverage he couldn't even verify it's status now. He pretended it didn't bother him. The most pressing matter was the letter in his back pocket telling him that he couldn't graduate for another year. It pressed like an iron.
"Sultans of Swing" came on. His mood shifted to bittersweet and his pace slowed. Nothing around him mattered besides finding a reason to smile. He couldn't think about the future now, his plan for the year had just been smashed in it's knees before it could run away with him. Without the degree, there was no chance of finding a job. No job, no apartment. Nothing. For months that had made him smile when he needed to, now it would only twist his lungs.
He raised the volume and sang to himself. Maybe he'd be like Harry. Harry doesn't mind if he never makes the scene. He can play the honky-tonk like anything. Maybe he'd be a musician instead. He could take an old dreadnought guitar and play at public parks for rent. He could get big like Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen, even if neither of them could sing and Springsteen's only saving grace was the help from his friends. It couldn't be that hard.
He knew this was a lie. They were exceptions, not rules. Most street musicians died hungry and alone. Most of the time they spent their final days pushing shopping carts full of empty beer cans they picked out areas like this. He knew it was no option, but the thought of playing guitar until he couldn't anymore brought the faintest smirk to his face. That was enough to get him home and into bed.
"Thank you, goodnight. Now it's time to go home."
A man garbed entirely in black paced down the right side of the road, passing houses that should've been more splendid. His side of the street was lined entirely with fences, breaking only for intersections. He could tell the demographics of each family as he walked past by the fences and what could be spied through. A tall white PVC fence with perfectly trimmed grass - the upper middle class family with Mexican lawn care. The chipped brown wooden fence enclosing old Fisher-Price mock houses - the family that suffered when the stock market thought it was best to cower in a corner. The man didn't even bother looking into the chain-links anymore, they depressed him.
His pace was uneven and varied with each song his headphones delivered. He observed that he was shifting more weight to his left side and had been for years, but never noticed until today. He didn't like this fact, but his disdain wouldn't change it. It wouldn't undo his fall down a ladder five years prior working retail, in which he broke his ankle and never bothered to get it looked at. He set it reasonably well himself, but without the aid of medical coverage he couldn't even verify it's status now. He pretended it didn't bother him. The most pressing matter was the letter in his back pocket telling him that he couldn't graduate for another year. It pressed like an iron.
"Sultans of Swing" came on. His mood shifted to bittersweet and his pace slowed. Nothing around him mattered besides finding a reason to smile. He couldn't think about the future now, his plan for the year had just been smashed in it's knees before it could run away with him. Without the degree, there was no chance of finding a job. No job, no apartment. Nothing. For months that had made him smile when he needed to, now it would only twist his lungs.
He raised the volume and sang to himself. Maybe he'd be like Harry. Harry doesn't mind if he never makes the scene. He can play the honky-tonk like anything. Maybe he'd be a musician instead. He could take an old dreadnought guitar and play at public parks for rent. He could get big like Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen, even if neither of them could sing and Springsteen's only saving grace was the help from his friends. It couldn't be that hard.
He knew this was a lie. They were exceptions, not rules. Most street musicians died hungry and alone. Most of the time they spent their final days pushing shopping carts full of empty beer cans they picked out areas like this. He knew it was no option, but the thought of playing guitar until he couldn't anymore brought the faintest smirk to his face. That was enough to get him home and into bed.
"Thank you, goodnight. Now it's time to go home."
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Writing Writer
When I was little I used to make up songs in my front yard. I'd sit at the base of a huge tree and hum ditties to myself until words came to mind. Writing used to be so easy then, there wasn't any effort to it. No worrying about falling into conventions, or being too repetitive, or following a meter and rhyme-scheme. All there was to it was spoken word with a melody.
Time went on and I started learning the ways of "real" writers. You need to pay attention to things like alliteration and allegory, and make sure that your syllabic patterns aren't cliche, or it'll seem like you're plagiarizing. All sources are cited, and the MLA margins and font formatting are too perfect, there's no life left in the writing. Everything that made it raw and beautiful has been ripped from the skeleton leaving a bare, desolate structure with no substance. It isn't always this way, but by and large this is how it turns out.
Things have changed for me now. I try desperately to adhere to structure, but at the same time have lost regard for it. I'll pay attention to the feet of a poem, and each stanza will have the same basic format... but I couldn't care less how else it holds together. I'll inject the soul back into it by breaking the rules a little. Not all the time, and not even in big ways. Little things, like a slant rhyme, rejuvenate in ways that couldn't be with a hard phonemic jab.
Other things change too, the definition of "genre" no longer means "comedy or sci-fi." It starts to take on more broad terms that don't really matter. Poetry is not a genre, it's a format. Nonfiction is not a genre, it's life. Even then, you're getting only half truths for what should be a complete roster.
Comic books and graphic novels - because they aren't the same, and it's not just the use of a buzz word - are "literary genres" too. So are screenplays. And raw notes. It's not limited to "fiction" and "memoir." It's all writing. Everything is art. Everything is beautiful, if you make it so. When you jam format in like steel rods you sacrifice the freely formed splendor that used to come from the writing.
Sure, it sometimes improves the intended impact in your reader. Sometimes it clarifies the point that was made. Sometimes you will want to format your work differently. This is not mandatory to make something worth reading. It is not mandatory to make anything at all.
Yes, I am a writer. I am not famous, nor am I published in any notable work just yet. College magazines and newspapers have put my words to page, and supposedly I'm in an anthology from a scam artist writing site from ten years ago. I'm cool with the realization that my work is - for the time being - insignificant. I only reach a small audience, and they mostly know me in person. I'm fine with that, as long as each of them take something away from this.
Literary greatness is overrated, even if that's what pays. I'll get there one day. I just don't mind waiting.
Time went on and I started learning the ways of "real" writers. You need to pay attention to things like alliteration and allegory, and make sure that your syllabic patterns aren't cliche, or it'll seem like you're plagiarizing. All sources are cited, and the MLA margins and font formatting are too perfect, there's no life left in the writing. Everything that made it raw and beautiful has been ripped from the skeleton leaving a bare, desolate structure with no substance. It isn't always this way, but by and large this is how it turns out.
Things have changed for me now. I try desperately to adhere to structure, but at the same time have lost regard for it. I'll pay attention to the feet of a poem, and each stanza will have the same basic format... but I couldn't care less how else it holds together. I'll inject the soul back into it by breaking the rules a little. Not all the time, and not even in big ways. Little things, like a slant rhyme, rejuvenate in ways that couldn't be with a hard phonemic jab.
Other things change too, the definition of "genre" no longer means "comedy or sci-fi." It starts to take on more broad terms that don't really matter. Poetry is not a genre, it's a format. Nonfiction is not a genre, it's life. Even then, you're getting only half truths for what should be a complete roster.
Comic books and graphic novels - because they aren't the same, and it's not just the use of a buzz word - are "literary genres" too. So are screenplays. And raw notes. It's not limited to "fiction" and "memoir." It's all writing. Everything is art. Everything is beautiful, if you make it so. When you jam format in like steel rods you sacrifice the freely formed splendor that used to come from the writing.
Sure, it sometimes improves the intended impact in your reader. Sometimes it clarifies the point that was made. Sometimes you will want to format your work differently. This is not mandatory to make something worth reading. It is not mandatory to make anything at all.
Yes, I am a writer. I am not famous, nor am I published in any notable work just yet. College magazines and newspapers have put my words to page, and supposedly I'm in an anthology from a scam artist writing site from ten years ago. I'm cool with the realization that my work is - for the time being - insignificant. I only reach a small audience, and they mostly know me in person. I'm fine with that, as long as each of them take something away from this.
Literary greatness is overrated, even if that's what pays. I'll get there one day. I just don't mind waiting.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Spring Breaking Walls
"The concept of a 'Spring Break' has always fascinated me, even if it's usually just an excuse for people to get drunk and take their clothes off. I've never celebrated in such a way, though taking my clothes off is always a good idea. I've opted almost universally to stay in the area for the break, with rare exceptions when I was younger to go upstate with my family. I hated those times."
I search offhandedly for my bag of gummy bears.
"Really, if I'm going to have a week and a half off from my classes and work, do you expect me to go do something I won't remember after? Or wake up with an infestation of crab-mites? Or find out that the person in the bed with me looks much less attractive and suddenly more manly than she did when I was drunk? There's no point to it."
Where the fuck are my gummy bears? I ignore it, and keep typing.
"If I wanted that kind of nonsense, I could do it on a weekend and have significantly less memory loss. How many college students do that on a daily basis anyway? If my university wasn't commuter based I imagine there'd be a higher drop-out rate and a much higher level of alcohol poisoning on campus. Why would I want to do that though?"
There they are! I bite the head off of a green squishy bear.
"Besides that, there's so many better things I could do. Gatherings with friends, construction projects (which are actually quite rewarding). Coheed and Cambria concerts that were sold out until this afternoon that you jumped on like the 'Tea Party' to Obama's Health Care bill, except your jumping was productive. These opportunities would be missed in Cancun, or wherever the hell the young and logically handicapped people go get herpes these days."
I smile, kill the last few bears, and my fingers come to a rest.
I search offhandedly for my bag of gummy bears.
"Really, if I'm going to have a week and a half off from my classes and work, do you expect me to go do something I won't remember after? Or wake up with an infestation of crab-mites? Or find out that the person in the bed with me looks much less attractive and suddenly more manly than she did when I was drunk? There's no point to it."
Where the fuck are my gummy bears? I ignore it, and keep typing.
"If I wanted that kind of nonsense, I could do it on a weekend and have significantly less memory loss. How many college students do that on a daily basis anyway? If my university wasn't commuter based I imagine there'd be a higher drop-out rate and a much higher level of alcohol poisoning on campus. Why would I want to do that though?"
There they are! I bite the head off of a green squishy bear.
"Besides that, there's so many better things I could do. Gatherings with friends, construction projects (which are actually quite rewarding). Coheed and Cambria concerts that were sold out until this afternoon that you jumped on like the 'Tea Party' to Obama's Health Care bill, except your jumping was productive. These opportunities would be missed in Cancun, or wherever the hell the young and logically handicapped people go get herpes these days."
I smile, kill the last few bears, and my fingers come to a rest.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Some Assembly Required
"Hand me the wing-nut," I say to my stepfather.
I hand tighten the bolt as much as I can, giving the frame structure without permanence. This gives me the option to fix it later, in case we're reading the terrible instructions wrong. The television spits a news story about The President's surprise visit to the Middle East to talk to troops.
"Now we should put the arms on," he assesses.
"No, that's not the next step."
He doesn't really look at the instructions. He knows how this is supposed to look from the picture on the box, to rely on a piece of paper to tell him what to do is below him. Today he yields to me for perhaps the first time ever assembling anything together in the past 17 years. Then again, I'm only here because he couldn't figure out the instructions in the first place. Maybe he realizes that I know what I'm doing.
This victory is small, but just as delicious as any other would be. Nearly every other conflict over the past two decades has ended with neither of us talking to one another for days, and occasionally the harsh confrontation that boils down to his lack of a job versus my disorganized room. I savor this triumph, and get back to the task at hand.
We start to assemble the main basin, burners, and electronic ignition. The living room is a silly place to build a grill. It's his comfort zone, and the only room he's used to anymore. It makes sense, in a way. Had I started the project, it would be outside from start to finish, and christened with a marinated try of caramelized veggies on a stick.
Maybe we're just opposite ends of the spectrum. I'm the young, well educated one and he's the old, stubborn one. I shouldn't expect someone to change their ways when they've had them set since before I existed. It doesn't mean that their ways are right, but it does mean that those ways have become correct for the daily behavior. The same way that "incorrect" and "wrong" aren't the same. To say it's wrong to drown kittens would be that it's morally unethical. TO say it's incorrect to drown kittens would be to say that you're better suffocating them, or lighting them on fire.
Today I am both right and correct, and I love every second of it.
I hand tighten the bolt as much as I can, giving the frame structure without permanence. This gives me the option to fix it later, in case we're reading the terrible instructions wrong. The television spits a news story about The President's surprise visit to the Middle East to talk to troops.
"Now we should put the arms on," he assesses.
"No, that's not the next step."
He doesn't really look at the instructions. He knows how this is supposed to look from the picture on the box, to rely on a piece of paper to tell him what to do is below him. Today he yields to me for perhaps the first time ever assembling anything together in the past 17 years. Then again, I'm only here because he couldn't figure out the instructions in the first place. Maybe he realizes that I know what I'm doing.
This victory is small, but just as delicious as any other would be. Nearly every other conflict over the past two decades has ended with neither of us talking to one another for days, and occasionally the harsh confrontation that boils down to his lack of a job versus my disorganized room. I savor this triumph, and get back to the task at hand.
We start to assemble the main basin, burners, and electronic ignition. The living room is a silly place to build a grill. It's his comfort zone, and the only room he's used to anymore. It makes sense, in a way. Had I started the project, it would be outside from start to finish, and christened with a marinated try of caramelized veggies on a stick.
Maybe we're just opposite ends of the spectrum. I'm the young, well educated one and he's the old, stubborn one. I shouldn't expect someone to change their ways when they've had them set since before I existed. It doesn't mean that their ways are right, but it does mean that those ways have become correct for the daily behavior. The same way that "incorrect" and "wrong" aren't the same. To say it's wrong to drown kittens would be that it's morally unethical. TO say it's incorrect to drown kittens would be to say that you're better suffocating them, or lighting them on fire.
Today I am both right and correct, and I love every second of it.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
We all got left behind, we let it all slip away.
As promised, I now finish my discussion of disposable media.
Games
This was a difficult task at first, until I realized a few very important things. Not only is a Gamecube a small system (built for being brought as a party favor), but the games came on Minidisk. They're tiny, and easily deposited into a minidisk case. As such, none were left behind (I only own seven to begin with, making things easier). The Playstation 2 games were much more difficult. I left behind Final Fantasy X2, The Sims, Kingdom Hearts, and Unreal Tournament. I'm yet to pack PS1 games, but in the event I do, only King's Field, Martian Gothic, Dragonseeds, and ReBoot will be left behind. All NES games will stay (besides Punch Out!!, one of my favorite games of all time).
I'm not abandoning classics, not really. FFX2 was mostly a marketing experiment that shouldn't've ever seen the light of day. There were a lot of cool things in it, but the whole thing reeked of spin off. The game should've been marketed as a stand-alone, with a new world and new characters. It would've done better, and not tarnished the reputation of an otherwise very good game. Whatever people say about Final Fantasy X, I will defend it better than they will bash it. I can't do that for FFX2. The Sims is an art project. Chuck Klosterman said in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa-Puffs something to the effect of "people playing a game about watching their lives while they play games." I don't play games to get surreal, I play to get rid of realism when I can help it.
Kingdom Hearts is another great game, but I'm not so big on showing constant love for Squeenix. They've failed in the past (see FFX2, most FFVII spin-offs, and most early games), and they know it. Kingdom Hearts isn't a failure (though Chain of Memories was), but it isn't vital enough to my personality. I haven't played it in three years or more, and I don't feel I'm missing all that much. I know what happens now, the grinding wasn't all that great, and the novelty of playing with Disney characters wore off within a half hour of playing the game. There's nothing there for me now. Unrelated, Unreal Tournament was only good for the PC. Getting it for the PS2 was an impulse buy from the used bin. Still one of the only FPS' I will play (besides Portal and Metroid Prime Hunters), but this version is nothing worth holding onto.
The average reader won't know three of the four PS1 games mentioned, and this might not be a bad thing. They were all pretty kickass in theory, but execution killed them. King's Field is a first-person hack and slash that was actually too good for the PS1's engine to handle. I played it recently on an emulator (since my PS1 decided to commit ritual suicide) and the enhanced frame-rate made the game actually playable... but it didn't help. The game was overly difficult, too advanced for the system it was on, and generally moody. Martian Gothic is a generic horror/survival in a haunted house in space. Scared the bejezus out of me when I was a kid, but now it's just cheesy in a bad way.
Dragonseeds was a cool game with a fun premise. You bred test-tube baby dragons to fight against one another in tournaments. They were given weapons, and told to fight to the death against one another. There was no other gameplay besides breeding, fighting, and shopping. What made it awesome was the combat system (preprogrammed moves, trying to foresee the opponent's moves for two turns) and the "wild" dragon area. The game would read the data from your memory cards and generate a random dragon based on what game info you had there... from other games. It's like an own-able MGS moment.
ReBoot was a show in the 90's that took place inside a computer and was made in Canada. The show was amazing. The game came out towards the end of the show's lifetime. It's a piece of shit. The controls are terrible, the motion is difficult without any momentum breakers (you're on Bob's hover-board... he can't seem to walk at all, and you need to pull back to slow down and stop), and the targeting makes me want to hang Bob with my controller cable. The game should've been good, and if the player could walk/lock on, then it would've been. Instead it's unplayable, and only makes for a nice conversation piece.
"Oh writer, how could you abandon those NES games?! I thought you were a real gamer!" Oh dear reader, how narrow minded of you. The old NES games were mostly fun, and it's credited as the system that brought video games to the forefront of home entertainment... but that doesn't make them good. I love the original Mario/Duck Hunt, and Contra. And even Dragon Warrior. I played them all until my controller wore out, and then I went to the spare. I don't care that I'm leaving them behind anyway, because they've all been rendered obsolete. Super Mario Bros. has been done so many times after that it could only get better. Super Mario Bros 3 is far superior, and Super Mario World surpassed that too. Then others came out down the line that were equally awesome, but for systems I'm going to keep, like the DS. My NES is in pieces right now, and I don't own a light gun. Why should I hold on to things that literally are unplayable? Besides that, Ikari Warriors sucks.
Books
This was the hardest of them all, as my readers know. I love books, and in a way they become a measure of my progress as a thinking person. They aren't all/mostly intellectual, but they can't all come with me. It's unrealistic. So a small section of the stuff that was left behind includes most of Shakespeare's work, Pet Sematary, the Lord of the Rings books (including Hobbit), Something Wicked This Way Comes, the Harry Potter series, and most of my Calvin and Hobbes collections.
I don't mind leaving behind Shakespeare so much, he's public domain. I can look him up anywhere and print his work out for my leisure for free. I left behind Measure for Measure, The Tempest, a version of Othello, Antony and Cleopatra, All's Well that Ends Well, Much Ado About Nothing, Coriolanus, and Cymbelline. That said, I kept the other half of the Shakespeare I owned. At one point I was strongly considering becoming a literature major with a supreme concentration in Shakespeare's work. Then I realized it's silly, when he's been dead for centuries. I'd rather study things that are still alive and fresh, rather than trying to breathe fresh life into the dead. I don't love his work any less (though I know many can't stand him), but I don't think it matters that much to have every obscure play he's done. Coriolanus is a fine example of a steaming lump of yesterday's supper that The Bard emitted to pay his bills when he got old. It happens sometimes.
I don't like Stephen King's written work for the most part. He's a wonderful storyteller, and I respect him greatly, but his style of writing is too poppy for my taste. He can create a character's snapshot perfectly in three sentences (usually to kill them a page later), and his stories are beyond words. I just hate his stuff when it's written, and not filmed. Pet Sematary is one of three exceptions so far (the other two being Green Mile and On Writing, the later of which was kept). I loved this story, and the writing was passable because of the build. It's not that I'm a zombie buff, or that I love twisted takes on innocence being distorted. The characters grabbed me better than nearly any other pop-lit novel has, and the story came together perfectly. Why's it getting left behind? I've got somewhere around 400 books, and I can only afford the space for (maybe) 75 of them. This gets left behind in favor of something more vital.
Tolkien is another man I respect greatly, but not for his writing. Tolkien was an amazing linguist, and a man of great conviction to his faith. He's probably the most popular Christian author anyone is likely to read, and most people don't even realize it. I respect anyone who can mix their faith with their personal hobbies (the study of folklore and mythology was a major theme in his life, obviously) and make something enduring. Of all the things Tolkien was, he was NOT a writer. He created the Lord of the Rings series to give his languages a home. Elvish is a fully fleshed language, and LotR exists for it. Not the other way around. The stories have terrible pacing, the characters are mostly bland, and it offers little else besides beautiful shots of being lost in the woods. Just like a certain book later in this list thing. If I wanted to wander in the woods, I'd go do it in reality.
Ray Bradbury's brilliant, but Something Wicked... isn't one of my favorites from him. The evil carnival motif is cool at first, but the entire first quarter of the book is "OMINOUS OMINOUS AND DARK," without any plot development. Cool atmosphere, bad build. Fahrenheit 451 wins instead.
Harry Potter's a lot of fun after the first two children's books. The series really starts at the third novel, with extended backstory. I do like the series greatly, and perhaps if it wasn't so over-saturated in today's culture, I'd bring them with me. I don't really need to though, this shit's everywhere. A few years ago I couldn't look anywhere without seeing something relating to the boy that lived. As the series progressed it got darker, and the writing got more mature. By book 7, Rowlnig took a turn for the Tolkien, wasting half the book wandering in the woods. I actually stopped reading this book for a few weeks because I couldn't get out of the fucking woods. I began to suspect that Voldemort was hiding inside a goddamned tree. This series, while wonderful, is also largely unoriginal. Nearly all aspects - while used creatively - are drawn from most of the same sources Tolkien used. If I owned it in paperback and it wasn't so common, I might consider braving the extra weight. It isn't, so I won't bring it.
Calvin and Hobbes has a very special place in my heart, it was the first comic I really got attached to. Bill Watterson is one of my heroes, and when I was doing a comic strip column for Serpentine Magazine I referenced him frequently. He was my first exposure to many fantastic concepts that I wouldn't've cared about otherwise. He gave some of the best dialogue I've ever seen. He presented the option of imagination. In nearly every way, Watterson shaped me - in some part - into who I am now. As such, I own 10 of the collections. I only have the space for one or two. I still haven't decided which I will keep.
There are hundreds of other books left behind too, including things I got for class and novels I really enjoyed when I was younger. They're innocent victims of circumstance mostly, but circumstance is really all that matters. A man fishing is fine in most cases, unless he's catching endangered fish. Then he's become a felon. These aren't really all disposable, but they must all be disposed of.
Games
This was a difficult task at first, until I realized a few very important things. Not only is a Gamecube a small system (built for being brought as a party favor), but the games came on Minidisk. They're tiny, and easily deposited into a minidisk case. As such, none were left behind (I only own seven to begin with, making things easier). The Playstation 2 games were much more difficult. I left behind Final Fantasy X2, The Sims, Kingdom Hearts, and Unreal Tournament. I'm yet to pack PS1 games, but in the event I do, only King's Field, Martian Gothic, Dragonseeds, and ReBoot will be left behind. All NES games will stay (besides Punch Out!!, one of my favorite games of all time).
I'm not abandoning classics, not really. FFX2 was mostly a marketing experiment that shouldn't've ever seen the light of day. There were a lot of cool things in it, but the whole thing reeked of spin off. The game should've been marketed as a stand-alone, with a new world and new characters. It would've done better, and not tarnished the reputation of an otherwise very good game. Whatever people say about Final Fantasy X, I will defend it better than they will bash it. I can't do that for FFX2. The Sims is an art project. Chuck Klosterman said in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa-Puffs something to the effect of "people playing a game about watching their lives while they play games." I don't play games to get surreal, I play to get rid of realism when I can help it.
Kingdom Hearts is another great game, but I'm not so big on showing constant love for Squeenix. They've failed in the past (see FFX2, most FFVII spin-offs, and most early games), and they know it. Kingdom Hearts isn't a failure (though Chain of Memories was), but it isn't vital enough to my personality. I haven't played it in three years or more, and I don't feel I'm missing all that much. I know what happens now, the grinding wasn't all that great, and the novelty of playing with Disney characters wore off within a half hour of playing the game. There's nothing there for me now. Unrelated, Unreal Tournament was only good for the PC. Getting it for the PS2 was an impulse buy from the used bin. Still one of the only FPS' I will play (besides Portal and Metroid Prime Hunters), but this version is nothing worth holding onto.
The average reader won't know three of the four PS1 games mentioned, and this might not be a bad thing. They were all pretty kickass in theory, but execution killed them. King's Field is a first-person hack and slash that was actually too good for the PS1's engine to handle. I played it recently on an emulator (since my PS1 decided to commit ritual suicide) and the enhanced frame-rate made the game actually playable... but it didn't help. The game was overly difficult, too advanced for the system it was on, and generally moody. Martian Gothic is a generic horror/survival in a haunted house in space. Scared the bejezus out of me when I was a kid, but now it's just cheesy in a bad way.
Dragonseeds was a cool game with a fun premise. You bred test-tube baby dragons to fight against one another in tournaments. They were given weapons, and told to fight to the death against one another. There was no other gameplay besides breeding, fighting, and shopping. What made it awesome was the combat system (preprogrammed moves, trying to foresee the opponent's moves for two turns) and the "wild" dragon area. The game would read the data from your memory cards and generate a random dragon based on what game info you had there... from other games. It's like an own-able MGS moment.
ReBoot was a show in the 90's that took place inside a computer and was made in Canada. The show was amazing. The game came out towards the end of the show's lifetime. It's a piece of shit. The controls are terrible, the motion is difficult without any momentum breakers (you're on Bob's hover-board... he can't seem to walk at all, and you need to pull back to slow down and stop), and the targeting makes me want to hang Bob with my controller cable. The game should've been good, and if the player could walk/lock on, then it would've been. Instead it's unplayable, and only makes for a nice conversation piece.
"Oh writer, how could you abandon those NES games?! I thought you were a real gamer!" Oh dear reader, how narrow minded of you. The old NES games were mostly fun, and it's credited as the system that brought video games to the forefront of home entertainment... but that doesn't make them good. I love the original Mario/Duck Hunt, and Contra. And even Dragon Warrior. I played them all until my controller wore out, and then I went to the spare. I don't care that I'm leaving them behind anyway, because they've all been rendered obsolete. Super Mario Bros. has been done so many times after that it could only get better. Super Mario Bros 3 is far superior, and Super Mario World surpassed that too. Then others came out down the line that were equally awesome, but for systems I'm going to keep, like the DS. My NES is in pieces right now, and I don't own a light gun. Why should I hold on to things that literally are unplayable? Besides that, Ikari Warriors sucks.
Books
This was the hardest of them all, as my readers know. I love books, and in a way they become a measure of my progress as a thinking person. They aren't all/mostly intellectual, but they can't all come with me. It's unrealistic. So a small section of the stuff that was left behind includes most of Shakespeare's work, Pet Sematary, the Lord of the Rings books (including Hobbit), Something Wicked This Way Comes, the Harry Potter series, and most of my Calvin and Hobbes collections.
I don't mind leaving behind Shakespeare so much, he's public domain. I can look him up anywhere and print his work out for my leisure for free. I left behind Measure for Measure, The Tempest, a version of Othello, Antony and Cleopatra, All's Well that Ends Well, Much Ado About Nothing, Coriolanus, and Cymbelline. That said, I kept the other half of the Shakespeare I owned. At one point I was strongly considering becoming a literature major with a supreme concentration in Shakespeare's work. Then I realized it's silly, when he's been dead for centuries. I'd rather study things that are still alive and fresh, rather than trying to breathe fresh life into the dead. I don't love his work any less (though I know many can't stand him), but I don't think it matters that much to have every obscure play he's done. Coriolanus is a fine example of a steaming lump of yesterday's supper that The Bard emitted to pay his bills when he got old. It happens sometimes.
I don't like Stephen King's written work for the most part. He's a wonderful storyteller, and I respect him greatly, but his style of writing is too poppy for my taste. He can create a character's snapshot perfectly in three sentences (usually to kill them a page later), and his stories are beyond words. I just hate his stuff when it's written, and not filmed. Pet Sematary is one of three exceptions so far (the other two being Green Mile and On Writing, the later of which was kept). I loved this story, and the writing was passable because of the build. It's not that I'm a zombie buff, or that I love twisted takes on innocence being distorted. The characters grabbed me better than nearly any other pop-lit novel has, and the story came together perfectly. Why's it getting left behind? I've got somewhere around 400 books, and I can only afford the space for (maybe) 75 of them. This gets left behind in favor of something more vital.
Tolkien is another man I respect greatly, but not for his writing. Tolkien was an amazing linguist, and a man of great conviction to his faith. He's probably the most popular Christian author anyone is likely to read, and most people don't even realize it. I respect anyone who can mix their faith with their personal hobbies (the study of folklore and mythology was a major theme in his life, obviously) and make something enduring. Of all the things Tolkien was, he was NOT a writer. He created the Lord of the Rings series to give his languages a home. Elvish is a fully fleshed language, and LotR exists for it. Not the other way around. The stories have terrible pacing, the characters are mostly bland, and it offers little else besides beautiful shots of being lost in the woods. Just like a certain book later in this list thing. If I wanted to wander in the woods, I'd go do it in reality.
Ray Bradbury's brilliant, but Something Wicked... isn't one of my favorites from him. The evil carnival motif is cool at first, but the entire first quarter of the book is "OMINOUS OMINOUS AND DARK," without any plot development. Cool atmosphere, bad build. Fahrenheit 451 wins instead.
Harry Potter's a lot of fun after the first two children's books. The series really starts at the third novel, with extended backstory. I do like the series greatly, and perhaps if it wasn't so over-saturated in today's culture, I'd bring them with me. I don't really need to though, this shit's everywhere. A few years ago I couldn't look anywhere without seeing something relating to the boy that lived. As the series progressed it got darker, and the writing got more mature. By book 7, Rowlnig took a turn for the Tolkien, wasting half the book wandering in the woods. I actually stopped reading this book for a few weeks because I couldn't get out of the fucking woods. I began to suspect that Voldemort was hiding inside a goddamned tree. This series, while wonderful, is also largely unoriginal. Nearly all aspects - while used creatively - are drawn from most of the same sources Tolkien used. If I owned it in paperback and it wasn't so common, I might consider braving the extra weight. It isn't, so I won't bring it.
Calvin and Hobbes has a very special place in my heart, it was the first comic I really got attached to. Bill Watterson is one of my heroes, and when I was doing a comic strip column for Serpentine Magazine I referenced him frequently. He was my first exposure to many fantastic concepts that I wouldn't've cared about otherwise. He gave some of the best dialogue I've ever seen. He presented the option of imagination. In nearly every way, Watterson shaped me - in some part - into who I am now. As such, I own 10 of the collections. I only have the space for one or two. I still haven't decided which I will keep.
There are hundreds of other books left behind too, including things I got for class and novels I really enjoyed when I was younger. They're innocent victims of circumstance mostly, but circumstance is really all that matters. A man fishing is fine in most cases, unless he's catching endangered fish. Then he's become a felon. These aren't really all disposable, but they must all be disposed of.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Rover. Wanderer. Nomad. Vagabond. Call me what you will...
This was supposed to be about the new Health Care bill, but I realized that I'm not a political writer, and to be perfectly honest, I don't feel it's my place to talk about it just yet. It wouldn't be in my writing's spirit.
Then I considered writing about academia, and why I feel that all teachers should be field tested, but in essence I've already done that.
I then considered writing about my feelings for the status of the DSi, and how I feel about the current assortment of downloadable games (and how few of them actually matter), but instead I decided to shave my mustache. While doing this I realized that I'd rather right about disposable media.
This isn't in the sense that all media is disposable, as "disposable" doesn't have the standard definition in this context. Disposable Media is that which is inconsequential or a passing fancy. I've got a lot of this, most of which that you, my dear reader, will disagree with. Here's a small sampling of things I've deemed DM.
Video
This was the easiest, as I don't really watch very much to begin with. Most notable are the Saw films, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Happy Tree Friends (Season 1), Clerks, Sean of the Dead, and Labyrinth.
TMNT and Labyrinth have a special place in my heart, having grown up with them both practically on loop. I actually burnt out the cassette for Labyrinth. They're examples on this list of films that only hold sentimental value because they were there while I was a child. Neither of them are very good, but both are somewhat memorable. Besides seeing my childhood heroes brought to life through huge suits, TMNT has nothing special about it. Labyrinth has some creative sets and interesting lines, but besides being a generic fantasy with muppets, there's nothing that really forces this DVD into my box of things worth salvaging in the event of a impromptu move to Belgium (not that I'd move there, but they make a fantastic example).
The other films on this list - especially Sean of the Dead and Clerks - are still fantastic films. Sean of the Dead is one of my favorite comedies/zombie movies of all time. My issue/reason to abandon them is that neither are significantly worth the space when compared to the Neverender: Children of the Fence box set, or the first two seasons of Metalocalypse. Just because something's amazing doesn't mean that it's worth making an active part of your life.
Music
This one's much more tricky, as someone that takes great pride in being able to name probably more bands than you, along with singles and (in some cases) who produced which albums. That said, I've trimmed from about 300 albums down to about 50 (I don't want to count, it'll break my heart). I left behind entire discographies on compact disk. Some of them are no-brainers, like the early Limp Bizkit and Creed, but others took more thought and nearly caused me physical discomfort.
That said, the most notable albums or discographies I'm leaving behind are all Metallica, Otep, Mudvayne, and Taproot albums. Also included of note are Steve Vai's The Elusive Light and Sound Vol. 1 (though typing it made me rip the disk to my Zune, having had very good memories with it), Eric Hutchinson's That Could've Gone Better, Billy Joel's Storm Front, and Black Sabbath's Paranoid.
Metallica and Taproot are wonderful examples of what I used to be, ten years ago. I was angst ridden and fancied myself much less than I should've at the time. While both bands have their own merits (Metallica is a genuinely amazing band, and Taproot grew so much as musicians over the span of three albums that they should be commended, and might've actually earned the record deal by now), neither of them really matter to me in the way that they used to. My musical tastes have changed so much that while I can still appreciate them, I don't in a way that binds them to my life. Taproot actually has more songs I still identify with, oddly enough, and they've a very special spot in my mobile media device. Unfortunately they take too much space in my box o' stuff.
Otep and Mudvayne are also examples of things I grew out of, but both came later. Both are well educated in the lyrics and messages (contrary to popular belief), but neither really show the side of me that I want my music to show. I'm not that angry a person anymore, and while the sophisticated approaches still fit my views of the world in many cases, I don't really care enough in this way to save them. I don't love them any less, but I don't love them enough to salvage them should I need to restructure and redesign my life.
The individual albums hurt more. Steve Vai was playing in my ears when I was put under sedation to have surgery in high school. Morphine and Vai together are pretty fucking amazing. This album isn't even all that special, it's the work he's done for movies... but he's so good that even this crap is goddamn glourious. Hutch is an old favorite, and before he got signed he was amazing. I bought this album from him personally, and it shows his ability as a songwriter better than anything he's done since he got his record deal. Ironically, he has a live album (worth saving) called Before I Sold Out. I miss his sense of humor, before he turned into a packaged commodity. His work is still worth listening to, but the original album didn't make the cut like the live one did. And the studio one is comparative shit.
Joel's album sucks when looking at his real body of work. This is no huge loss besides one song of note ("Downeaster Alexia"). Paranoid hurts a lot, it's one of the albums that got me into music in the first place. With enough elements of blues to keep me listening despite folk upbringing, it made me smile and helped inspire me to play guitar. It's one of the first albums classified as "metal." That's pretty badass. Why am I leaving it? The songs are imprinted into my brain, and I can play them all note for note on guitar besides solos for personal reasons. They're getting left behind because they're so amazing that they don't need to stay with me. Besides that, I held on to We Sold Our Souls for Rock and Roll, which has half the album on it anyway.
This is already a pretty epic blog. I'll finish it tomorrow (not Sunday) to conclude with Games and Books. You can guess which one will dominate that post.
Then I considered writing about academia, and why I feel that all teachers should be field tested, but in essence I've already done that.
I then considered writing about my feelings for the status of the DSi, and how I feel about the current assortment of downloadable games (and how few of them actually matter), but instead I decided to shave my mustache. While doing this I realized that I'd rather right about disposable media.
This isn't in the sense that all media is disposable, as "disposable" doesn't have the standard definition in this context. Disposable Media is that which is inconsequential or a passing fancy. I've got a lot of this, most of which that you, my dear reader, will disagree with. Here's a small sampling of things I've deemed DM.
Video
This was the easiest, as I don't really watch very much to begin with. Most notable are the Saw films, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Happy Tree Friends (Season 1), Clerks, Sean of the Dead, and Labyrinth.
TMNT and Labyrinth have a special place in my heart, having grown up with them both practically on loop. I actually burnt out the cassette for Labyrinth. They're examples on this list of films that only hold sentimental value because they were there while I was a child. Neither of them are very good, but both are somewhat memorable. Besides seeing my childhood heroes brought to life through huge suits, TMNT has nothing special about it. Labyrinth has some creative sets and interesting lines, but besides being a generic fantasy with muppets, there's nothing that really forces this DVD into my box of things worth salvaging in the event of a impromptu move to Belgium (not that I'd move there, but they make a fantastic example).
The other films on this list - especially Sean of the Dead and Clerks - are still fantastic films. Sean of the Dead is one of my favorite comedies/zombie movies of all time. My issue/reason to abandon them is that neither are significantly worth the space when compared to the Neverender: Children of the Fence box set, or the first two seasons of Metalocalypse. Just because something's amazing doesn't mean that it's worth making an active part of your life.
Music
This one's much more tricky, as someone that takes great pride in being able to name probably more bands than you, along with singles and (in some cases) who produced which albums. That said, I've trimmed from about 300 albums down to about 50 (I don't want to count, it'll break my heart). I left behind entire discographies on compact disk. Some of them are no-brainers, like the early Limp Bizkit and Creed, but others took more thought and nearly caused me physical discomfort.
That said, the most notable albums or discographies I'm leaving behind are all Metallica, Otep, Mudvayne, and Taproot albums. Also included of note are Steve Vai's The Elusive Light and Sound Vol. 1 (though typing it made me rip the disk to my Zune, having had very good memories with it), Eric Hutchinson's That Could've Gone Better, Billy Joel's Storm Front, and Black Sabbath's Paranoid.
Metallica and Taproot are wonderful examples of what I used to be, ten years ago. I was angst ridden and fancied myself much less than I should've at the time. While both bands have their own merits (Metallica is a genuinely amazing band, and Taproot grew so much as musicians over the span of three albums that they should be commended, and might've actually earned the record deal by now), neither of them really matter to me in the way that they used to. My musical tastes have changed so much that while I can still appreciate them, I don't in a way that binds them to my life. Taproot actually has more songs I still identify with, oddly enough, and they've a very special spot in my mobile media device. Unfortunately they take too much space in my box o' stuff.
Otep and Mudvayne are also examples of things I grew out of, but both came later. Both are well educated in the lyrics and messages (contrary to popular belief), but neither really show the side of me that I want my music to show. I'm not that angry a person anymore, and while the sophisticated approaches still fit my views of the world in many cases, I don't really care enough in this way to save them. I don't love them any less, but I don't love them enough to salvage them should I need to restructure and redesign my life.
The individual albums hurt more. Steve Vai was playing in my ears when I was put under sedation to have surgery in high school. Morphine and Vai together are pretty fucking amazing. This album isn't even all that special, it's the work he's done for movies... but he's so good that even this crap is goddamn glourious. Hutch is an old favorite, and before he got signed he was amazing. I bought this album from him personally, and it shows his ability as a songwriter better than anything he's done since he got his record deal. Ironically, he has a live album (worth saving) called Before I Sold Out. I miss his sense of humor, before he turned into a packaged commodity. His work is still worth listening to, but the original album didn't make the cut like the live one did. And the studio one is comparative shit.
Joel's album sucks when looking at his real body of work. This is no huge loss besides one song of note ("Downeaster Alexia"). Paranoid hurts a lot, it's one of the albums that got me into music in the first place. With enough elements of blues to keep me listening despite folk upbringing, it made me smile and helped inspire me to play guitar. It's one of the first albums classified as "metal." That's pretty badass. Why am I leaving it? The songs are imprinted into my brain, and I can play them all note for note on guitar besides solos for personal reasons. They're getting left behind because they're so amazing that they don't need to stay with me. Besides that, I held on to We Sold Our Souls for Rock and Roll, which has half the album on it anyway.
This is already a pretty epic blog. I'll finish it tomorrow (not Sunday) to conclude with Games and Books. You can guess which one will dominate that post.
Monday, March 22, 2010
On Religion.
I know it's a half hour late. Sorry.
I'm a deist by choice, but its' a choice I came to through logic. I was originally born and baptized Lutheran, but my mother and her husband decided it was much more fashionable to convert me to Catholicism when I was in second grade. They didn't think it was fair that I should feel left out while all the other kids made their first communion. Time went on, I was confirmed in seventh grade. This is about the time I stopped believing.
There were a lot of things that drove me away from Catholicism (and really all Christianity), but the biggest was the realization that a priest has amnesty from the law in the name of God, with the backing of The Church. The Capital-C has the power to keep their folks out of jail, regardless of what laws they break and which sins they confess to one another. Not all clergy are guilty of the grandiose atrocities that Capital-C is getting well known for, but the ones that are there aren't being punished for what they've done. Just like when a cop goes corrupt, they don't usually get reprimanded for it unless it's against another cop. If a priest sodomizes another priest, I'd imagine they'd get punished. Altar boys though? Who gives a shit? For the record, I was never an altar boy, nor was I ever raped. It's not that personal. I just hate rapists of any/all sort.
Further issues with Capital-C arose when I noticed that it was essentially doing the same thing that many government officials attempt, in collecting money from the folks that don't have any to subsist. I probably wouldn't mind so much if the community was funded entirely from the well to do, but we're not all rich. My family isn't, I sure as hell am not. If a buck is all I could afford to toss into the green bucket, that's about all that I could afford. I shouldn't get dirty looks for the absence of it.
Capital-C really pushed me off edge when we were being taught sex-ed in my grade school. The private school didn't really say very much about sex except that you shouldn't do it until you're married. Then they showed us a head-on video of a woman giving birth, to ensure all boners were killed. They didn't talk about condoms, or STDs, or much of anything else. The teachers didn't know that a decent chunk of their class was already playing with the beginnings of it, even if no one'd bumped uglies yet. I was too much of a wholesome nerd to do any of it yet, but I knew so many that were. Funny how the double standards bite you in the balls.
In high school I decided to be an atheist, but only because I didn't know what other options there were. I studied as many others as I could - looked into Buddhism, Judaism, various nature faiths - but nothing really made sense to me. All the doctrine was essentially the same, even if the zeal fluctuated between them. I pulled the word "agnostic" out of Donnie Darko, really liking the gray area between blind faith and cognitive thought. I kept this claim well into the start of college.
After two years of college, I decided that some sort of cosmic power had to exist. I didn't decide because of some stellar event, or because I watched a baby get born (a second time), or because I prayed at random and it came true. Prayers only come true if you fight for them, just like wishes.
I knew people who were overseas fighting for our right to oil, and some had actually died. I knew people who were raped, and couldn't get vengeance for them. I knew people who were psychologically abused to the point where they'd do anything on behalf of their mental captors, Stockholm syndrome taking root. My brother was born with a rare heart defect, the same one that killed my uncle as an infant. Family members have floated in and out of rehab and alcoholics anonymous, and I've heard stories so unflattering about my fore bearers that I was nearly ashamed to claim membership in my family house. Yet despite all of these things, flowers still grow. Babies are still born, children are still innocent and beautiful in their natural curiosity. People still find love, and grow old together. Music capable of pulling people back from suicide is written, and people still take solace in knowing that they are never alone.
While the world is bleak, there is still beauty in it. While we all suffer, there is still something to redeem us and bring reason to life.
I can't believe it's a coincidence, regardless of whatever else I'm capable of believing. I don't feel that any human should have the right to control others with brainwashing in the name of faith. I'm not going to hell because I had a bacon-cheeseburger on Friday in lent with some shellfish on the side. I'm not going to burn for eternity because I support same sex marriage, or because I believe that all people should have the ability to have an abortion, whether they exercise it or not.
I'm a deist because of you.
I'm a deist by choice, but its' a choice I came to through logic. I was originally born and baptized Lutheran, but my mother and her husband decided it was much more fashionable to convert me to Catholicism when I was in second grade. They didn't think it was fair that I should feel left out while all the other kids made their first communion. Time went on, I was confirmed in seventh grade. This is about the time I stopped believing.
There were a lot of things that drove me away from Catholicism (and really all Christianity), but the biggest was the realization that a priest has amnesty from the law in the name of God, with the backing of The Church. The Capital-C has the power to keep their folks out of jail, regardless of what laws they break and which sins they confess to one another. Not all clergy are guilty of the grandiose atrocities that Capital-C is getting well known for, but the ones that are there aren't being punished for what they've done. Just like when a cop goes corrupt, they don't usually get reprimanded for it unless it's against another cop. If a priest sodomizes another priest, I'd imagine they'd get punished. Altar boys though? Who gives a shit? For the record, I was never an altar boy, nor was I ever raped. It's not that personal. I just hate rapists of any/all sort.
Further issues with Capital-C arose when I noticed that it was essentially doing the same thing that many government officials attempt, in collecting money from the folks that don't have any to subsist. I probably wouldn't mind so much if the community was funded entirely from the well to do, but we're not all rich. My family isn't, I sure as hell am not. If a buck is all I could afford to toss into the green bucket, that's about all that I could afford. I shouldn't get dirty looks for the absence of it.
Capital-C really pushed me off edge when we were being taught sex-ed in my grade school. The private school didn't really say very much about sex except that you shouldn't do it until you're married. Then they showed us a head-on video of a woman giving birth, to ensure all boners were killed. They didn't talk about condoms, or STDs, or much of anything else. The teachers didn't know that a decent chunk of their class was already playing with the beginnings of it, even if no one'd bumped uglies yet. I was too much of a wholesome nerd to do any of it yet, but I knew so many that were. Funny how the double standards bite you in the balls.
In high school I decided to be an atheist, but only because I didn't know what other options there were. I studied as many others as I could - looked into Buddhism, Judaism, various nature faiths - but nothing really made sense to me. All the doctrine was essentially the same, even if the zeal fluctuated between them. I pulled the word "agnostic" out of Donnie Darko, really liking the gray area between blind faith and cognitive thought. I kept this claim well into the start of college.
After two years of college, I decided that some sort of cosmic power had to exist. I didn't decide because of some stellar event, or because I watched a baby get born (a second time), or because I prayed at random and it came true. Prayers only come true if you fight for them, just like wishes.
I knew people who were overseas fighting for our right to oil, and some had actually died. I knew people who were raped, and couldn't get vengeance for them. I knew people who were psychologically abused to the point where they'd do anything on behalf of their mental captors, Stockholm syndrome taking root. My brother was born with a rare heart defect, the same one that killed my uncle as an infant. Family members have floated in and out of rehab and alcoholics anonymous, and I've heard stories so unflattering about my fore bearers that I was nearly ashamed to claim membership in my family house. Yet despite all of these things, flowers still grow. Babies are still born, children are still innocent and beautiful in their natural curiosity. People still find love, and grow old together. Music capable of pulling people back from suicide is written, and people still take solace in knowing that they are never alone.
While the world is bleak, there is still beauty in it. While we all suffer, there is still something to redeem us and bring reason to life.
I can't believe it's a coincidence, regardless of whatever else I'm capable of believing. I don't feel that any human should have the right to control others with brainwashing in the name of faith. I'm not going to hell because I had a bacon-cheeseburger on Friday in lent with some shellfish on the side. I'm not going to burn for eternity because I support same sex marriage, or because I believe that all people should have the ability to have an abortion, whether they exercise it or not.
I'm a deist because of you.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Art. Lofty... artness.
If today was any precedent for the rest of the week, this is going to be a very productive seven days, despite the mysteriously vanished hour last night.
For any readers outside of the NYC area, we had a very, very severe storm yesterday that seems to have ended now. It destroyed houses, power lines, cars, and a number of other things with the help of local trees. Needless to say, I'd have to be insane or stupid to go outside for it.
Today was wasted at this computer for the most part, but not in small ways. I got a lot done in Photoshop, and even more done with my Zune. The problem with any software transition is that not all data carries over. When I switched from Windows Media Player to Zune, some things were lost in the transition. Nothing major, only track numbers, album art, and certain albums were spaced into dozens of separate album listings for each track. I didn't fix all of these, but I fixed enough to make my browsing easier. Certain albums don't have cover art either, but that's where Photoshop comes in.
I learned how to use Photoshop in 2003 on Photoshop 7. I'm using a slightly out of date version now, but I didn't stop experimenting after my high school classes ran out. I designed three album covers today, reworked a piece I made for the magazine into a stand alone print, and created a poster for my brother (his concept, my ability). It worked out well.
It worked out so well that I've decided I'm going to try to get ten solid pieces that I'm happy with and try my hand with print sales. Obviously it's not going to be a real money maker, but it's something nice for the side if other people end up liking my work too. I'm also going to see if my friends in Not From Concentrate (a local ska band, check them out) are interested in the cover I did for their EP. If nothing else, they can always use the help until they get signed.
Musically, I started arranging "Sasasan Katamari" for a guitar ensemble. That won't be done for a while. Fun project though.
Also started on a new project, with another few to be kicked off this week. Going to be a good few weeks. I'll fill anyone interested in on the other projects down the line.
Also, like said two posts ago, I might be changing my format soon. More info to come sometime this week.
For any readers outside of the NYC area, we had a very, very severe storm yesterday that seems to have ended now. It destroyed houses, power lines, cars, and a number of other things with the help of local trees. Needless to say, I'd have to be insane or stupid to go outside for it.
Today was wasted at this computer for the most part, but not in small ways. I got a lot done in Photoshop, and even more done with my Zune. The problem with any software transition is that not all data carries over. When I switched from Windows Media Player to Zune, some things were lost in the transition. Nothing major, only track numbers, album art, and certain albums were spaced into dozens of separate album listings for each track. I didn't fix all of these, but I fixed enough to make my browsing easier. Certain albums don't have cover art either, but that's where Photoshop comes in.
I learned how to use Photoshop in 2003 on Photoshop 7. I'm using a slightly out of date version now, but I didn't stop experimenting after my high school classes ran out. I designed three album covers today, reworked a piece I made for the magazine into a stand alone print, and created a poster for my brother (his concept, my ability). It worked out well.
It worked out so well that I've decided I'm going to try to get ten solid pieces that I'm happy with and try my hand with print sales. Obviously it's not going to be a real money maker, but it's something nice for the side if other people end up liking my work too. I'm also going to see if my friends in Not From Concentrate (a local ska band, check them out) are interested in the cover I did for their EP. If nothing else, they can always use the help until they get signed.
Musically, I started arranging "Sasasan Katamari" for a guitar ensemble. That won't be done for a while. Fun project though.
Also started on a new project, with another few to be kicked off this week. Going to be a good few weeks. I'll fill anyone interested in on the other projects down the line.
Also, like said two posts ago, I might be changing my format soon. More info to come sometime this week.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Tuesday's Psychological Corkscrew
Hot shit, just inside my day's time window. Still Tuesday! This one's going to be a shorty, as it pertains to this blog.
Since I can't seem to regulate and harness my thoughts to repeat at set times and days, I'm considering removing the set posting schedule, and giving it one more malleable. This could limit it to one post a week (which is a lot less work on your part, reader), but I don't feel that's doing anyone a service. I could go back to a post a day, but then there's much more filler and fewer oddeseys into the things that life is made of (in my case, prog-rock, video games, and books by Grant Morrison are likely topics). I could swap it back a day in all cases, putting it at Monday/Wednesday/Friday, but there are so many things I'd rather be doing on a Friday night than writing about whatever I did that day that it would just be silly.
I've been considering this change for the past half hour or so, as I'm not really around a computer frequently enough to make sure I'll have a post at a set time for various days of the week. I could write my work in advance and post it later - it's a very good business practice, and I've done it before - but that requires too much time in one sitting when I could be doing something else that works as well. It's not a long period of consideration, so obviously it's not a matter of dire urgency.
I've been considering a number of other things lately. To cut my hair for the first time in ten years? To abandon all aspirations of writing or teaching and take up a city job in Sanitation or some obscure office? Abandon everything I've come to believe in an become a priest, soldier, or criminal so an organization with much more money can take care of me?
There are benefits to all of these things, and oddly enough, all can work together. I could easily cut my hair to a common length, quit writing and reading alternative literature (which should be the proper term for science fiction, graphic novels, and horror novels that have literary redemption plastered between the covers), and join the Army. I'd be set for life, however long that turns out to be. I wouldn't have to ask any questions anymore. I'd never scrounge for bus money again.
I think I'd hate life though. I appreciate what soldiers do for our country, but I don't think I would ever become one by choice. I'm as capable of following orders within reason and completing my objectives as anyone else, but I have less interest in it than most. I couldn't do it. I respect the people that can more than most others living, but realistically I'm not one of them.
I could get a job wrangling wild 22 lb bright paper, my cubicle decorated with pictures of my family and all the things that remind me of who I could've been before giving my life up, but realistically I wouldn't work out there for the same reason above. I have no interest, and I would fail. Besides that, I'd get better treatment, benefits, and food from the Army in that case.
My insecurity about the future might be the reason why I need to change the posting schedule. That's actually a lie, but I wanted some clever way to wrap it up without sounding like this became a tangent post.
Wish I made money off this stuff. With the whopping 22 clicks on average in bit.ly, I'd be raking in the pennies.
Since I can't seem to regulate and harness my thoughts to repeat at set times and days, I'm considering removing the set posting schedule, and giving it one more malleable. This could limit it to one post a week (which is a lot less work on your part, reader), but I don't feel that's doing anyone a service. I could go back to a post a day, but then there's much more filler and fewer oddeseys into the things that life is made of (in my case, prog-rock, video games, and books by Grant Morrison are likely topics). I could swap it back a day in all cases, putting it at Monday/Wednesday/Friday, but there are so many things I'd rather be doing on a Friday night than writing about whatever I did that day that it would just be silly.
I've been considering this change for the past half hour or so, as I'm not really around a computer frequently enough to make sure I'll have a post at a set time for various days of the week. I could write my work in advance and post it later - it's a very good business practice, and I've done it before - but that requires too much time in one sitting when I could be doing something else that works as well. It's not a long period of consideration, so obviously it's not a matter of dire urgency.
I've been considering a number of other things lately. To cut my hair for the first time in ten years? To abandon all aspirations of writing or teaching and take up a city job in Sanitation or some obscure office? Abandon everything I've come to believe in an become a priest, soldier, or criminal so an organization with much more money can take care of me?
There are benefits to all of these things, and oddly enough, all can work together. I could easily cut my hair to a common length, quit writing and reading alternative literature (which should be the proper term for science fiction, graphic novels, and horror novels that have literary redemption plastered between the covers), and join the Army. I'd be set for life, however long that turns out to be. I wouldn't have to ask any questions anymore. I'd never scrounge for bus money again.
I think I'd hate life though. I appreciate what soldiers do for our country, but I don't think I would ever become one by choice. I'm as capable of following orders within reason and completing my objectives as anyone else, but I have less interest in it than most. I couldn't do it. I respect the people that can more than most others living, but realistically I'm not one of them.
I could get a job wrangling wild 22 lb bright paper, my cubicle decorated with pictures of my family and all the things that remind me of who I could've been before giving my life up, but realistically I wouldn't work out there for the same reason above. I have no interest, and I would fail. Besides that, I'd get better treatment, benefits, and food from the Army in that case.
My insecurity about the future might be the reason why I need to change the posting schedule. That's actually a lie, but I wanted some clever way to wrap it up without sounding like this became a tangent post.
Wish I made money off this stuff. With the whopping 22 clicks on average in bit.ly, I'd be raking in the pennies.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Little People in Extended Metaphor
Right now I'm too sick to really do this. My eyes are closed, and I'm typing by touch. I'll edit it after. My head feels like there's an angry bearded dwarf hitting the side of my skull with a war-hammer over and over, as if I'll let him free soon.
Believe me, dwarf, if I could let you free, you'd be out in the world. I'd love nothing more than for you to get the hell out of my head. Your gold has plugged my sinuses up, and I can only imagine what foul liquid you're pouring from my head. Get out, now.
Realistically, if an angry dwarf were stuck in my skull, he wouldn't be able to come out whole. I would have to take him apart and pull him out bit by bit. Medicine isn't working to dismember him quickly enough, it's just pissing him off. His beard's rubbing the back of my throat, like one of Giger's aliens trying to french kiss a space marine.
I can only hope this dwarf suffocates himself soon.
Believe me, dwarf, if I could let you free, you'd be out in the world. I'd love nothing more than for you to get the hell out of my head. Your gold has plugged my sinuses up, and I can only imagine what foul liquid you're pouring from my head. Get out, now.
Realistically, if an angry dwarf were stuck in my skull, he wouldn't be able to come out whole. I would have to take him apart and pull him out bit by bit. Medicine isn't working to dismember him quickly enough, it's just pissing him off. His beard's rubbing the back of my throat, like one of Giger's aliens trying to french kiss a space marine.
I can only hope this dwarf suffocates himself soon.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Can't Fight the Future
“People they come together, people they fall apart. No one can stop us now. ‘Cause we are all made of stars.” - Moby
College has a funny way of taking you away from the things and people you love. Sometimes you're still present for them, but ultimately you're somewhere else mentally, and everyone notices. You don't realize it until much later, but by the time you're finished with your Associates, Bachelors, Masters, or Doctorate depending on personal preference, you are transfigured into a new person independent of who you were when you started.
In high school I used to love to tell stories in my writing, drawing fiction from reality in Star Wars storytelling forums online. I built fantasies around characters loosely based around who I was then. They were facets of the things I liked, aspired to be, and avoided ever becoming. I wrote about an evil mastermind that could shape-shift, but eventually realized he had a soul and shifted away from the Dark Side of the Force. I wrote about a survivalist in a post-apocalyptic environment, after God and Satan have both killed each other off, leaving Earth, Heaven, and Hell behind. I wrote short stories about romancing extra terrestrials as satire.
Now I write nonfiction. It's still wet and thick with detail when I can help it, but nonfiction only leaves so much room for fun. I've stretched out instants that take no more than three seconds in real time to a three page psychological odyssey, in which a mouse click becomes the most difficult thing in the world. I've painted vivid images of college arcades, capturing snippets of tournament gamers by their details to give an accurate account of their personalities. I've delved into the nature of things, described delusions and daydreams with more clarity than reality often brings, and earned readers' sympathies for characters that should have none for their actions.
I never used to write poetry, yet now the structure of verse seems almost comforting in a way.
None of this seems important to you now, and it really shouldn't. People change as they grow older, that's a side effect of existence. College is a catalyst, not an origin. The ways my writing has changed reflect the ways my own personality has changed. I'm not the same person I was last year, or the year before, or five years before that. I like who I am and what I've become, even if I don't like everything about it. I can look back at those years now and draw from them. The experiences, the sights, the people - they're all back story now. A proper base to build the character on for future developments and plot twists.
We're all works of fiction in our own ways, but acknowledging it at least gives ground for the plot. I don't know for certain when the back story stopped and my plot began. I don't know if I'm simply drawn from a writer's mind like my Sith Master was, or if I'm a blur of detail in an overarching piece. I don't know if I'm just trying to survive after God and Satan dueled to mutual demise. Maybe I'm a rhyming couplet at the end of a sonnet.
I do know for certain, however, that right now I like where the story is going. I like the narrative arc, and (assuming that I am the protagonist of the story) my antagonists are not without sympathetic traits. My characters are developed and complex, and I love them all. I'm proud of how my story's coming along.
We should all be proud of our stories.
College has a funny way of taking you away from the things and people you love. Sometimes you're still present for them, but ultimately you're somewhere else mentally, and everyone notices. You don't realize it until much later, but by the time you're finished with your Associates, Bachelors, Masters, or Doctorate depending on personal preference, you are transfigured into a new person independent of who you were when you started.
In high school I used to love to tell stories in my writing, drawing fiction from reality in Star Wars storytelling forums online. I built fantasies around characters loosely based around who I was then. They were facets of the things I liked, aspired to be, and avoided ever becoming. I wrote about an evil mastermind that could shape-shift, but eventually realized he had a soul and shifted away from the Dark Side of the Force. I wrote about a survivalist in a post-apocalyptic environment, after God and Satan have both killed each other off, leaving Earth, Heaven, and Hell behind. I wrote short stories about romancing extra terrestrials as satire.
Now I write nonfiction. It's still wet and thick with detail when I can help it, but nonfiction only leaves so much room for fun. I've stretched out instants that take no more than three seconds in real time to a three page psychological odyssey, in which a mouse click becomes the most difficult thing in the world. I've painted vivid images of college arcades, capturing snippets of tournament gamers by their details to give an accurate account of their personalities. I've delved into the nature of things, described delusions and daydreams with more clarity than reality often brings, and earned readers' sympathies for characters that should have none for their actions.
I never used to write poetry, yet now the structure of verse seems almost comforting in a way.
None of this seems important to you now, and it really shouldn't. People change as they grow older, that's a side effect of existence. College is a catalyst, not an origin. The ways my writing has changed reflect the ways my own personality has changed. I'm not the same person I was last year, or the year before, or five years before that. I like who I am and what I've become, even if I don't like everything about it. I can look back at those years now and draw from them. The experiences, the sights, the people - they're all back story now. A proper base to build the character on for future developments and plot twists.
We're all works of fiction in our own ways, but acknowledging it at least gives ground for the plot. I don't know for certain when the back story stopped and my plot began. I don't know if I'm simply drawn from a writer's mind like my Sith Master was, or if I'm a blur of detail in an overarching piece. I don't know if I'm just trying to survive after God and Satan dueled to mutual demise. Maybe I'm a rhyming couplet at the end of a sonnet.
I do know for certain, however, that right now I like where the story is going. I like the narrative arc, and (assuming that I am the protagonist of the story) my antagonists are not without sympathetic traits. My characters are developed and complex, and I love them all. I'm proud of how my story's coming along.
We should all be proud of our stories.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Games I Obsess Over
Earlier a friend of mine went on a ten minute rant about why she loves World of Warcraft. Her points were all valid and the sort made by fan-children of that game. I don't bash World of Warcraft, even if I do occasionally poke fun at it. All gamers (and most people in general) have a game (or something else) that they obsess over. Most have many.
I've got a bunch. Most reflect various times in my life, but all are amazing games that you should play.
Without any order, my 11 favorite games:
Diablo II: This game is so good that I've recently put it back on my computer. The expansion pack (the only real way to have a complete game) came out in 2001. While it's somewhat pixelated compared to most modern games for the PC, it's aged much better than most games in it's time. I blame Blizzard, since they engineer electronic crack on a level beyond normal human consumption. The game is addictive, has extremely high replay value, and was in many ways a dark humor piece. If you read my blog, then you know I'm all over that kind of stuff.
Final Fantasy VII: My first major RPG is still one of my most memorable. I'm not as rabid a fanatic as many other fans of FFVII, but I do defend it for what it's worth. The graphics have aged like raw meat, story is full of holes, the main character is a stereotype for "generic-stoic-swordsman" that many RPGs have adopted since, and the game takes forever. That said, the graphics were amazing when it came out, the story (holes and all) is quite engaging, the characters are better developed than most video games (even if some are cheesy grabs at niche audiences), and the huge amount of play time only keeps you coming back. On top of all this, the music is fantastic.
Katamari Damacy: An art game, a stoner's daydream, a statement about consumerism - all are applicable labels for Katamari Damacy. The gameplay is simple and addictive (if you can push a ball, you can play this game). Plot synopsis: Your father - God - gets drunk and smashes all the stars in the sky. As his son, it's your job to fix it while he makes fun of you. You do this by taking a self contained quantum singularity and pushing it around on earth against objects. The ball gets bigger as you absorb objects. When it's big enough, your father turns it into a star. All the while he tells you it's tiny, because you are tiny, because he doesn't remember you're his kid in the later games. What a fucked up family.
Gex: Enter the Gecko: This is a sequel to another game I adore, but I remember this one much better. That just means that this one ate my life in late grade school and the beginning of high school. You play a Gecko that was sucked into the dimension of television to fight some metallic asshole that wants to kill you. As you play, you go through many popular movie genres and change costumes as you do. You use your tongue and tail (mostly for terrible puns) while you solve puzzles and die frequently. It made me very happy when I was younger, though when I look back I don't see as much appeal in this sequel as I did in the original. Still worth playing, but perhaps not as much as others on this list.
Gunbound: Oh Jesus. This game ate most of my senior year. That's not a bad thing though, there was a large group of my friends in this game as well. Ten or twelve of us would talk about it mostly in class, then go home and kick each others asses when we got in. It was a lot of fun, until people started hacking it and the host changed formats to only support Internet Explorer. The gist of it is that you're a kid in a tank/on an animal/riding a hovercraft/etc that has to kill everyone else on their vehicles by shooting at odd angles and compensating for the wind. It's very Korean-anime style, and cutesy for it. The game had some really hardcore players though. Worth the time if you're an IE user.
Gunstar Heroes: Best Genesis game ever. It's available on the Wii's Virtual Console. Go buy it if you can. There's some kind of rescue plot to save the world or some bullshit like that, but no one cares. The graphics were very polished, the gameplay was an addictive shooter/action (like Contra, but better. No, I didn't just blaspheme. It's truth), the music was catchy and well constructed, and the two-player mode was just as much fun as single player (the game is very difficult for only one person to beat in a timely manner). I still love the hell out of this game, and I always will.
The World Ends With You: This is the most recent, but it's earned it's spot. This game is the reason why I had screen protectors on my DS, and one of the few RPGs that made me actually wonder what the hell was happening. The story has some interesting metaphysical stuff going on, hooky music, and a unique combat system that will keep you frantically scratching at your screen until you finally get off a huge (two screens!) cinematic uber-death-fest attack with the two characters you're controlling independently working together. If that run-on sentence didn't sell you, consider that you're doing everything based entirely on collectible pins. The game's cool.
Starcraft: The RTS that's inspired most games since then. A lot of my friends play Warhammer 4000, but in many cases Starcraft was the game that got them into real time strategy in the first place. Personally, I started on the original Warcraft, but that's another story. Starcraft is probably the best balanced RTS that I've ever seen, and has enormous replay value. The game has changed competitively over time too, giving greater player interaction. The strategies I used five years ago (this game's expansion came out in 1999) no longer apply in online play. I was destroyed last time I played online in ways I didn't realize I could lose against. Another case of Blizzard pushing digital drugs onto an unsuspecting population.
Pokemon Blue: My little brother got Red, so I got Blue. As time went on I also got Yellow, Silver, Gold (Japanese) and "borrowed" his copy of Crystal. After that I didn't have a portable until the DS, and I'm waiting for Soul Silver for this generation. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you should really pay more attention to pop culture phenomena.
I was absolutely obsessed with the original Pokemon games. I had 149 at one point, but the save was erased. I had a notebook dedicated entirely to being my personal "Pokedex." I had hand-drawn pictures of each pokemon in there. Looking back I was pathetic, but it was much better than going out and discovering how to knock girls up like other kids in my catholic school were. I suppose being a geek has it's perks.
MediEvil: You play an animate corpse. You were painted by history as a hero, when in reality you were killed by the first arrow in the first volley, shot through the eye. You've been brought back to set your place right, kill an evil sorcerer, and save the people of a country you only have a loose connection to anymore. The game is amazing, and has a lot of quirky humor to the writing. It's a must-play for any PlayStation owner/ePSXe user. I think it's available for the PSP now, go play it.
Bushido Blade: A lot of people didn't like this game when it came out. Then again, a lot of people are fucking morons. Bushido Blade is one of the most realistic fighting games to ever exist, and I believe the best. There is no life bar, there are no super attacks and bullshit moves. Everything they do is based on swordplay, set styles, and the character builds. If you are stabbed in the head, you die. If you get slashed across a main artery, you die. If you deflect or there is a poor connection, you don't take serious damage. If your legs get bashed with a sledge hammer (yes, it's a playable weapon), you have to fight on your knees/crawling. There was a sequel, but it didn't do the series justice. It should be as enduring as Street Fighter and Tekken, but instead it's lost in the annals of the PlayStation back-catalog. If you've ever considered playing with a sword ever, you should play this game.
I've got a bunch. Most reflect various times in my life, but all are amazing games that you should play.
Without any order, my 11 favorite games:
Diablo II: This game is so good that I've recently put it back on my computer. The expansion pack (the only real way to have a complete game) came out in 2001. While it's somewhat pixelated compared to most modern games for the PC, it's aged much better than most games in it's time. I blame Blizzard, since they engineer electronic crack on a level beyond normal human consumption. The game is addictive, has extremely high replay value, and was in many ways a dark humor piece. If you read my blog, then you know I'm all over that kind of stuff.
Final Fantasy VII: My first major RPG is still one of my most memorable. I'm not as rabid a fanatic as many other fans of FFVII, but I do defend it for what it's worth. The graphics have aged like raw meat, story is full of holes, the main character is a stereotype for "generic-stoic-swordsman" that many RPGs have adopted since, and the game takes forever. That said, the graphics were amazing when it came out, the story (holes and all) is quite engaging, the characters are better developed than most video games (even if some are cheesy grabs at niche audiences), and the huge amount of play time only keeps you coming back. On top of all this, the music is fantastic.
Katamari Damacy: An art game, a stoner's daydream, a statement about consumerism - all are applicable labels for Katamari Damacy. The gameplay is simple and addictive (if you can push a ball, you can play this game). Plot synopsis: Your father - God - gets drunk and smashes all the stars in the sky. As his son, it's your job to fix it while he makes fun of you. You do this by taking a self contained quantum singularity and pushing it around on earth against objects. The ball gets bigger as you absorb objects. When it's big enough, your father turns it into a star. All the while he tells you it's tiny, because you are tiny, because he doesn't remember you're his kid in the later games. What a fucked up family.
Gex: Enter the Gecko: This is a sequel to another game I adore, but I remember this one much better. That just means that this one ate my life in late grade school and the beginning of high school. You play a Gecko that was sucked into the dimension of television to fight some metallic asshole that wants to kill you. As you play, you go through many popular movie genres and change costumes as you do. You use your tongue and tail (mostly for terrible puns) while you solve puzzles and die frequently. It made me very happy when I was younger, though when I look back I don't see as much appeal in this sequel as I did in the original. Still worth playing, but perhaps not as much as others on this list.
Gunbound: Oh Jesus. This game ate most of my senior year. That's not a bad thing though, there was a large group of my friends in this game as well. Ten or twelve of us would talk about it mostly in class, then go home and kick each others asses when we got in. It was a lot of fun, until people started hacking it and the host changed formats to only support Internet Explorer. The gist of it is that you're a kid in a tank/on an animal/riding a hovercraft/etc that has to kill everyone else on their vehicles by shooting at odd angles and compensating for the wind. It's very Korean-anime style, and cutesy for it. The game had some really hardcore players though. Worth the time if you're an IE user.
Gunstar Heroes: Best Genesis game ever. It's available on the Wii's Virtual Console. Go buy it if you can. There's some kind of rescue plot to save the world or some bullshit like that, but no one cares. The graphics were very polished, the gameplay was an addictive shooter/action (like Contra, but better. No, I didn't just blaspheme. It's truth), the music was catchy and well constructed, and the two-player mode was just as much fun as single player (the game is very difficult for only one person to beat in a timely manner). I still love the hell out of this game, and I always will.
The World Ends With You: This is the most recent, but it's earned it's spot. This game is the reason why I had screen protectors on my DS, and one of the few RPGs that made me actually wonder what the hell was happening. The story has some interesting metaphysical stuff going on, hooky music, and a unique combat system that will keep you frantically scratching at your screen until you finally get off a huge (two screens!) cinematic uber-death-fest attack with the two characters you're controlling independently working together. If that run-on sentence didn't sell you, consider that you're doing everything based entirely on collectible pins. The game's cool.
Starcraft: The RTS that's inspired most games since then. A lot of my friends play Warhammer 4000, but in many cases Starcraft was the game that got them into real time strategy in the first place. Personally, I started on the original Warcraft, but that's another story. Starcraft is probably the best balanced RTS that I've ever seen, and has enormous replay value. The game has changed competitively over time too, giving greater player interaction. The strategies I used five years ago (this game's expansion came out in 1999) no longer apply in online play. I was destroyed last time I played online in ways I didn't realize I could lose against. Another case of Blizzard pushing digital drugs onto an unsuspecting population.
Pokemon Blue: My little brother got Red, so I got Blue. As time went on I also got Yellow, Silver, Gold (Japanese) and "borrowed" his copy of Crystal. After that I didn't have a portable until the DS, and I'm waiting for Soul Silver for this generation. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you should really pay more attention to pop culture phenomena.
I was absolutely obsessed with the original Pokemon games. I had 149 at one point, but the save was erased. I had a notebook dedicated entirely to being my personal "Pokedex." I had hand-drawn pictures of each pokemon in there. Looking back I was pathetic, but it was much better than going out and discovering how to knock girls up like other kids in my catholic school were. I suppose being a geek has it's perks.
MediEvil: You play an animate corpse. You were painted by history as a hero, when in reality you were killed by the first arrow in the first volley, shot through the eye. You've been brought back to set your place right, kill an evil sorcerer, and save the people of a country you only have a loose connection to anymore. The game is amazing, and has a lot of quirky humor to the writing. It's a must-play for any PlayStation owner/ePSXe user. I think it's available for the PSP now, go play it.
Bushido Blade: A lot of people didn't like this game when it came out. Then again, a lot of people are fucking morons. Bushido Blade is one of the most realistic fighting games to ever exist, and I believe the best. There is no life bar, there are no super attacks and bullshit moves. Everything they do is based on swordplay, set styles, and the character builds. If you are stabbed in the head, you die. If you get slashed across a main artery, you die. If you deflect or there is a poor connection, you don't take serious damage. If your legs get bashed with a sledge hammer (yes, it's a playable weapon), you have to fight on your knees/crawling. There was a sequel, but it didn't do the series justice. It should be as enduring as Street Fighter and Tekken, but instead it's lost in the annals of the PlayStation back-catalog. If you've ever considered playing with a sword ever, you should play this game.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Falaffel and the Oral Orgasm.
I realized earlier today that my readership is either much higher than I'd originally thought or bit.ly is inaccurate. Perhaps it's deathly accurate, and I'm only talking to each of the individuals in person or elsewhere. It's good to know. Whichever the case, feedback is always amazing. Please reader(s), feel inclined to leave some in some way. You won't be trolling if you go off tangent, nor will you be ignored. I reply to just about everything anyone ever says to me (until the natural end of the conversation, naturally), and I try not to just say "Thanks for commenting!" which would be pointless.
Now that that bit's over, a quick attempt at a long ago promised post. Names have been changed.
----------
We walked through St. Mark's Place in Manhattan, the seven of us. Myself, John, Ivan, Calvin, Sylvia, Caitlin and my love had made our way from the ferry, getting off the train near NYU. I've never been a very good New Yorker, despite living here my whole life. I only recently discovered St. Mark's (as both a street and location) the week before, going to SingSing for a friend's birthday party. On the way there I'd been thoroughly lost, wandering half a mile in the wrong direction, into the heart of NYU. John and Ivan came to this area frequently though, effectively saving my sense of direction.
Our quest was simple: Mamoun's Falaffel. Another friend - who ironically was unable to make it - wanted to try them in an effort to get back to middle-eastern heritage through the stomach. I'd never tried falaffel before, though I'd heard amazing things about it. I knew it somehow involved chick-peas, but that was about it.
The busy street was apparently the center of Grenwich Village, though I'd never been able to go when I was younger. My parents were thoroughly terrified of The Village from when they were younger. They remembered the 70's and 80's, and remembered this area as a den of homosexuality and stabbings. I don't think they realized that thirty years is a long time for an area to change. I saw very little of either while there.
We passed a sex shop and a bar to our right, shortly there after hitting Mamoun's. The restaurant was literally half a basement, with a short set of stairs leading down to the two store fronts that sat under the building. In front was a small patio area with two tables under an awning with a plate-glass window backdrop. If one wasn't paying attention, one could completely pass it without ever knowing its existence.
The ladies in our group almost stereotypically splintered off to hunt a rest room at one of the local places, so the four remaining went inside.
It was narrow and poorly lit. The smell of fresh hummus and oil assaulted us as we opened the door. At the far end of the shaft of a room was the kitchen, counter, and the start of a very long line. The air was much warmer than the winter-bite outside, and music written in sliding keys created an authentic atmosphere. There were three very full tables to the side, almost taunting the line with the promise of deliciousness.
After a surprisingly short wait we were all loaded up with inexpensive chick-pea variants and sliced bits of lamb and pita with no place besides the patio free.
I got a shawarma (similar to a gyro, but the sauce is creamier and lacks the sweetness of a cucumber) and a side order of falaffel. Apparently they're meatballs made of chick-pea instead of beef. A mango juice eventually found its way to my side as well. Shawarma was quite tasty, but very different from how it was described to me ("It's a Middle-Eastern gyro," someone said). Should you ever have one, know that it is nothing like a gyro outside of being a flat bread with lamb.
Then I finally tried falaffel.
I went in for another order after the three in the side order were finished. I also got some to bring home and eat the next day for lunch.
I'm not fully sold on Middle Eastern food, but I went back again the next week. I've often contemplated going back on a more regular basis, but the commute probably isn't worth it from my house. I have found myself making excuses whenever I'm in Manhattan to try to go there though.
The group fully met up again and went home, none of the ladies really liking chick-peas and finding themselves far more interested in the street merchants. It's almost a bad joke how the stereotypes were embraced that night.
I'm sure this probably reads like an advertisement now. I don't care, the amazing that this evening was had to be shared. If you ever go to The Village, try them. They're probably considerably more healthy than all the terrible food you could've got elsewhere for twice the cost.
Now that that bit's over, a quick attempt at a long ago promised post. Names have been changed.
----------
We walked through St. Mark's Place in Manhattan, the seven of us. Myself, John, Ivan, Calvin, Sylvia, Caitlin and my love had made our way from the ferry, getting off the train near NYU. I've never been a very good New Yorker, despite living here my whole life. I only recently discovered St. Mark's (as both a street and location) the week before, going to SingSing for a friend's birthday party. On the way there I'd been thoroughly lost, wandering half a mile in the wrong direction, into the heart of NYU. John and Ivan came to this area frequently though, effectively saving my sense of direction.
Our quest was simple: Mamoun's Falaffel. Another friend - who ironically was unable to make it - wanted to try them in an effort to get back to middle-eastern heritage through the stomach. I'd never tried falaffel before, though I'd heard amazing things about it. I knew it somehow involved chick-peas, but that was about it.
The busy street was apparently the center of Grenwich Village, though I'd never been able to go when I was younger. My parents were thoroughly terrified of The Village from when they were younger. They remembered the 70's and 80's, and remembered this area as a den of homosexuality and stabbings. I don't think they realized that thirty years is a long time for an area to change. I saw very little of either while there.
We passed a sex shop and a bar to our right, shortly there after hitting Mamoun's. The restaurant was literally half a basement, with a short set of stairs leading down to the two store fronts that sat under the building. In front was a small patio area with two tables under an awning with a plate-glass window backdrop. If one wasn't paying attention, one could completely pass it without ever knowing its existence.
The ladies in our group almost stereotypically splintered off to hunt a rest room at one of the local places, so the four remaining went inside.
It was narrow and poorly lit. The smell of fresh hummus and oil assaulted us as we opened the door. At the far end of the shaft of a room was the kitchen, counter, and the start of a very long line. The air was much warmer than the winter-bite outside, and music written in sliding keys created an authentic atmosphere. There were three very full tables to the side, almost taunting the line with the promise of deliciousness.
After a surprisingly short wait we were all loaded up with inexpensive chick-pea variants and sliced bits of lamb and pita with no place besides the patio free.
I got a shawarma (similar to a gyro, but the sauce is creamier and lacks the sweetness of a cucumber) and a side order of falaffel. Apparently they're meatballs made of chick-pea instead of beef. A mango juice eventually found its way to my side as well. Shawarma was quite tasty, but very different from how it was described to me ("It's a Middle-Eastern gyro," someone said). Should you ever have one, know that it is nothing like a gyro outside of being a flat bread with lamb.
Then I finally tried falaffel.
I went in for another order after the three in the side order were finished. I also got some to bring home and eat the next day for lunch.
I'm not fully sold on Middle Eastern food, but I went back again the next week. I've often contemplated going back on a more regular basis, but the commute probably isn't worth it from my house. I have found myself making excuses whenever I'm in Manhattan to try to go there though.
The group fully met up again and went home, none of the ladies really liking chick-peas and finding themselves far more interested in the street merchants. It's almost a bad joke how the stereotypes were embraced that night.
I'm sure this probably reads like an advertisement now. I don't care, the amazing that this evening was had to be shared. If you ever go to The Village, try them. They're probably considerably more healthy than all the terrible food you could've got elsewhere for twice the cost.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The itch that comes and goes.
It's technically tomorrow, I can post without seeming like a blog-whore in the timestamps.
All goes according to plan thus far, as the floor space entering my room turns from a narrow shaft to the computer and bed into a carpeted field of empty space. In this journey I've uncovered a dozen old essays, poems, and short stories from earlier in my college time. Some pockets of the collected crap in this room serve as a time capsule.
An essay about Korn, a journal of observations from campus-stalking/people watching, an old homework notebook. These things stand out more to me, mostly relating to the mandatory compositional writing course (111) from 2004. While some aspects of myself are still evident here, I am almost completely a different person. It's a slap in the face with a soft glove. It should be nice, but it's still a slap in the face.
I wrote a three and a half page essay about Korn, giving a half way decent bio of the band through their history. It's mostly opinion through the third person prospective, making it look like fact. There are some citations, but only enough to support the points I wanted to make. Giving it a critique now, I can safely say the following things:
-The style of writing does not sound fitting for an academic paper.
-My use of footnotes for fun was mostly a gimmick, and could've been easily (and more successfully) incorporated into the body of the paper. I blame Chuck Klosterman.
-I made a contrasting point between "nu-metal" and grunge, but I can now counter it by pointing out that neither genre's notable musicians could actually really play their instruments. They knew some power chords and could strum them in time with the snare. Neither was exceptionally revolutionary.
-I had a lot of ambiguous quotes/places for quotes. This was probably because I didn't realize that my friends were quotable people.
-I was too much of a fan boy for a band that only writes singles and filler.
All that said, I enjoyed rereading it, and I don't hate my writing all that much from this time period.
The observational journal, however, is another story. Since it's all observation/stream of consciousness-ish, I can't really rip it apart too heavily for the writing. I can, however, wholeheartedly say that even my ways of thinking have changed. My eye for detail has only gotten stronger, and my opinion of chicken ceaser salad has twisted from one of disdain sans dressing to one of overall displeasure compared to anything with ginger dressing and oranges.
It makes me want to write again, and more frequently. Not just blogging (not that I don't love giving you something to read, but I'd rather do something more in depth most of the time), but essay, story, and poetry. I miss it all so much. After this project is finished, I think I will. For now though I'm enjoying all the history I'm discovering.
I have much more to dig through. Based on trends, I will soon find elementary school work.
All goes according to plan thus far, as the floor space entering my room turns from a narrow shaft to the computer and bed into a carpeted field of empty space. In this journey I've uncovered a dozen old essays, poems, and short stories from earlier in my college time. Some pockets of the collected crap in this room serve as a time capsule.
An essay about Korn, a journal of observations from campus-stalking/people watching, an old homework notebook. These things stand out more to me, mostly relating to the mandatory compositional writing course (111) from 2004. While some aspects of myself are still evident here, I am almost completely a different person. It's a slap in the face with a soft glove. It should be nice, but it's still a slap in the face.
I wrote a three and a half page essay about Korn, giving a half way decent bio of the band through their history. It's mostly opinion through the third person prospective, making it look like fact. There are some citations, but only enough to support the points I wanted to make. Giving it a critique now, I can safely say the following things:
-The style of writing does not sound fitting for an academic paper.
-My use of footnotes for fun was mostly a gimmick, and could've been easily (and more successfully) incorporated into the body of the paper. I blame Chuck Klosterman.
-I made a contrasting point between "nu-metal" and grunge, but I can now counter it by pointing out that neither genre's notable musicians could actually really play their instruments. They knew some power chords and could strum them in time with the snare. Neither was exceptionally revolutionary.
-I had a lot of ambiguous quotes/places for quotes. This was probably because I didn't realize that my friends were quotable people.
-I was too much of a fan boy for a band that only writes singles and filler.
All that said, I enjoyed rereading it, and I don't hate my writing all that much from this time period.
The observational journal, however, is another story. Since it's all observation/stream of consciousness-ish, I can't really rip it apart too heavily for the writing. I can, however, wholeheartedly say that even my ways of thinking have changed. My eye for detail has only gotten stronger, and my opinion of chicken ceaser salad has twisted from one of disdain sans dressing to one of overall displeasure compared to anything with ginger dressing and oranges.
It makes me want to write again, and more frequently. Not just blogging (not that I don't love giving you something to read, but I'd rather do something more in depth most of the time), but essay, story, and poetry. I miss it all so much. After this project is finished, I think I will. For now though I'm enjoying all the history I'm discovering.
I have much more to dig through. Based on trends, I will soon find elementary school work.
Seven year snapshot.
I sift through an old shoebox. The contents of this box vary from a broken vial with a loose cork plunger to old figurines to pay stubs to the dozens of nondescript papers. I look mostly for things with my name and address that should've been shredded years ago. This is an act of mixed paranoia and housekeeping.
I find old lined notepaper with stylized flames watermarked into the background. 2003 our 2004, about. There are notes from a class, telling me what "parsimonious" means. A long, detailed list of rare Magic cards I no longer own and the prices they would've cost if they weren't stolen. I wrote this in early 2004, I think. I find a love poem about a girl crushing on a boy in someone else's handwriting. I can't place who the script belongs to, but I realize I was the subject. I most likely didn't realize this in high school, as I missed a lot of little things like this at the time.
Idly I throw the poem into the recycling box. Old memories are nice, but seven years is much longer ago than I'd like to say it feels. The realization that I could've potentially been with nearly anyone of my choice doesn't feel all that nice so far after the fact. While it's a sign that I was grounded more in the things that mattered to me, and should be taken as a good thing, I don't have the time, need, or use for sentiment right now.
The rest of the box is carefully sorted, discarded, and then the box itself is broken into manageable sections to be recycled. The space it occupied will be better used for my old Yamaha PSR-6, or the hacked X-Box a friend gave me to make space. Perhaps it'll just stay open, ready for whatever should be in its place.
Sometimes history needs to be discarded. Sometimes it should just be recycled.
I find old lined notepaper with stylized flames watermarked into the background. 2003 our 2004, about. There are notes from a class, telling me what "parsimonious" means. A long, detailed list of rare Magic cards I no longer own and the prices they would've cost if they weren't stolen. I wrote this in early 2004, I think. I find a love poem about a girl crushing on a boy in someone else's handwriting. I can't place who the script belongs to, but I realize I was the subject. I most likely didn't realize this in high school, as I missed a lot of little things like this at the time.
Idly I throw the poem into the recycling box. Old memories are nice, but seven years is much longer ago than I'd like to say it feels. The realization that I could've potentially been with nearly anyone of my choice doesn't feel all that nice so far after the fact. While it's a sign that I was grounded more in the things that mattered to me, and should be taken as a good thing, I don't have the time, need, or use for sentiment right now.
The rest of the box is carefully sorted, discarded, and then the box itself is broken into manageable sections to be recycled. The space it occupied will be better used for my old Yamaha PSR-6, or the hacked X-Box a friend gave me to make space. Perhaps it'll just stay open, ready for whatever should be in its place.
Sometimes history needs to be discarded. Sometimes it should just be recycled.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Magical Friendships (Heart)
I've been rereading a few books from the old Magic: The Gathering series, from when a storyline still mattered. Specifically I'm rereading the Ice Age trilogy by Jeff Grubb (Gathering Dark, The Eternal Ice, and Shattered Alliance). They came out in 1999, at the beginning of my obsession with this game and the books that explained the storyline. I didn't realize it when I was thirteen, but the concepts covered in the stories thus far (still need to do Shattered Alliance one last time) are incredibly complex and relate to a number of things outside of this tiny corner of the nerd universe.
They've made me realize a few things:
-I don't know if I fully trust anyone based on intentions alone.
-Relationships are fragile, temporary, and can only exist while living.
-Relationships of all kinds - not just the popularized definition which only refers to romantic relationships - should be mended when injured, not discarded like a broken toy.
-I identify more with old men in regards to thought patterns and logic, without it seeming antiquated in execution.
-I hate publishing trends for phasing well written books like these out in exchange for much of the crap I sold when I worked in a bookstore.
The last is probably the most important on a larger scale, if I really wanted to talk about our culture, but that's not what I'm aiming for. I care about the way people work with each other, not the way they take advantage of one another for monetary gain.
The following partial synopsis contains spoilers. The books are eleven years old and harder to find now, but if you ever plan on reading them (you should if you don't mind fantasy) you shouldn't read the next few paragraphs.
A character named Jodah inadvertently becomes magical in his biology, aging significantly slower than the average human. Incidentally, a side effect of aging is the accumulation of memories, of which an overabundance will drive one mad. I understand this concept, and the writing presents it in a believable way. More importantly, he is able/forced to experience the loss of loved ones and friends hundreds of times over, as they die while he stays mostly the same. His only advantage over reality is that he can start over without the guilt weighing as heavily on his conscience as he would had they aged with him in his way. The guilt will still be there, and grow worse as time goes on, but at least the person it relates to won't be there to salt the wounds.
Maybe that just drives the damage deeper.
End spoilers. Pansy.
While thinking about this I realized that we can't all simply "start over" whenever we cause detriment to our relationships. Our friends are there for us only as long as we are alive and keep the actual friendship alive. Once it dies, it is dead. No rekindling into a zombie, no rising from the dead. Much like real life, it stays dead.
This can relate to many things. An old flame? Once it's snuffed, it's gone. Former friend that bonked your girlfriend? The damage can never be undone, outside of letting go and determining what matters more. Even when relating with strangers in the workplace, you must keep on good terms. The dead don't buy things (no one will get this reference). Every person you've ever interacted with, to a degree, has a relationship with you. The kind you have is entirely up to you, and how you play it out.
This doesn't mean I'm going to reach out to the man that raped a close friend and shake his hand, nor does it mean that I'm going to hold back from speaking my thoughts even when they might not be what someone wants to hear. It does mean that I will value all of my friends more than I would anything else though, and the people that matter to me will continue to matter/matter more than previously. It's a bit like elevating a pedestal that was already above the others.
More important than all this, I will make an active attempt to not let small things bother me as much as they potentially could. I will go out of my way to be the best individual I can be for all around me, human condition withstanding. I wish I could remember how Shattered Alliance went, though the title alone seems contradicting to the theme I present here. It's fine for the context of Eternal Ice.
They've made me realize a few things:
-I don't know if I fully trust anyone based on intentions alone.
-Relationships are fragile, temporary, and can only exist while living.
-Relationships of all kinds - not just the popularized definition which only refers to romantic relationships - should be mended when injured, not discarded like a broken toy.
-I identify more with old men in regards to thought patterns and logic, without it seeming antiquated in execution.
-I hate publishing trends for phasing well written books like these out in exchange for much of the crap I sold when I worked in a bookstore.
The last is probably the most important on a larger scale, if I really wanted to talk about our culture, but that's not what I'm aiming for. I care about the way people work with each other, not the way they take advantage of one another for monetary gain.
The following partial synopsis contains spoilers. The books are eleven years old and harder to find now, but if you ever plan on reading them (you should if you don't mind fantasy) you shouldn't read the next few paragraphs.
A character named Jodah inadvertently becomes magical in his biology, aging significantly slower than the average human. Incidentally, a side effect of aging is the accumulation of memories, of which an overabundance will drive one mad. I understand this concept, and the writing presents it in a believable way. More importantly, he is able/forced to experience the loss of loved ones and friends hundreds of times over, as they die while he stays mostly the same. His only advantage over reality is that he can start over without the guilt weighing as heavily on his conscience as he would had they aged with him in his way. The guilt will still be there, and grow worse as time goes on, but at least the person it relates to won't be there to salt the wounds.
Maybe that just drives the damage deeper.
End spoilers. Pansy.
While thinking about this I realized that we can't all simply "start over" whenever we cause detriment to our relationships. Our friends are there for us only as long as we are alive and keep the actual friendship alive. Once it dies, it is dead. No rekindling into a zombie, no rising from the dead. Much like real life, it stays dead.
This can relate to many things. An old flame? Once it's snuffed, it's gone. Former friend that bonked your girlfriend? The damage can never be undone, outside of letting go and determining what matters more. Even when relating with strangers in the workplace, you must keep on good terms. The dead don't buy things (no one will get this reference). Every person you've ever interacted with, to a degree, has a relationship with you. The kind you have is entirely up to you, and how you play it out.
This doesn't mean I'm going to reach out to the man that raped a close friend and shake his hand, nor does it mean that I'm going to hold back from speaking my thoughts even when they might not be what someone wants to hear. It does mean that I will value all of my friends more than I would anything else though, and the people that matter to me will continue to matter/matter more than previously. It's a bit like elevating a pedestal that was already above the others.
More important than all this, I will make an active attempt to not let small things bother me as much as they potentially could. I will go out of my way to be the best individual I can be for all around me, human condition withstanding. I wish I could remember how Shattered Alliance went, though the title alone seems contradicting to the theme I present here. It's fine for the context of Eternal Ice.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
She thinks she missed the train to Mars, she's out back counting stars.
I sometimes wonder what a midlife crisis feels like. I imagine it's not much like other popular crises, as The Flash gets to live and you are most likely going to keep your job if you stay sane. I wonder this more often of late, as I've always had a strange feeling that I'd probably die in my sixties saving children from a burning building as I'm on an afternoon jog. I'm twenty four now, I only have six years to prepare if all goes according to plan.
Will I feel like my life is unfulfilled despite whatever wonders I've built up for myself in that time? Will I find myself unhappy in my workplace, and storm out to become a part-time anthropologist/part-time "costumed vigilante?" Will I decide to join a nudist colony, go vegan, and the other exploits of Harvie Krumpet as a throw away gag? It's difficult to say.
Realistically, senility will be my greatest fear. It runs in my family, on both sides. This isn't to say that it's a bad thing, I'm sure it can be lots of fun. Every day is a new adventure if you can't remember the day before. It frightens me now even. My memory's already pretty shoddy, the prospect of not remembering the things that matter to me is terrifying. I've lived through a lot of things I'd like to forget, but there's far more I'd love to remember.
Senility doesn't only mean Alzheimer's, though that is my bigger fear, it can also mean dementia (Wikipedia's auto-redirection when you look at it). I can only vaguely imagine myself in the future, I've never been able to really ever. That's another topic for another time. In this future image of myself, I half smirk at the thought of trying to saw a piece of wood with a can of air spray. Trying to fix a blender with a chopstick. Making a sandwich with the cat struggling while I put peanut butter on its leg. I find it amusing now, but when the time comes, the novelty will wear quickly.
Yes, I'm sure that's my crisis. I will not be afraid of inadequacy in any way, I will fear for loss of my mental capacity. My thoughts, memories, and reasoning skills are all I really have when all else fails or abandons me. Even when what I have is out of reach, I always have my wits. I will panic and break down into tears without them, or perhaps at the thought of being without them.
I have six years to wait, and a lot to do in this time. Maybe I should start taking Ginko now and see what happens.
Will I feel like my life is unfulfilled despite whatever wonders I've built up for myself in that time? Will I find myself unhappy in my workplace, and storm out to become a part-time anthropologist/part-time "costumed vigilante?" Will I decide to join a nudist colony, go vegan, and the other exploits of Harvie Krumpet as a throw away gag? It's difficult to say.
Realistically, senility will be my greatest fear. It runs in my family, on both sides. This isn't to say that it's a bad thing, I'm sure it can be lots of fun. Every day is a new adventure if you can't remember the day before. It frightens me now even. My memory's already pretty shoddy, the prospect of not remembering the things that matter to me is terrifying. I've lived through a lot of things I'd like to forget, but there's far more I'd love to remember.
Senility doesn't only mean Alzheimer's, though that is my bigger fear, it can also mean dementia (Wikipedia's auto-redirection when you look at it). I can only vaguely imagine myself in the future, I've never been able to really ever. That's another topic for another time. In this future image of myself, I half smirk at the thought of trying to saw a piece of wood with a can of air spray. Trying to fix a blender with a chopstick. Making a sandwich with the cat struggling while I put peanut butter on its leg. I find it amusing now, but when the time comes, the novelty will wear quickly.
Yes, I'm sure that's my crisis. I will not be afraid of inadequacy in any way, I will fear for loss of my mental capacity. My thoughts, memories, and reasoning skills are all I really have when all else fails or abandons me. Even when what I have is out of reach, I always have my wits. I will panic and break down into tears without them, or perhaps at the thought of being without them.
I have six years to wait, and a lot to do in this time. Maybe I should start taking Ginko now and see what happens.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Digital killed the Analog (Star?)
I was going to write a filler list of discographies I own (literally, on disk), but I realized just now that it's been a long time since I really got much new music on disk. I'm very close to having discographies for many bands, but fall one or two albums short (usually if it came out in the last three years). It's possible/probable that this is because of the decline of compact disk and the rise of the MP3 (which is terrible, actually. More on this later), but I think realistically it's a decline in my funds and the rise of college tuition.
Assuming that it is actually a media problem, then I have a number of issues with MP3s as a format. To be completely frank about it, MP3s are expensive and transient. They exist only as long as your computer doesn't crash and your mobile device doesn't decide to Hara Kiri. They can be backed up on disk, but most people don't bother. I've heard so many times (and even when I was younger experienced) a crash that wiped music libraries clean. In some cases this means repurchasing hundreds of dollars of music. Some services offer ways to get the music back through licenses and whatnot, but that also means it's something that must be done entirely digitally.
I'm always going to be an advocate for hard copies of everything, I'm the kind of person that backs up everything. I have print copies of everything I've ever written academically (except some of the blog entries on here, ironically), no eBooks, print copies of any recent art I've made (the old stuff was also destroyed in said crash), and other things that fall in these lines. I'm not saying that digital copies of everything aren't useful. They're pretty awesome too. I haven't used a CD player for my portable music in years. I still have a stereo with a CD player and a dual tape deck attached that I use frequently, but that's mostly for plugging the Zune dock into it and letting it play that way. I'd be a liar if I said that I'm against MP3s as a format, or any other electronic audio file. That's how I write/record my music these days.
I do, however, feel that there should be a rise in another physical medium of some kind. If not the CD (though it's still better quality than most MP3's, M4A, ACC, and pretty much anything besides a very high quality WAV), then some other thing. Video's jumped from the casette to the DVD to the BluRay in the CD's lifespan thus far. It's probably time for an update.
This has gotten very off topic and really only outlines my paranoia now. Oh well.
Assuming that it is actually a media problem, then I have a number of issues with MP3s as a format. To be completely frank about it, MP3s are expensive and transient. They exist only as long as your computer doesn't crash and your mobile device doesn't decide to Hara Kiri. They can be backed up on disk, but most people don't bother. I've heard so many times (and even when I was younger experienced) a crash that wiped music libraries clean. In some cases this means repurchasing hundreds of dollars of music. Some services offer ways to get the music back through licenses and whatnot, but that also means it's something that must be done entirely digitally.
I'm always going to be an advocate for hard copies of everything, I'm the kind of person that backs up everything. I have print copies of everything I've ever written academically (except some of the blog entries on here, ironically), no eBooks, print copies of any recent art I've made (the old stuff was also destroyed in said crash), and other things that fall in these lines. I'm not saying that digital copies of everything aren't useful. They're pretty awesome too. I haven't used a CD player for my portable music in years. I still have a stereo with a CD player and a dual tape deck attached that I use frequently, but that's mostly for plugging the Zune dock into it and letting it play that way. I'd be a liar if I said that I'm against MP3s as a format, or any other electronic audio file. That's how I write/record my music these days.
I do, however, feel that there should be a rise in another physical medium of some kind. If not the CD (though it's still better quality than most MP3's, M4A, ACC, and pretty much anything besides a very high quality WAV), then some other thing. Video's jumped from the casette to the DVD to the BluRay in the CD's lifespan thus far. It's probably time for an update.
This has gotten very off topic and really only outlines my paranoia now. Oh well.
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