I just got word that my grandfather passed away early this morning. In August he was diagnosed with a condition called PML. This condition was brought on through his treatments for lymphoma, and he had gotten predictably worse as the year went on. My father tells me that, in the end, he was almost completely paralyzed. He couldn't speak, and was barely aware of his surroundings.
I have wonderful, rose-colored childhood memories of my grandpa. I remember spending time in the bar he owned when I was barely walking. I would come into the bar, and pull my toddler-self up onto a bar stool and survey the area. Every patron there would place a quarter on the bar. One by one, I would walk over to them, climb up on the stool nearest to them, and ask politely if they were going to use that quarter. They would donate the quarter to me, and I'd promptly head over to the nearby pinball machine and do my best to make the quarter last as long as possible. I remember being fascinated that he was also a volunteer fire-fighter, and even dressed up as a clown on occasion for neighborhood birthday parties.
He was always there with a smile and a story. If you had a problem, and mentioned it to him, he made it his problem, too. Seems he was clearly of the opinion that shared burdens are lighter, and shared happiness is brighter.
I am a jumbled mass of emotion right now. Grief is lurking in the background right now. I know it's there. I could probably shake hands with it if I were so inclined. It just doesn't seem to have much impact at the moment. I thought I had made my peace with his death a month ago, when I was told of his condition. At that time, he couldn't communicate in any way. He didn't recognize anybody, not even his sons. My grandfather was gone, what was left was just a shell that needed machine assistance to live. Then my dad told me a story of his last night.
His favorite song was El Paso by Marty Robbins. Last night, my dad and uncles were with him. My two uncles apparently are decent guitarists, and the three of them decided to try and sing the song for grandpa. After a couple of verses, they forgot the lyrics. From his bed, grandpa was humming along. The three of them continued playing, and noticed that grandpa's right hand and right foot were tapping in time with the music. It was the closest to speech and the most movement he had experienced in more than a month.
About an hour later, Joseph Love was truly gone.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
Curse these nefarious percussion instruments!
So, drums are tough. After two days of playing Rockband on the XBOX 360, I can confidently say that I am a horrible drummer. I play drums as though I have an unfortunate combination of muscular dystrophy and Parkinson's disease. And still, I play the drums better that I sing in that game. I might be better than Carl Lewis, but not by much. Seems I'm decent enough with the guitar, but I've had three iterations of Guitar Hero to work on that. It's all good, however. My sister really enjoys the singing. She was quite apprehensive at first, but it didn't take long for her to realize that she's playing a video game, not auditioning for American Idol. And, once Weevil shows up, he can assume the duties of drummer. After that, we shall dominate the world!
Friday, November 30, 2007
Folks, I'd Like to Sing a Song...
...About the American Dream. About me, about you.
No new content tonight, but I might have a story tomorrow.
No new content tonight, but I might have a story tomorrow.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
This Is a Strange Sensation
I think it's called "happy." I could be wrong about that. I'm mostly going off what people have told me "happy" should be. Usually it's contrary to what I want to feel. At best, I am usually somewhat off-center from what people will consider happy. I usually stop at "contented," with elements of "amused." I'm not sure this is what happy is, but I think I'm approaching the target.
See, I've met someone. Nothing approaching serious at the moment. But tonight suggested the possibility of continued interaction.
As many new meetings happen these days, this one started in this ephemeral fantasia (temporary fantasy world for those without a thesaurus) called the internet. We exchanged emails for close to a week before she gave me her phone number. I was struck by intelligence of her written words, and impressed that she seemed comfortable with my skewed wit and from-left-field references. It seemed too good to be true. I actually asked Weevil if he was coaching someone up in some cruel social experiment. Nope. Turns out she's real.
I called her this afternoon, and had a voice to go with the name. The verbal exchange wasn't quite what the written was, but that's understandable. A written medium allows for the opportunity to edit your thoughts. She implicitly invited me out to a bar to watch her friends' band perform. I showed up and was confronted by her "wall of friends." As I mentioned earlier, I don't meet new people well. Now, I'm confronted with five new people. I felt as though I had been put on display. I kept waiting for someone to pipe up with "do a trick, fat man! Entertain us!" That never happened. Things actually went rather smoothly. I didn't scare her off, and felt somewhat comfortable among her friends. Odd.
It seems that it may be possible to integrate me into society. Maybe.
See, I've met someone. Nothing approaching serious at the moment. But tonight suggested the possibility of continued interaction.
As many new meetings happen these days, this one started in this ephemeral fantasia (temporary fantasy world for those without a thesaurus) called the internet. We exchanged emails for close to a week before she gave me her phone number. I was struck by intelligence of her written words, and impressed that she seemed comfortable with my skewed wit and from-left-field references. It seemed too good to be true. I actually asked Weevil if he was coaching someone up in some cruel social experiment. Nope. Turns out she's real.
I called her this afternoon, and had a voice to go with the name. The verbal exchange wasn't quite what the written was, but that's understandable. A written medium allows for the opportunity to edit your thoughts. She implicitly invited me out to a bar to watch her friends' band perform. I showed up and was confronted by her "wall of friends." As I mentioned earlier, I don't meet new people well. Now, I'm confronted with five new people. I felt as though I had been put on display. I kept waiting for someone to pipe up with "do a trick, fat man! Entertain us!" That never happened. Things actually went rather smoothly. I didn't scare her off, and felt somewhat comfortable among her friends. Odd.
It seems that it may be possible to integrate me into society. Maybe.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Will You Be My Friend?
This is for whatever people who don't know me that may have come this way. That sentence seems awkward, but I can't see a more elegant way to phrase it.
Looking back at most of my posts, I think I come across as a pragmatic, misanthropic bastard. This is largely due to the fact that I am a pragmatic, misanthropic bastard.
I don't meet new people well. Most times, when I meet someone, my first instinct is to assume that person is an either an asshole, an idiot, or otherwise worthless, generally speaking. I realize this isn't very socially healthy, but it works for me. It seldom leaves me disappointed in human nature. Also, I'd wager this instinct proves valid at least 80% of the time. Yes, I realize that my attitude no doubt supports something of a self-fulfilling nature to my interpersonal relationships. I'm OK with that.
I've never understood how people manage a huge group of friends. In my mind, if your number of friends exceeds the legal drinking age, you are likely spread too thin. It may be that people fail to distinguish between "friends" and "acquaintances" in a manner I'm on board with. Just because you are friendly with someone, doesn't necessarily make you friends. It just makes for a socially smooth dynamic. Personally, I would say I have about six or seven people I would call friends. There are two who are close enough I tend to consider them family more than friends.
There are a number of people I am friendly with, and know well enough to not want to strangle them with their own dismembered arm, but would not likely consider friends by my own stringent definition. That definition is simple. If I would be willing to set aside my own gain for yours, you are my friend. If I would be willing to abandon my own gain in favor of yours, you are Trevor or Jay.
Maybe I just hold my friends in higher esteem than most people do. I'm OK with that, and I think my friends are, too.
Looking back at most of my posts, I think I come across as a pragmatic, misanthropic bastard. This is largely due to the fact that I am a pragmatic, misanthropic bastard.
I don't meet new people well. Most times, when I meet someone, my first instinct is to assume that person is an either an asshole, an idiot, or otherwise worthless, generally speaking. I realize this isn't very socially healthy, but it works for me. It seldom leaves me disappointed in human nature. Also, I'd wager this instinct proves valid at least 80% of the time. Yes, I realize that my attitude no doubt supports something of a self-fulfilling nature to my interpersonal relationships. I'm OK with that.
I've never understood how people manage a huge group of friends. In my mind, if your number of friends exceeds the legal drinking age, you are likely spread too thin. It may be that people fail to distinguish between "friends" and "acquaintances" in a manner I'm on board with. Just because you are friendly with someone, doesn't necessarily make you friends. It just makes for a socially smooth dynamic. Personally, I would say I have about six or seven people I would call friends. There are two who are close enough I tend to consider them family more than friends.
There are a number of people I am friendly with, and know well enough to not want to strangle them with their own dismembered arm, but would not likely consider friends by my own stringent definition. That definition is simple. If I would be willing to set aside my own gain for yours, you are my friend. If I would be willing to abandon my own gain in favor of yours, you are Trevor or Jay.
Maybe I just hold my friends in higher esteem than most people do. I'm OK with that, and I think my friends are, too.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Your Local Hospital...
Hospitals are truly a wonderful place. They purport to be about health and wellness. I'm sure that's a part, but perhaps not in the way they expect. Hospitals are a great place to be miserable, both physically and emotionally, while you spend vast sums of money and simultaneously realize that the human body is quite disgusting.
I just spent four solid days, and parts of two others, in the hospital with a rather nasty case of cellulitis. This nasty little bug had me essentially bedridden since late Friday. The hospital stay was unpleasant. Let's enumerate:
1. On the first day, every few hours, some well-meaning nurse would trot in, introduce herself, and ask me the same twenty questions the previous nurse had.
2. Next, that same nurse would invariably jab me with something pointy and either insert or draw out fluids, and tell me it's for my own good. My upper body is a road map of nasty bruises, now.
3. Visiting Hours. It's like I'm eight years old again with my mother telling me my friends have to go home.
4. After three days, I was apparently well enough to be removed from my private room and placed with other sick people. My room mate? A large hairy man who looked like he might once have been a circus strongman. He was every bit as noisy as his appearance would suggest.
After this, my primary motivation in getting well was to get the hell out of there. I'd rather do nothing at home than pay many dollars to do nothing in a hospital. There's more, I'm sure (ask me about PICC lines), but I don't have the energy to continue at this point. You see, I'm sleepy. I spent last night in a tiny little room with a naked man who frequently shouted in his sleep, and twice managed to soil himself in the night.
I just spent four solid days, and parts of two others, in the hospital with a rather nasty case of cellulitis. This nasty little bug had me essentially bedridden since late Friday. The hospital stay was unpleasant. Let's enumerate:
1. On the first day, every few hours, some well-meaning nurse would trot in, introduce herself, and ask me the same twenty questions the previous nurse had.
2. Next, that same nurse would invariably jab me with something pointy and either insert or draw out fluids, and tell me it's for my own good. My upper body is a road map of nasty bruises, now.
3. Visiting Hours. It's like I'm eight years old again with my mother telling me my friends have to go home.
4. After three days, I was apparently well enough to be removed from my private room and placed with other sick people. My room mate? A large hairy man who looked like he might once have been a circus strongman. He was every bit as noisy as his appearance would suggest.
After this, my primary motivation in getting well was to get the hell out of there. I'd rather do nothing at home than pay many dollars to do nothing in a hospital. There's more, I'm sure (ask me about PICC lines), but I don't have the energy to continue at this point. You see, I'm sleepy. I spent last night in a tiny little room with a naked man who frequently shouted in his sleep, and twice managed to soil himself in the night.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Music is my refuge
Sometimes a few minor lyric changes can change the entire focus of a song. Let's take "Hurt", for instance. I first heard this by NIN, but when I hear this version in my head, it sounds like Johnny Cash.
I hurt my spouse today / To see if he can feel / I focus on his pain / The only thing that's real / The words they tear a hole / The old familiar sting / Try to kill those dreams away / But I remember everything
What have we become / My sweetest friend / Everything I do goes awry / In the end /And you used to have it all / My empire of dirt / I feel so let down / I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns /Upon my liar's chair / Full of broken heart/ I cannot repair / Beneath the stains of time / The feelings rip and tear / I’m with someone else / While you are still right here
What have I become / My ex-best friend / Everyone I know goes away / In the end /
And you could have had it all / My empire of dirt / I feel so let down / I will make you hurt
If I could start again / A million years away / I would keep you for myself / I would find a way
I hurt my spouse today / To see if he can feel / I focus on his pain / The only thing that's real / The words they tear a hole / The old familiar sting / Try to kill those dreams away / But I remember everything
What have we become / My sweetest friend / Everything I do goes awry / In the end /And you used to have it all / My empire of dirt / I feel so let down / I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns /Upon my liar's chair / Full of broken heart/ I cannot repair / Beneath the stains of time / The feelings rip and tear / I’m with someone else / While you are still right here
What have I become / My ex-best friend / Everyone I know goes away / In the end /
And you could have had it all / My empire of dirt / I feel so let down / I will make you hurt
If I could start again / A million years away / I would keep you for myself / I would find a way
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
My Delusion of Grandeur
Now that Trevor and I have spammers, or perhaps the singular form is more appropriate, I have an oddly inflated sense of self-importance. I have an irrational notion that there may be at least one person out there, not directly associated with me, who might have read this. The fact that my total comments are my spammer, my sister, and my weevil lead me to believe otherwise, however.
Unfortunate. In the course of this posting, I've managed to burst my own bubble.
Unfortunate. In the course of this posting, I've managed to burst my own bubble.
Monday, October 22, 2007
ME? I think it's you.
I got my first spammer today: the day after I started being associated with your blog. My mom always did say hanging out with tall, dark men would lead me to ruin. I was so excited, I though someone I wasn't related to had read my blog of their own free will (rather than because they felt obligated).
yummy down on this...
I made pasta and cheese sauce with cumin and fresh cracked pepper and you're bitching because I didn't make nachos? What, the pasta wasn't crunchy enough for you? Next time I won't cook it.
Seriously, though, what's for dinner, Zombie man?
We both know what I want to have for dinner, and it's exactly the inverse of "What's good for that."
Ha! That's funny. Think about the inverse of "that". Well, I think it's funny.
Seriously, though, what's for dinner, Zombie man?
We both know what I want to have for dinner, and it's exactly the inverse of "What's good for that."
Ha! That's funny. Think about the inverse of "that". Well, I think it's funny.
It's About Damned Time!
I think I've finally arrived. I have spammers posting in my comments. Hooray me.
I'm thinking I can blame you, Trevor. No sooner do I invite you to post here, and you bring the riff-raff in with you. Some people. This is what happens when you leave the door open. Anybody can just walk right on in.
And before you ask: No. We can't keep them. I don't care if they did follow you home. I know how this is going to end up. You'll talk a big game, say all the right things. But in two weeks I'll be the one stuck feeding the spammers, taking them for walks, and cleaning up after them. Sure, you'll still call them your spammers and use them to pick up chicks, but I'll be the one left doing all the work.
I'm thinking I can blame you, Trevor. No sooner do I invite you to post here, and you bring the riff-raff in with you. Some people. This is what happens when you leave the door open. Anybody can just walk right on in.
And before you ask: No. We can't keep them. I don't care if they did follow you home. I know how this is going to end up. You'll talk a big game, say all the right things. But in two weeks I'll be the one stuck feeding the spammers, taking them for walks, and cleaning up after them. Sure, you'll still call them your spammers and use them to pick up chicks, but I'll be the one left doing all the work.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
From the Mouths of Babes
She's hot, I'll give her that. The problem is, she hasn't got a fucking clue. It's OK, though, because she's hot. She'll be fine. For a couple of years, anyhow.
No experience in my life has been as continually frustrating as my media class. It seems every day there is some bright-eyed, narrow-minded, idealistic 19-year old spouting off some nonsense that causes fuses in my head to pop. I swear to god that I actually smelled ozone this afternoon.
The discussion today was about the different schools of media control, libertarian and authoritarian. If you aren't familiar with these terms in this context, here's the down-and-dirty. Libertarian media control is basically a free market of information where, ideally, the good and worthwhile ideas are accepted and thrive, while the worthless ideas and noise essentially wither on the vine. Think of everything great the internet could be, rather than what it actually is. Authoritarians are all about controlling the information, either to protect the audience, or exert control over the audience. Censorship is quite appealing for the authoritarians.
So, while we are discussing this, Barbie pipes up with "I like the authoritarian side, because I like censorship." It is at this point that cognitive function ceases for me. I never thought I'd hear that last triumvirate of words spoken sincerely. It was like I suddenly had a headache that was so exquisite and perfect that it was both blinding and deafening at the same time. It passed in an instant, and I was left speaking a single word.
"Why?"
"Well, things like violence and pornography are wrong. Those should be censored."
I could have torn her pretty little head off with the vitriolic tirade that sprang to mind. However, it was clear that what amounts to her mind was already made up, and that every other student in the room was staring at her like she was wearing her ass on her head.
I would have liked to see that. She seems to have a nice ass.
No experience in my life has been as continually frustrating as my media class. It seems every day there is some bright-eyed, narrow-minded, idealistic 19-year old spouting off some nonsense that causes fuses in my head to pop. I swear to god that I actually smelled ozone this afternoon.
The discussion today was about the different schools of media control, libertarian and authoritarian. If you aren't familiar with these terms in this context, here's the down-and-dirty. Libertarian media control is basically a free market of information where, ideally, the good and worthwhile ideas are accepted and thrive, while the worthless ideas and noise essentially wither on the vine. Think of everything great the internet could be, rather than what it actually is. Authoritarians are all about controlling the information, either to protect the audience, or exert control over the audience. Censorship is quite appealing for the authoritarians.
So, while we are discussing this, Barbie pipes up with "I like the authoritarian side, because I like censorship." It is at this point that cognitive function ceases for me. I never thought I'd hear that last triumvirate of words spoken sincerely. It was like I suddenly had a headache that was so exquisite and perfect that it was both blinding and deafening at the same time. It passed in an instant, and I was left speaking a single word.
"Why?"
"Well, things like violence and pornography are wrong. Those should be censored."
I could have torn her pretty little head off with the vitriolic tirade that sprang to mind. However, it was clear that what amounts to her mind was already made up, and that every other student in the room was staring at her like she was wearing her ass on her head.
I would have liked to see that. She seems to have a nice ass.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Finish the fight... Eventually
So, gamers across the country and around the world lined up to purchase Halo 3 at various midnight openings. I wasn't one of them. I didn't see any reason to spend hours waiting in the cold to pick up a game I won't even be able to play until this weekend. Instead, I grabbed it this afternoon. Still too early, but what the hell, I've got no willpower. I picked up the Legendary Edition, and have it sitting on my table.
So far, I can honestly say "It's shiny." The helmet is bigger than I expected. Not big enough to wear, of course, but rather sizable. Master Chief's helmet just sits there, silently taunting me. Suggesting "you don't need to meet your friends tonight. Stay here. Kill aliens. It'll be fun. No one has to know."
I will endeavor to show some restraint and willpower. I will not give into the geeky temptation. I shall overcome. Though it occurs to me that Metroid's Samus Aran and Master Chief would have some badass genetially engineered supersoldier babies. There's almost certainly some poorly written fanficiton about that.
So far, I can honestly say "It's shiny." The helmet is bigger than I expected. Not big enough to wear, of course, but rather sizable. Master Chief's helmet just sits there, silently taunting me. Suggesting "you don't need to meet your friends tonight. Stay here. Kill aliens. It'll be fun. No one has to know."
I will endeavor to show some restraint and willpower. I will not give into the geeky temptation. I shall overcome. Though it occurs to me that Metroid's Samus Aran and Master Chief would have some badass genetially engineered supersoldier babies. There's almost certainly some poorly written fanficiton about that.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Etymology and other big words
This quarter, I'm taking a journalism class focusing on mass media. Today was the first day, and we discussed what exactly "mass media" was. What struck me was that the word "media" has nearly lost its singular form of "medium." In fact, I'm sure a significant portion of the population doesn't realize that "media" is a plural noun. These same people probably assume that the plural of "medium" is "mediums." I don't blame them, and I don't shudder nearly as much over this as I do with other acts of ignorance and outright stupidity.
The word has evolved to the point that it almost exclusively refers to news outlets, and, specifically, those individuals who work within. Whenever someone mentions the media, one of two images come to mind. The first is the romanticized image of the newspaper reporter. Think Clark Kent in a fedora with a "press" tag poking out from the band. The second image is the anything-for-a-buck caricature of the tabloid photographer. I don't think of a newspaper, a magazine, or a news anchor. I certainly don't think of books, paintings, or film. At least not immediately.
Maybe it's time to take it back.
The word has evolved to the point that it almost exclusively refers to news outlets, and, specifically, those individuals who work within. Whenever someone mentions the media, one of two images come to mind. The first is the romanticized image of the newspaper reporter. Think Clark Kent in a fedora with a "press" tag poking out from the band. The second image is the anything-for-a-buck caricature of the tabloid photographer. I don't think of a newspaper, a magazine, or a news anchor. I certainly don't think of books, paintings, or film. At least not immediately.
Maybe it's time to take it back.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Seth Green is king
Seems everyone and their dog has seen the video of the Brittney Spears fan having an emotional meltdown. Last night I stumbled upon this little gem:
Here's a link in case the embed doesn't work. Oh, and there is some adult language, so think of the children. Won't somebody please think of the children?
Here's a link in case the embed doesn't work. Oh, and there is some adult language, so think of the children. Won't somebody please think of the children?
A change for the better
This time tomorrow, I'm sure I will be considering dropping out of college. Again.
Wednesday morning at 8:30, I will be back in school for the first time in over ten years. Can this old dog learn new tricks? It is a bit disconcerting to realize I will be sharing a classroom with people barely half my age. Seems the thing to do, though.
Since my older brother announced his wedding this spring, I've found myself taking stock of my own life. I didn't like the prospects of a retail manager, so I quit my job. I didn't like my prospects for alternate employment, so I'm back in school. I wasn't happy with my social life, so I've been more open and forthcoming, especially with women. Nothing's come of that last one, yet, but you've got to play if you want a chance to win, yes?
People who know me understand that I can be a misanthropic bastard. I realize, now, that I have absolutely no grounds to bitch if I am one of the underachieving, directionless morons who annoy me so. With that in mind, I bravely return to the world of higher education.
Wednesday morning at 8:30, I will be back in school for the first time in over ten years. Can this old dog learn new tricks? It is a bit disconcerting to realize I will be sharing a classroom with people barely half my age. Seems the thing to do, though.
Since my older brother announced his wedding this spring, I've found myself taking stock of my own life. I didn't like the prospects of a retail manager, so I quit my job. I didn't like my prospects for alternate employment, so I'm back in school. I wasn't happy with my social life, so I've been more open and forthcoming, especially with women. Nothing's come of that last one, yet, but you've got to play if you want a chance to win, yes?
People who know me understand that I can be a misanthropic bastard. I realize, now, that I have absolutely no grounds to bitch if I am one of the underachieving, directionless morons who annoy me so. With that in mind, I bravely return to the world of higher education.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
A pox upon New Zealand
Thanks to a recent episode of "Californication," I have become all too aware of a contributing agent to the decline of civilization.
Why have people started "speaking" abbreviations? I've recently come to understand that they are calling this "txt speak," a term that makes me cringe just typing it. "They," of course, are people who claim to have the intellectual authority to label such idiocy. Honestly, I think just about anything that has its origins in this fetid waste pit we call the internet must be viewed with extreme skepticism when it comes to its cultural value. I am conveniently ignoring the fact that I rant about this in my "blog."
This phenomenon is particularly baffling, and anyone who practices it should be struck with a heavy rock upside the head. I will concede that internet shorthand is great for active conversations through text messaging on cell phones, and here on the internet, at least in chat rooms or other rapid fire text-based conversations. It has no place in anything resembling a formal or official writing. I'm looking disapprovingly at you, New Zealand. Continuing, this practice has absolutely no place in verbal communication. None.
Who would possibly think it's preferable to say "L-O-L" rather than just laugh out loud? What's next? Will they say "Colon, closed parentheses" instead of actually smiling? It is especially jarring to actually hear this mental sewage come from the mouth of someone who should know better. What the hell is a 45-year old woman doing saying things like "OMG" and "BRB?" Are actual coherent thoughts so damnably difficult to verbally express in an intelligent manner?
Why have people started "speaking" abbreviations? I've recently come to understand that they are calling this "txt speak," a term that makes me cringe just typing it. "They," of course, are people who claim to have the intellectual authority to label such idiocy. Honestly, I think just about anything that has its origins in this fetid waste pit we call the internet must be viewed with extreme skepticism when it comes to its cultural value. I am conveniently ignoring the fact that I rant about this in my "blog."
This phenomenon is particularly baffling, and anyone who practices it should be struck with a heavy rock upside the head. I will concede that internet shorthand is great for active conversations through text messaging on cell phones, and here on the internet, at least in chat rooms or other rapid fire text-based conversations. It has no place in anything resembling a formal or official writing. I'm looking disapprovingly at you, New Zealand. Continuing, this practice has absolutely no place in verbal communication. None.
Who would possibly think it's preferable to say "L-O-L" rather than just laugh out loud? What's next? Will they say "Colon, closed parentheses" instead of actually smiling? It is especially jarring to actually hear this mental sewage come from the mouth of someone who should know better. What the hell is a 45-year old woman doing saying things like "OMG" and "BRB?" Are actual coherent thoughts so damnably difficult to verbally express in an intelligent manner?
Various portions of my head are failing me.
So, I think I'm going mad. Either that, or falling apart, somehow.
This morning I wake up to the sound of the cat scratching on my bedroom door. She's the kind of cat who want to be where she's not allowed. She'll annoy the hell out of me until I relent and allow her in. The alternative is that I get fed up with the noise and stomp after her like some cranky, boxers-wearing Frankenstein's Monster. They're annoying that way, sometimes, cats. Anyhow, back on track. I'm about to chase the cat away when I realize the scratching is coming from my closet. I haven't opened that closet in about a week, so this is somewhat odd. My thought is "great, I have mice, or rats, or pygmies, or Mormons," or something equally distasteful. I open the closet door, and there's nothing there. Of course. Whatever. Back to bed.
Hearing: Suspect
This afternoon, I'm driving to meet friends. The car stereo is turned off, and for some reason I try to recall the intro to "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones. Instead, my wonderful little mind brings up "Touch Me" by The Doors. Why? They don't seem similar to me. Perhaps it's somewhat Freudian. I recently used the first verse of "Devil" as something of an introductory pick-up line. Whatever. Time to meet friends.
Memory: Suspect
Libido: Misbehaving
Tonight, after spending time with the aforementioned friends, I'm driving home. No musical memories on the return trip, though. This time, I'm on the freeway when I see a flash of blue lights behind me. Curious. I'm not speeding. 58 in a 60 with a slow speedometer seems OK no matter which way I look at it. My lights are all functioning properly, and my tabs are current. I pull over. Nothing. Not just no cops, but no other cars. Period. Not for a good 300 feet behind me. Whatever. It's time to go home.
Eyesight: Suspect
I'm afraid to speak now, for fear that I may sound like Donald Duck on helium for no apparent reason. Sure, it'd be amusing, but what purpose would it serve.
Voice: Untested
This morning I wake up to the sound of the cat scratching on my bedroom door. She's the kind of cat who want to be where she's not allowed. She'll annoy the hell out of me until I relent and allow her in. The alternative is that I get fed up with the noise and stomp after her like some cranky, boxers-wearing Frankenstein's Monster. They're annoying that way, sometimes, cats. Anyhow, back on track. I'm about to chase the cat away when I realize the scratching is coming from my closet. I haven't opened that closet in about a week, so this is somewhat odd. My thought is "great, I have mice, or rats, or pygmies, or Mormons," or something equally distasteful. I open the closet door, and there's nothing there. Of course. Whatever. Back to bed.
Hearing: Suspect
This afternoon, I'm driving to meet friends. The car stereo is turned off, and for some reason I try to recall the intro to "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones. Instead, my wonderful little mind brings up "Touch Me" by The Doors. Why? They don't seem similar to me. Perhaps it's somewhat Freudian. I recently used the first verse of "Devil" as something of an introductory pick-up line. Whatever. Time to meet friends.
Memory: Suspect
Libido: Misbehaving
Tonight, after spending time with the aforementioned friends, I'm driving home. No musical memories on the return trip, though. This time, I'm on the freeway when I see a flash of blue lights behind me. Curious. I'm not speeding. 58 in a 60 with a slow speedometer seems OK no matter which way I look at it. My lights are all functioning properly, and my tabs are current. I pull over. Nothing. Not just no cops, but no other cars. Period. Not for a good 300 feet behind me. Whatever. It's time to go home.
Eyesight: Suspect
I'm afraid to speak now, for fear that I may sound like Donald Duck on helium for no apparent reason. Sure, it'd be amusing, but what purpose would it serve.
Voice: Untested
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Bioshock (XB360)
So a couple of weeks ago, Bioshock was released for XBox 360 and PC. This is my attempt at a spoiler-free take on the XB360 version, since that's the one I bought.
Story: (first 20 minutes, approx.) It's 1960. You start out as the apparent sole survivor of a mid-ocean plane crash. Struggling to keep afloat in the sea, you notice metal spires nearby. You swim to them, enter a pod called a bathysphere (holy crap, that's a real thing?) and descend into a decaying sub-aquatic city called Rapture. Created by a man named Andrew Ryan, Rapture was intended a refuge for persecuted artists, scientists, doctors, and other creative types. Very quickly it becomes apparent that Rapture is anything but idyllic. You are greeted by a blade-wielding psycho called a Splicer. You are unarmed, but assisted by a man called Atlas in herding the Splicer into a security trap.
From there you find a vending machine with a syringe in it. Inexplicably, and without prompting you jab the needle into your arm, and are endowed with magical-ish powers called plasmids. You pass out, and wake up when a giant robot-thing, a Big Daddy, stomps on by with a creepy little girl, a Little Sister, in tow. Seems the Little Sister wants to collect "angels" from the dead. She seems disappointed to find you aren't dead, then goes about her creepy little business.
Once you recover, it's off to kill, explore, and that sort of video game stuff. You are guided by Atlas from checkpoint to checkpoint. He want you to help him save his family, and I think your motivation starts as finding out what the hell is going on. Soon it becomes apparent that the Splicers are the main reason rapture has gone to hell, while the Big Daddies and Little Sisters, while creepy and misguided, are largely neutral.
Graphics: Simply beautiful. Numerous times I walked into a new room and just spent two or three minutes just looking at the room. It was pretty. It was very pretty. HD video is essential for this. Standard Definition was OK, but with HD there were colors and details I didn't even know were there, initially. Most of the rooms were not well lit, so I'd imagine countless details went unnoticed.
Sound: Great atmospheric sound. Water drops can be heard almost everywhere. The Splicers talk to each other when they don't know you're there, and taunt you once you're discovered. Early on, the Sounds the Big Daddy make is close to terrifying.
Gameplay: Solid. The enemy AI was adequate to make you think before diving into combat. Combat with groups provided some challenges. Early combat with a Big Daddy was borderline epic. Learning to use traps and the city's own security system to your advantage created a good sense of accomplishment when pulled off correctly.
Nitpicks: Most of this falls into suspension of disbelief, but it was a problem for me.
The hacking system was odd. It was a variation of the old game Pipe Dream. Also, there is no explanation of the enemy-recognition system for the security system. How does the machine gun know I'm hostile? What changes once I hack it? It was also strange that most of my power was obtained from vending machines.
As great as the sound was, it wasn't as directional as I'd like. Maybe I need a better surround sound system, but distance and direction of sound are important in a game that features a creepy atmosphere. Also, more dialogue for the Splicers would have been great. Developers, you may have 8-10 things for a character to say, but remember that I'm probably going to encounter a couple hundred of these guys, each saying two or three lines each before I drop them.
I mentioned earlier that most of the rooms were very dark. As much detail as the artists put into the environment, a simple flashlight would have been great so I could look at said detail.
In the vein of missing items, an inventory system would have been nice. Even one inventory slot to hold a bag of chips or the like would have been good.
All of that was minor, though. Easilly dismissed for how great the game was.
Big Problems: Death. There is absolutely no consequence for dying. Revival chambers are plentiful in the game. Seems you run over one each time you open a door. When you die, you are transported to the nearest chamber, revived at half health, full mana, and a short distance from where you fell. The only consequence of death was a few seconds lost in traveling back to your damaged enemy.
Choice. The game is supposed to be a bout your choices and the consequences of your actions. However, like every game that purports to be about choice, it comes down to two things. Are you an saint, or are you a bastard? There is absolutely no middle ground. Once you take a single step down the "evil" path, you're on it for good.
On the whole, it's a great game. Definitely wort a pick up.
Final verdict: Buy
Holy crap, that was longer than I thought it would be.
Story: (first 20 minutes, approx.) It's 1960. You start out as the apparent sole survivor of a mid-ocean plane crash. Struggling to keep afloat in the sea, you notice metal spires nearby. You swim to them, enter a pod called a bathysphere (holy crap, that's a real thing?) and descend into a decaying sub-aquatic city called Rapture. Created by a man named Andrew Ryan, Rapture was intended a refuge for persecuted artists, scientists, doctors, and other creative types. Very quickly it becomes apparent that Rapture is anything but idyllic. You are greeted by a blade-wielding psycho called a Splicer. You are unarmed, but assisted by a man called Atlas in herding the Splicer into a security trap.
From there you find a vending machine with a syringe in it. Inexplicably, and without prompting you jab the needle into your arm, and are endowed with magical-ish powers called plasmids. You pass out, and wake up when a giant robot-thing, a Big Daddy, stomps on by with a creepy little girl, a Little Sister, in tow. Seems the Little Sister wants to collect "angels" from the dead. She seems disappointed to find you aren't dead, then goes about her creepy little business.
Once you recover, it's off to kill, explore, and that sort of video game stuff. You are guided by Atlas from checkpoint to checkpoint. He want you to help him save his family, and I think your motivation starts as finding out what the hell is going on. Soon it becomes apparent that the Splicers are the main reason rapture has gone to hell, while the Big Daddies and Little Sisters, while creepy and misguided, are largely neutral.
Graphics: Simply beautiful. Numerous times I walked into a new room and just spent two or three minutes just looking at the room. It was pretty. It was very pretty. HD video is essential for this. Standard Definition was OK, but with HD there were colors and details I didn't even know were there, initially. Most of the rooms were not well lit, so I'd imagine countless details went unnoticed.
Sound: Great atmospheric sound. Water drops can be heard almost everywhere. The Splicers talk to each other when they don't know you're there, and taunt you once you're discovered. Early on, the Sounds the Big Daddy make is close to terrifying.
Gameplay: Solid. The enemy AI was adequate to make you think before diving into combat. Combat with groups provided some challenges. Early combat with a Big Daddy was borderline epic. Learning to use traps and the city's own security system to your advantage created a good sense of accomplishment when pulled off correctly.
Nitpicks: Most of this falls into suspension of disbelief, but it was a problem for me.
The hacking system was odd. It was a variation of the old game Pipe Dream. Also, there is no explanation of the enemy-recognition system for the security system. How does the machine gun know I'm hostile? What changes once I hack it? It was also strange that most of my power was obtained from vending machines.
As great as the sound was, it wasn't as directional as I'd like. Maybe I need a better surround sound system, but distance and direction of sound are important in a game that features a creepy atmosphere. Also, more dialogue for the Splicers would have been great. Developers, you may have 8-10 things for a character to say, but remember that I'm probably going to encounter a couple hundred of these guys, each saying two or three lines each before I drop them.
I mentioned earlier that most of the rooms were very dark. As much detail as the artists put into the environment, a simple flashlight would have been great so I could look at said detail.
In the vein of missing items, an inventory system would have been nice. Even one inventory slot to hold a bag of chips or the like would have been good.
All of that was minor, though. Easilly dismissed for how great the game was.
Big Problems: Death. There is absolutely no consequence for dying. Revival chambers are plentiful in the game. Seems you run over one each time you open a door. When you die, you are transported to the nearest chamber, revived at half health, full mana, and a short distance from where you fell. The only consequence of death was a few seconds lost in traveling back to your damaged enemy.
Choice. The game is supposed to be a bout your choices and the consequences of your actions. However, like every game that purports to be about choice, it comes down to two things. Are you an saint, or are you a bastard? There is absolutely no middle ground. Once you take a single step down the "evil" path, you're on it for good.
On the whole, it's a great game. Definitely wort a pick up.
Final verdict: Buy
Holy crap, that was longer than I thought it would be.
Hooray for video games!
I've been drawn to electronic entertainment since I was in 6th grade. My brother got an NES as a graduation present, and I wasn't allowed to touch it. (Incidentally, it pains me that I feel it necessary to add a wiki link for info the NES. damn I feel old.) Of course, I played that system every chance I got. The first game I played on it was Castlevania. Since those days, video games have been rather special for me. As such, when the mood strikes me, I'll post some video game reviews.
Currently I'm thinking of Pass, Rent, and Buy as final rankings. I think they are self explanatory, and don't need much explanation or interpretation.
Currently I'm thinking of Pass, Rent, and Buy as final rankings. I think they are self explanatory, and don't need much explanation or interpretation.
Hey, Look at Me!
I suppose this is the obligatory post announcing my presence on the intraweb. I think I might have one of the tubes all to myself.
Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for long long years, stole many a man's soul and faith.
OK, enough Rolling Stones' lyrics. Here's a little bit about me. I'm 31 (not quite "long long years," in my estimation), and single. I've recently gone back to college, and work part-time as a retail clerk (so there goes the wealth portion of the lyrics). I enjoy cooking and have been told I'm good at it. I'm inclined toward all things geek. Movies, music, card games, board games, books, I enjoy them all. As such, I'd like to think that I can hold my own in most conversations, and have no problems asking questions when I seem to be in over my head.
Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for long long years, stole many a man's soul and faith.
OK, enough Rolling Stones' lyrics. Here's a little bit about me. I'm 31 (not quite "long long years," in my estimation), and single. I've recently gone back to college, and work part-time as a retail clerk (so there goes the wealth portion of the lyrics). I enjoy cooking and have been told I'm good at it. I'm inclined toward all things geek. Movies, music, card games, board games, books, I enjoy them all. As such, I'd like to think that I can hold my own in most conversations, and have no problems asking questions when I seem to be in over my head.
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