A Time Paradox:
I tried to make a reference to the 80's the other day and did so by reflexively saying '20 years ago'. Am I alone in using a specific point in my life (around the year 2000, for me) as a constant for temporal and cultural identity? I honestly don't know if I'm the only one who does this because I'm not very smart (I actually used my laptop calculator to make sure 1980 was actually 31 years ago before throwing this up) and I get these false impressions of the world all the time. I hope I'm not wrong, because first of all, that's never happened before - I'm a perfect human being, if this blog is evidence of nothing else - but also because this entry is based entirely on the assumption that this is a phenomenon that applies to everybody. Anyway, continuing on, if this is a universal occurrence it's a pretty cool indicator as to how we perceive ourselves. For example, I apparently decided that eleven years old (busted out the calculator again for that) was the appropriate frame of reference for my entire life experience (which might explain my mathematical inabilities). I don't know if this is a puberty thing or if we all subconsciously choose any age as the cornerstone of our identity, but I'm sure there's something interesting to reveal about ourselves in it. I wonder if someone smarter and more observant than me has looked into this before. I'm sure if I were a better man I'd do some research, but I'm really into this game of hide and seek, and I think my voice just cracked.
[Editor's note: While finishing up this post I ran a Google Images search for an image to use. If you're wondering if those jokes about my sub-par intelligence were sarcastic or not, know that I actually typed 'preteen' in the search field and hit enter. Not only did I naively think that was totally appropriate, I apparently left the search results tab open while I wrote this instead of immediately closing the window. So if you don't hear from me for a while I'll probably be having a chat with Chris Hanson.]
Supercuts:
The neighbourhood I live in has a Supercuts around the corner from my house. Basically 'convenient' is the adjective that governs my life, so I've been going there every time I need a haircut. Having strands of my body chopped off my head has pretty much always been a pretty infrequent event until recently, seeing as until a year or two ago I was content with cutting my hair far too short and then letting it grow far too long. These days, I've decided that I'd like to look somewhat like I belong in the 21st century and have begun cutting my hair at a more conventional rate. Now that I'm getting a trim as often as other human beings, and not like - say - a dog, it's starting to become an issue that Supercuts is a lot like the McDonald's of hair maintenance (coincidentally, my Supercuts shares a wall with a McD's), in that they treat their customers like they slide in on a conveyer belt, and distractedly whip their hands around until you've got a partially razored scalp or a lopsided burger with more lettuce in the box than in the bun. Then they send you on your way looking like a frazzled chimp with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. So long story short, I'm typing this with a hairstyle I might describe as 'dipped my head into a working lawnmower' and I'm looking for a new place to get my hair cut. The problem with this, and perhaps the problem with my continuous bad haircuts, is that I don't actually know where else to go or know anything about hair, fashion, style and trends. This is clearly a problem. My fashionably-challenged nature extends to clothes as well, but I can cope with that particular disorder by identifying people who aren't so stylistically ignorant and taking a mental note of the clothes they wear. This is made even more helpful by the logos and names emblazoned on the shirts and butts of every trendy passerby. I can look at a respectably dressed person, say 'Aha! Buffalo Jeans!' and scurry off to a mall to make myself a less impressive version of them. Which is why I propose all hair salons label each of their customers with a searing branding iron, publicizing exactly where they got their mohawks and Biebercuts by burning the company name directly on the nape of their necks. It's the only logical solution, and I'd probably fare better with scorched neck flesh than I do with Supercuts hairstyles.
Weird, Old Yankovic:
I was just checking out Alpocalypse, the latest album from Weird Al Yankovic, and while I felt the same giddiness hitting play that I always did for his previous parodies, and still do for other genres of comedy albums (greatly anticipating Patton Oswalt's next, for example), I only lasted a couple of songs before I started to tire of the format. I'm not sure why this is. I'll be the first to admit, restructuring a familiar song around wacky, similar sounding lyrics is not highbrow comedy, but his wit never had to be razor sharp in order to make me laugh. I don't think Yankovic is any less funny than in previous years - his send-up of Lady Gaga in Perform This Way might be the most on the money of his entire catalogue. So what's stopping me from loving this new album? I think for the first time I'm consciously aware of our culture moving forward. I might have taken a seat on my high horse and claimed musical comedy is too gimmicky to make laugh these days if I wasn't certain iTunes would publicize my Turtleneck & Chain play-count in a long-planned scheme to embarrass me out of the picture and take total control of my computer. No, I think The Lonely Island has replaced Weird Al as the definitive voice decrying the conventions of the music industry, taking a more indirect and even more absurd approach to parodying today's pop stars. The current generation is one of largess, exaggeration and unyielding cynicism, and Yankovic's lighthearted puns aren't sharp enough to puncture the industry bubble. It's sad to see an old friend go. If anyone needs me, I'll be YouTubing The Saga Begins.
Defining "Wozzy":
I discovered this on Urban Dictionary today. I should stress that 'Wozzy' is a nickname a friend gave to me as an appropriation of my last name, and (to my knowledge) not for any of the reasons above. I was completely unaware of this usage, but don't worry I'm nothing if not adaptable. Which is why from now on my blog is more important than ever. Did you go for the Advil and swallow rat poison by accident? Forget the ipecac. May I suggest you read this review of Thor instead? You won't even have to get up from your laptop! Problem solved.
My Fallout With Fallout 3 (Spoilers Everywhere):
The first time I played through Fallout 3 I skipped over much of the optional story because I was overwhelmed by the amount of freedom you're given. I was unsure of how to proceed, and only tapped a minute fraction of the game's sidequests before tackling the main storyline and finishing the game. It's a shame because a lot of the beauty of Fallout 3 is discovering really interesting moments in the smallest corners of the map. Most games offer 'alternate routes' in the form of a secondary path or a good or evil outcome, but Fallout's scope is far wider than that and much more willing to relinquish control to the player. Instances arise where your dealings with characters can affect how simple or complicated a mission can be, in some cases having them do your dirty work for you. Likewise your freedom to kill or converse with any of the game's characters have considerable impact in the full scale of the story. Essentially, in replaying Fallout 3, it's become one of my favourite recent games. Unfortunately my biggest gripe about it comes from all of its amazing successes. Late in the story you are tasked with retrieving a G.E.C.K, essentially the game's maguffin. To do this, you have to enter a wrecked vault filled with abandoned experiments, one of which is a trapped Super Mutant named Fawkes. Fawkes offers to help you get the G.E.C.K if you release him from his chamber. If you agree he'll escort you to a severely irradiated chamber and tell you to wait there, as his mutation allows him to enter the room unscathed and bring back the item. Following this, he'll follow you for the remainder of the story if you'll allow him to, which I did. This is where the game becomes frustratingly rigid. The game ends at the Jefferson Memorial where you are tasked with purifying the city's water supply, however someone must enter the irradiated purification chamber to input the code. You have to make a moral choice whether you will sacrifice yourself to do this or your recent ally, Sarah Lyons. So here's my predicament - I'm at the peak of the game's climax and I'm trying to decide if my brief relationship with Sarah Lyons means enough that I a) think she's important enough to merit saving the wasteland, and b) she means enough to me that I'd rather I die than her. Meanwhile a 10-foot tall radiation-proof monster I've had following me like a dog for half an hour isn't saying a word. Fawkes had no problem running into a microwave for me when we had just met but suddenly he becomes a talking yellow paperweight. It's a huge slap in the face after 15 hours of absolute control over every tiny detail to become so restrictive at the game's defining moment. I can't imagine this is an oversight after all the rest of Fallout's precision. It's baffling to me. Anyway, I killed Lyons in the end. Not because she was a bad person. She called her team 'The Pride", and in my wasteland bad puns are punishable by death.
Dust jackets:
Why do we still have dust jackets for hard cover books? I can't think of anything more distracting when reading than the infold slipping out and flapping wildly over a particularly tense paragraph like an attention-craving, plastic douche. You're telling me we can design an actual real life invisibility cloak but our only way to keep our paper safe is to wrap it in a flimsy plastic condom? And what is the threat that dust presents to a book? I have never heard of anyone losing a book to the horrors of dust decay. No, dust jackets are a horrible idea. And I can't throw them away because I'm too obsessive-compulsive to keep my property outside its original condition. I've dealt with repeated wasp attacks while reading in my backyard with relative ease, only to freak out and scream in frustration minutes later when the jacket slipped out and I lost my page. Wasps are living syringes of terror but I'd rather suffer an onslaught of them than deal with the bullshit of a dust jacket. And there is even such a thing as a dust jacket cover, because there's no end to the evils of this world. That's why when my book gets published it won't have a dust jacket. It won't be hard to find - it'll be the one wrapped in angry murder bees.
Anonymity + Opinion = Authority:
There's a really odd phenomenon on the internet where I'll put more value in strangers' opinions of myself than in those of my friends or anyone I ever expect to interact with in the real world. It's strange to think that I credit my work based more on the feelings of people I essentially consider non-existent on a personal level than the ones I actually know, but I think the idea is that without a face to tie the words to, anonymous statements begin to feel like the voice of the Everyman. If my friend Jim gives me his thoughts on my work, I'll consider his opinion based on my perception of his worth as a human being (Jim's worth as a human being is zero, because I don't have a friend named Jim), but when all I get is a username and a timestamp next to something like 'you write like you barely survived being aborted', I can't tell if that's Stephen Hawking's disapproval or some degenerate internet troll's, and so I place them dead center on the scale as a moderately intelligent voice of the people (I have it on good authority that Stephen Hawking is an avid reader of mine). It goes both ways too, by the way - I feel like Jerry Seinfeld if I get a joke retweeted by a stranger on Twitter, when for all I know he had to click with his off-hand because his other was buried to the second knuckle up his nose. The worst part of it is that I'll take that same guy's praise at higher face value than that of my peers just because I don't know him. Basically what I'm saying is if you want to get me to like you, shout compliments at me in the dark.
Portal 2: The Final Hours:
Geoff Keighley, a video game journalist (amongst other titles) recently wrote a multimedia piece called Portal 2: The Final Hours primarily for the iPad, in which he revisits Valve Software, the company behind the Portal series and the equally successful Half-Life franchise. It's a really interesting read and involves a lot of revealing insight into the collaborative process of developing a video game, as well as bringing to life the stories of the interesting people behind some of the industry's best titles. However, praise for the article itself aside, I think the multimedia format for Final Hours is probably its most interesting aspect. I hope we get to see a lot more of this kind of journalism, as it involves a whole lot of video, slides and cool interactive aspects amidst the text that add dimension and variety to the content (It also feels a bit like using that badass computer Tom Cruise has in Minority Report, what with the flicking and dragging and all). What better way to read about video games than in an interactive space? If this kind of thing were a mainstay of the iPad I'd be at the Apple store tomorrow begging Steve Jobs to take my money. Luckily for now, Final Hours is available for us PC'ers on Steam for a very fair $2.00 price tag.
Red Dead Conundrum:
With PSN down the last few weeks I have been revisiting a lot of old PS3 games. The other day I was riding through a town in the Old West game, Red Dead Redemption, when I noticed a dog lift its leg and start to pee, something I missed on my first playthrough. As my first run at the game was lengthy and obsessive (probably at around 12+ hours) I thought that I had seen just about every animation in the game, so the novelty of a new sight combined with the total absurdity of it being a urinating dog gave me a surprised chuckle. But it got me thinking - I love the breadth and detail Rockstar game worlds offer (walking down a bustling Liberty City street in GTA IV is nearly as interesting as actively playing the game), and I appreciate the amount of work that goes into open-world environments but it makes me sad to think that a team of people have cursed, sweat and poured work into things that might never be found. Potentially, a man spent days working long nights away from his family, distancing himself from his wife and missing his kids' birthdays trying to accurately capture a stream of urine pouring out of a dog penis. And some people won't ever see it. All for the sake of art (Just don't tell Ebert). It's a weird world we live in.
