Sunday, February 23, 2003
What, Me Worry?
Ah, the infamous Mad Magazine and their infamous mascot, Alfred E. Neuman, with his infamous credo. These days, it seems particularly relevant to me because I'd always interpreted that particular slogan as cautionary advice about stupidity. Specifically, the stupidity to be calm when one should clearly be bouncing off the ceiling and panicking. I say this, because I wonder of late if I myself am not pulling an Alfred E. Neuman and remaining stupidly calm and placid in the midst of events that would leave a more sensible human being sweating through a cold and sleepless night. But first...
Real Time Jiggle
At long last, Dead Or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball graced the television in The Cave. After watching James' awestruck reactions to the close ups and camera pans of breasts and ass, I now feel fully justified in my enthusiasm for the game, and now attribute all the posturing of "It's just a perv game" that most of the people I know hashed around as that ever so adorable macho hypocrisy that's supposed to prove that you're a mature human being with a much deeper, more profound insight into life. This doesn't stop these deep and profound human beings from muttering "Oh... My... GOD..." the same way I was when the camera rotated around some white-haired girl in something called a "Ratri"; a V-Kini that consisted of little more than two strips of black lycra connected at the rear by a shoelace. Having spent the better part of midnight to 6 am trying to get the girl to accept this bikini (The girls, strangely enough, don't like to wear the "raunchy" stuff, and so a lot of bribery in the form of gifts is involved, more real world lessons for all you gamers out there, pay attention...) it was with much glee and smoking of cigarettes that we finally watched her strut down the beach, unnecessarily arching her back and tilting her head at the sun as we Keanu-ed all the way and went "Whoa."
I have learned two very important lessons from playing this game.
1) The games industry is finally starting to realize that their audience isn't 8 years old anymore.
2) The only people who can play this game without fear of karmic retribution are single men. Anyone who is attached will automatically bring the wrath of the furies down upon their heads as, let's face it, with a game like this, there is simply no excuse to justify why you're playing it. EVERYONE knows exactly why you're playing it and all the counter-arguments about "in-depth gameplay" and "astonishingly accurate physics" will fall on deaf ears and end in a cruel, cold finger pointing towards your bed for the night, The Couch.
To make matters worse, I resisted as long as I could, but the call of the Role Playing Game finally got to me, and I succumbed. Suikoden III is now slowly, methodically, anal-retentively being completed hour by excruciating hour of its 65+ hour life, which has once again turned me into little more than a gaming vegetable that cares more about finding the secret Bujutsu teacher to upgrade my combat skills than in actually caring about food, household pets, or girlfriends. This was all fine and dandy when the games were a bitter escape from the horrid reality of my single life, but now that that lifestyle is dead, this ability to shut out the world for days on end is proving something of a liability. So far the girlfriend is still understanding about this obsessive-compulsive need defeat game console RPGs, but if I ever do something really bonehead like watch her break her ankle and then tell her "Okay, I'll take you the hospital, just let me kill this last boss in the dungeon, I've...almost... got it..." I'll probably be able to enjoy my victory for exactly five seconds, then read the "Dear John, BITE ME" letter she wrote while crawling out of the house by her fingernails to get herself to the hospital.
Words, Sentences and Paragraphs
Serial Jen continues, and has finally broken the 10 page barrier, creeping up to 15. It's going to be a bit tricky around the 2/4, since that's the only one that seems lost in the fog. 1/4 is done. 3/4 and 4/4 I know what's going to happen, but that second bit is tricky for some reason...
Jen, as usual, is proving to be something of a bitch, and it was nice to be able to write about my Alma Mater, the University Of Alberta again, as the story (Or at least the early part) is set there, circa 1994. In fit of whimsey, while I was enjoying the virtual tour feature and staring once more at much loved buildings like HUB, FAB and Humanities, I decided to check out the English department to see if my creative writing Prof, Kristjana Gunnars was still there. She was, so I wrote her an e-mail and thank you letter and she promptly wrote back the same day.
Kristjana is kind of important to me for a couple of reasons, but the most important one is that she really made me feel like I wasn't wasting my time with this writing thing. After the horror of my introductory creative writing class (I got the highest mark in one semester and the lowest in the other. Long story...) I was ready for intermediate, and when I submitted my portfolio to her for consideration, she bumped me up to the senior course instead. Which was a good class for me and I knew that I was probably going to get a lot out of it when she said at the first class, "I'm not here to teach you how to good stories, I'm here to teach you better how to write the kind of stories you want to write." And she probably regretted those words to some degree when I proceeded to bombard the class with one genre-laden/anti-literary story after another. Still, I stuck with it, and the one thing I'll always remember is that when she bought dinner for the class (There were only 6 of us...) to congratulate us on finishing the course, I went out to smoke a cigarette and she followed me and told me, "I expect to be hearing quite a bit about you in the future."
When you're a struggling writer and an award winning author tells you that, it tends to mean a lot.
Living On The Dole
I have now officially been unemployed for nearly three months.
What little money I had is now gone and the rent as well as most of the living expenses are now largely carried through by the girlfriend, with the exception of a little bit of money coming in here and there for the odd freelance job, but these usually amount to a few hundred dollars and merely slow the growth of the hole, not fill it up. There are possibilities, such as the Nadya thing, though I may have to do the unappealing thing and actually call her up to ask about that. And there is still the little question of the legality of my presence in Singapore as MOM has yet to get back to me on the state of the application, and their Visa extension officially expires this Friday. So all around, it's once more back in the pressure cooker, although, to be honest, I've been through worse, which is why it's hard to get really worked up about this.
Unfortunately I can't say the same for the girlfriend.
Not necessarily used to living on the edge of desperation the way I have, for sometimes years at a time, she is, understandably, less than a happy camper about our current situation. Although to her credit, she seems more mad at the situation than she is at me, since she can understand my motivations perfectly. Last night I was telling her that it almost seems like the universe is trying to ram one last load of worry/angst/suffering down my throat as a sort of fond farewell, because this really feels like a transitional period. With the books sitting around, waiting for a publishing date, life is going to be a much simpler, more interesting affair in a few months, what with the money coming in, and then planning for the move to Vancouver (Yes, we have talked about this. Yes, she is all for it.) life is going to be a very busy experience indeed very shortly. But in the meantime, it's back to squandering like a rat. There will be stress, there will be low periods of morale, there will probably also be me hitting up friends and begging them for money while I look for a job that never materializes until I A) stop looking in despair or B) Get the money from the book and no longer need it, though by then it's too late, as, in desperation, I stupidly sign a 2 year contract that locks me into this island.
Life. Ya' gotta' love it, don'tcha'?
Ah, the infamous Mad Magazine and their infamous mascot, Alfred E. Neuman, with his infamous credo. These days, it seems particularly relevant to me because I'd always interpreted that particular slogan as cautionary advice about stupidity. Specifically, the stupidity to be calm when one should clearly be bouncing off the ceiling and panicking. I say this, because I wonder of late if I myself am not pulling an Alfred E. Neuman and remaining stupidly calm and placid in the midst of events that would leave a more sensible human being sweating through a cold and sleepless night. But first...
Real Time Jiggle
At long last, Dead Or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball graced the television in The Cave. After watching James' awestruck reactions to the close ups and camera pans of breasts and ass, I now feel fully justified in my enthusiasm for the game, and now attribute all the posturing of "It's just a perv game" that most of the people I know hashed around as that ever so adorable macho hypocrisy that's supposed to prove that you're a mature human being with a much deeper, more profound insight into life. This doesn't stop these deep and profound human beings from muttering "Oh... My... GOD..." the same way I was when the camera rotated around some white-haired girl in something called a "Ratri"; a V-Kini that consisted of little more than two strips of black lycra connected at the rear by a shoelace. Having spent the better part of midnight to 6 am trying to get the girl to accept this bikini (The girls, strangely enough, don't like to wear the "raunchy" stuff, and so a lot of bribery in the form of gifts is involved, more real world lessons for all you gamers out there, pay attention...) it was with much glee and smoking of cigarettes that we finally watched her strut down the beach, unnecessarily arching her back and tilting her head at the sun as we Keanu-ed all the way and went "Whoa."
I have learned two very important lessons from playing this game.
1) The games industry is finally starting to realize that their audience isn't 8 years old anymore.
2) The only people who can play this game without fear of karmic retribution are single men. Anyone who is attached will automatically bring the wrath of the furies down upon their heads as, let's face it, with a game like this, there is simply no excuse to justify why you're playing it. EVERYONE knows exactly why you're playing it and all the counter-arguments about "in-depth gameplay" and "astonishingly accurate physics" will fall on deaf ears and end in a cruel, cold finger pointing towards your bed for the night, The Couch.
To make matters worse, I resisted as long as I could, but the call of the Role Playing Game finally got to me, and I succumbed. Suikoden III is now slowly, methodically, anal-retentively being completed hour by excruciating hour of its 65+ hour life, which has once again turned me into little more than a gaming vegetable that cares more about finding the secret Bujutsu teacher to upgrade my combat skills than in actually caring about food, household pets, or girlfriends. This was all fine and dandy when the games were a bitter escape from the horrid reality of my single life, but now that that lifestyle is dead, this ability to shut out the world for days on end is proving something of a liability. So far the girlfriend is still understanding about this obsessive-compulsive need defeat game console RPGs, but if I ever do something really bonehead like watch her break her ankle and then tell her "Okay, I'll take you the hospital, just let me kill this last boss in the dungeon, I've...almost... got it..." I'll probably be able to enjoy my victory for exactly five seconds, then read the "Dear John, BITE ME" letter she wrote while crawling out of the house by her fingernails to get herself to the hospital.
Words, Sentences and Paragraphs
Serial Jen continues, and has finally broken the 10 page barrier, creeping up to 15. It's going to be a bit tricky around the 2/4, since that's the only one that seems lost in the fog. 1/4 is done. 3/4 and 4/4 I know what's going to happen, but that second bit is tricky for some reason...
Jen, as usual, is proving to be something of a bitch, and it was nice to be able to write about my Alma Mater, the University Of Alberta again, as the story (Or at least the early part) is set there, circa 1994. In fit of whimsey, while I was enjoying the virtual tour feature and staring once more at much loved buildings like HUB, FAB and Humanities, I decided to check out the English department to see if my creative writing Prof, Kristjana Gunnars was still there. She was, so I wrote her an e-mail and thank you letter and she promptly wrote back the same day.
Kristjana is kind of important to me for a couple of reasons, but the most important one is that she really made me feel like I wasn't wasting my time with this writing thing. After the horror of my introductory creative writing class (I got the highest mark in one semester and the lowest in the other. Long story...) I was ready for intermediate, and when I submitted my portfolio to her for consideration, she bumped me up to the senior course instead. Which was a good class for me and I knew that I was probably going to get a lot out of it when she said at the first class, "I'm not here to teach you how to good stories, I'm here to teach you better how to write the kind of stories you want to write." And she probably regretted those words to some degree when I proceeded to bombard the class with one genre-laden/anti-literary story after another. Still, I stuck with it, and the one thing I'll always remember is that when she bought dinner for the class (There were only 6 of us...) to congratulate us on finishing the course, I went out to smoke a cigarette and she followed me and told me, "I expect to be hearing quite a bit about you in the future."
When you're a struggling writer and an award winning author tells you that, it tends to mean a lot.
Living On The Dole
I have now officially been unemployed for nearly three months.
What little money I had is now gone and the rent as well as most of the living expenses are now largely carried through by the girlfriend, with the exception of a little bit of money coming in here and there for the odd freelance job, but these usually amount to a few hundred dollars and merely slow the growth of the hole, not fill it up. There are possibilities, such as the Nadya thing, though I may have to do the unappealing thing and actually call her up to ask about that. And there is still the little question of the legality of my presence in Singapore as MOM has yet to get back to me on the state of the application, and their Visa extension officially expires this Friday. So all around, it's once more back in the pressure cooker, although, to be honest, I've been through worse, which is why it's hard to get really worked up about this.
Unfortunately I can't say the same for the girlfriend.
Not necessarily used to living on the edge of desperation the way I have, for sometimes years at a time, she is, understandably, less than a happy camper about our current situation. Although to her credit, she seems more mad at the situation than she is at me, since she can understand my motivations perfectly. Last night I was telling her that it almost seems like the universe is trying to ram one last load of worry/angst/suffering down my throat as a sort of fond farewell, because this really feels like a transitional period. With the books sitting around, waiting for a publishing date, life is going to be a much simpler, more interesting affair in a few months, what with the money coming in, and then planning for the move to Vancouver (Yes, we have talked about this. Yes, she is all for it.) life is going to be a very busy experience indeed very shortly. But in the meantime, it's back to squandering like a rat. There will be stress, there will be low periods of morale, there will probably also be me hitting up friends and begging them for money while I look for a job that never materializes until I A) stop looking in despair or B) Get the money from the book and no longer need it, though by then it's too late, as, in desperation, I stupidly sign a 2 year contract that locks me into this island.
Life. Ya' gotta' love it, don'tcha'?
Labels: Games, My Life, Writing
Thursday, February 20, 2003
No Footprints On The Sand
The reason for that being the girlfriend and I were feeling slightly cabin feverish, and so went out for a walk on the beach just in time to catch the sunrise. Naturally, we intepreted it in two radically different ways. She was just happy that it was the two of us on a relatively empty beach with the sky being lit up in the rosey hues of dawn, a clean stretch of sand ahead of us with nary a footprint to be seen. I preferred to think of it as we were the last human beings on Earth, the wreckage of various freighters strewn across the water as their crew horribly died of radiation poisoning, while the sky slowly burned with the radiation of North Korean Nuclear missile attacks that had started a nuclear conflagration around the region.
When she pointed out that the freighters still had their lights happily glowing away, I wittily responded, "Shuuuuuuut uuuuuuup!"
Not my most eloquent moment, I grant you.
We also saw a huge group of elderly Chinese people out for their daily bout of Matrix Calisthenics, ie, Tai Chi. The lingering after-effects of GTA: Vice City still held a firm grip on me and I once more, 'cause this is the kind'a romantic guy I am, felt compelled to romantically declare that it would be neat to wander into the middle of them with a molotov cocktail. I love the smell of burning geriatric in the mornin'... to paraphrase Apocalypse Now.
Which led to breakfast at the golden arches, chasing after stupid cats that wouldn't let me pet them, and finally back here, where I have put away a few more pages of Serial Jen and bumped it up to six. Not bad for a few hours work. I'm pretty pleased with that. As usual, the characters have taken a life of their own and are probably not going to do what I tell them to. One of these days I need to write a story with an S & M masochist character so at least she'll just say to me, "Tell me what to do, Master..."
That was supposed to be whole point of being a writer, that control thing. Man, even my characters don't give me no respect...
The reason for that being the girlfriend and I were feeling slightly cabin feverish, and so went out for a walk on the beach just in time to catch the sunrise. Naturally, we intepreted it in two radically different ways. She was just happy that it was the two of us on a relatively empty beach with the sky being lit up in the rosey hues of dawn, a clean stretch of sand ahead of us with nary a footprint to be seen. I preferred to think of it as we were the last human beings on Earth, the wreckage of various freighters strewn across the water as their crew horribly died of radiation poisoning, while the sky slowly burned with the radiation of North Korean Nuclear missile attacks that had started a nuclear conflagration around the region.
When she pointed out that the freighters still had their lights happily glowing away, I wittily responded, "Shuuuuuuut uuuuuuup!"
Not my most eloquent moment, I grant you.
We also saw a huge group of elderly Chinese people out for their daily bout of Matrix Calisthenics, ie, Tai Chi. The lingering after-effects of GTA: Vice City still held a firm grip on me and I once more, 'cause this is the kind'a romantic guy I am, felt compelled to romantically declare that it would be neat to wander into the middle of them with a molotov cocktail. I love the smell of burning geriatric in the mornin'... to paraphrase Apocalypse Now.
Which led to breakfast at the golden arches, chasing after stupid cats that wouldn't let me pet them, and finally back here, where I have put away a few more pages of Serial Jen and bumped it up to six. Not bad for a few hours work. I'm pretty pleased with that. As usual, the characters have taken a life of their own and are probably not going to do what I tell them to. One of these days I need to write a story with an S & M masochist character so at least she'll just say to me, "Tell me what to do, Master..."
That was supposed to be whole point of being a writer, that control thing. Man, even my characters don't give me no respect...
Labels: Icky Couple Stuff, My Life, Writing
Bah.
The Lucia Scenario in Devil May Cry is already beaten. Shorter and easier than Dante's Scenario, but it did unlock more costumes. I think there's too much media crossover happening. Imagine my surprise when I read the credits and realized that the clothes were designed by none other than Diesel?!? Then when I actually checked the new costumes out, my bad ass Devil Hunter and Cajun Demon Killer looked like a couplea' whiny models, complete with eerily vacuous expression that they usually have when staring out at the reader from magazines like ID, and Wallpaper? What's this world coming too?!?
The Lucia Scenario in Devil May Cry is already beaten. Shorter and easier than Dante's Scenario, but it did unlock more costumes. I think there's too much media crossover happening. Imagine my surprise when I read the credits and realized that the clothes were designed by none other than Diesel?!? Then when I actually checked the new costumes out, my bad ass Devil Hunter and Cajun Demon Killer looked like a couplea' whiny models, complete with eerily vacuous expression that they usually have when staring out at the reader from magazines like ID, and Wallpaper? What's this world coming too?!?
Labels: Games
Novels: Out. Geek Source Material: INNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!
After a brief visit to Apple Movie Trailers, I was rather stunned when I realized that 2003 seems to be the Year Of The Geek. We've already had one comic movie in the form of Daredevil, with The Hulk and X-Men 2 on the way, TWO Matrix movies and of course, the conclusion of the Elven Love Fest, Lord Of The Rings. Did I blink or something? When did all this geekiness become so... profitable?
After a brief visit to Apple Movie Trailers, I was rather stunned when I realized that 2003 seems to be the Year Of The Geek. We've already had one comic movie in the form of Daredevil, with The Hulk and X-Men 2 on the way, TWO Matrix movies and of course, the conclusion of the Elven Love Fest, Lord Of The Rings. Did I blink or something? When did all this geekiness become so... profitable?
Labels: Movies
Ho Hum...
Another quiet lull. I always seem to have more fun when I have nothing to talk about. Finished the "Dante Scenario" of Devil May Cry 2. The game is, largely, a disappointment. While the graphics are undeniably an improvement over DMC 1, I take serious issue with the dumbed down gameplay, and the really, really bad camera control. It's a bit annoying when 75% of your kills are done off screen and you don't even know what you're shooting at. Which is another big problem, the weapons; the swords aren't quite as funky as the first game, and are largely useless anyway. Upgrading your weapons doesn't seem to yield any vast improvement in damage. But more importantly, why the hell do I want to use swords when they give me weapons like Uzis and rocket launchers? And all the cool moves are, again, rendered largely useless by the guns. Yeah, it kicks ass that Dante can run around on walls, but since he can't shoot or fight while he does that, and since he doesn't run long enough to manuever around enemies (Since they're off-screen, so you have a looooooong way to go...) what's the point? And I miss being able to actually select which new killer features you want for your weapons as you upgrade. It's gone, the greatness is all gone... And instead, I get what feels like a pre-quel in terms of gameplay mechanics. This is what DMC 1 should have been and it would have blown me away, then moving onto what DMC 1 actually IS would have been the evolutionary improvement. Ah, Dante... you had a good first run... maybe third time's a charm.
I'll see what happens in the Lucia Scenario, which I've read is shorter anyway.
The Writing Thing
Proceeds apace. Little bits and pieces of paragraphia are added to Serial Jen on a daily basis. So far this story is being written the way I'd hoped it would be, although it's still pretty early in the proceedings, as I'm only a couple of pages into it. Suckage at titles also continues. Also, I got right back on the horse and sent Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner off to a fiction website called Elysian Fiction. We'll see what those guys think of it.
The current plan is finish off the serial killer story, then start on either my Jen n' Suzy team up story, or else move onto the much more fun story codenamed, Young Tolkien In Love, which is my riff on this whole revisionist, "What if young artists had their works directly inspired something bizarre" tangent that's been happening with Shakespeare and the great George Lucas short film parody. Except in this one, Tolkien as a boy meets up with his friend the Jack, and a some elves, Gail, Umber and Sang and some icky dwarves as they all go off to slay a dragon. I'm wondering whether or not I should make those two stories the last ones in the anthology, since, with the inclusion of Alicorn, the book now weighed in at 344 pages, which is pretty hefty for a collection of short stories, and I already know that YTIL is, in all likelihood, going to break 100 pages. Book 3 will most likely see completion this year...
Geek Life
On and off for the last few months, I've been throwing around the idea of doing for magazines what IGN, the coolest website ever, does for the internet, combine all the geeky fixations you might ever have, comics, geek movies, DVDs, games, SF/Fantasy/Horror stuff, consumer electronics like home theater set ups and DVD players and such and throw it all in one convenient, easy to read place. The mag would indeed be called Geek Life, and assuming I could keep the sassy attitude and find other writers with a similar sarcastic/funny bent to them, would just cover all the things geeks care about in order to deny the ongoing horror that is Real Life. I keep wondering if such a thing is actually doable, and people in the magazine industry here insist it is, it's a great idea, and would probably survive for quite some time, assuming that I stick with the niche market (ie, geeks) instead of trying to be a big, accessible mainstream mag, which is usually what kills most magazines in Singapore. I still don't know if I'm sufficiently enthused enough about this idea to pursue it (Although the prospect of all that free shit for review is tempting...), since I have no head for business, and have NO desire whatsoever to deal with clients/advertisers/what-have-ya'... but it would be fun to actually be paid to play games, watch movies, read comics and then get on my soapbox and rant about it to anyone within earshot. Hey, I do that for free as it is... Mm... being a reviewer means never having to say you're sorry when Acclaim gives you a sucky game for free and you trash it...
Another quiet lull. I always seem to have more fun when I have nothing to talk about. Finished the "Dante Scenario" of Devil May Cry 2. The game is, largely, a disappointment. While the graphics are undeniably an improvement over DMC 1, I take serious issue with the dumbed down gameplay, and the really, really bad camera control. It's a bit annoying when 75% of your kills are done off screen and you don't even know what you're shooting at. Which is another big problem, the weapons; the swords aren't quite as funky as the first game, and are largely useless anyway. Upgrading your weapons doesn't seem to yield any vast improvement in damage. But more importantly, why the hell do I want to use swords when they give me weapons like Uzis and rocket launchers? And all the cool moves are, again, rendered largely useless by the guns. Yeah, it kicks ass that Dante can run around on walls, but since he can't shoot or fight while he does that, and since he doesn't run long enough to manuever around enemies (Since they're off-screen, so you have a looooooong way to go...) what's the point? And I miss being able to actually select which new killer features you want for your weapons as you upgrade. It's gone, the greatness is all gone... And instead, I get what feels like a pre-quel in terms of gameplay mechanics. This is what DMC 1 should have been and it would have blown me away, then moving onto what DMC 1 actually IS would have been the evolutionary improvement. Ah, Dante... you had a good first run... maybe third time's a charm.
I'll see what happens in the Lucia Scenario, which I've read is shorter anyway.
The Writing Thing
Proceeds apace. Little bits and pieces of paragraphia are added to Serial Jen on a daily basis. So far this story is being written the way I'd hoped it would be, although it's still pretty early in the proceedings, as I'm only a couple of pages into it. Suckage at titles also continues. Also, I got right back on the horse and sent Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner off to a fiction website called Elysian Fiction. We'll see what those guys think of it.
The current plan is finish off the serial killer story, then start on either my Jen n' Suzy team up story, or else move onto the much more fun story codenamed, Young Tolkien In Love, which is my riff on this whole revisionist, "What if young artists had their works directly inspired something bizarre" tangent that's been happening with Shakespeare and the great George Lucas short film parody. Except in this one, Tolkien as a boy meets up with his friend the Jack, and a some elves, Gail, Umber and Sang and some icky dwarves as they all go off to slay a dragon. I'm wondering whether or not I should make those two stories the last ones in the anthology, since, with the inclusion of Alicorn, the book now weighed in at 344 pages, which is pretty hefty for a collection of short stories, and I already know that YTIL is, in all likelihood, going to break 100 pages. Book 3 will most likely see completion this year...
Geek Life
On and off for the last few months, I've been throwing around the idea of doing for magazines what IGN, the coolest website ever, does for the internet, combine all the geeky fixations you might ever have, comics, geek movies, DVDs, games, SF/Fantasy/Horror stuff, consumer electronics like home theater set ups and DVD players and such and throw it all in one convenient, easy to read place. The mag would indeed be called Geek Life, and assuming I could keep the sassy attitude and find other writers with a similar sarcastic/funny bent to them, would just cover all the things geeks care about in order to deny the ongoing horror that is Real Life. I keep wondering if such a thing is actually doable, and people in the magazine industry here insist it is, it's a great idea, and would probably survive for quite some time, assuming that I stick with the niche market (ie, geeks) instead of trying to be a big, accessible mainstream mag, which is usually what kills most magazines in Singapore. I still don't know if I'm sufficiently enthused enough about this idea to pursue it (Although the prospect of all that free shit for review is tempting...), since I have no head for business, and have NO desire whatsoever to deal with clients/advertisers/what-have-ya'... but it would be fun to actually be paid to play games, watch movies, read comics and then get on my soapbox and rant about it to anyone within earshot. Hey, I do that for free as it is... Mm... being a reviewer means never having to say you're sorry when Acclaim gives you a sucky game for free and you trash it...
Labels: Games, My Life, Writing
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Sigh...
It's been a while, (Then again, I haven't submitted anything short in years) but Flashquake rejected Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner. Fortunately, they're good enough to tell you why they rejected you and thus, gave me the voting system they used:
Here are our editors' comments:
Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner
Ed. 1 Vote No
Ed. 1 Comments I thought the situation was a little too obvious in this piece.
The characters were cartoons and didn't feel real to me.
Ed. 2 Vote No
Ed. 2 Comments A unique story and very engaging but this needs editing for awkward phrasing. The characters seemed too caricatured.
Ed. 3 Vote Maybe
Ed. 3 Comments The writing is appealingly quirky, although the ending could use more zing. There appears to be a typo in one of the paragraphs in the middle.
Ed. 4 Vote Maybe
Ed. 4 Comments This is very original.
Ed. 5 Vote No
Ed. 5 Comments This is original but some of the prose is very awkward (e.g., “…her eyes shutting in an ecstacy of flavor”) I would like to see this again if the author revises and prunes it.
So no matter how far you think you've gotten, you always gotta' remember two things.
1) There's always room for improvement.
2) Not everyone is going to like your stuff.
Fortunately having been rejected by numerous women over the years, this is somewhat easier to take. "I don't like your story" is always easier to swallow than, "I don't like you."
I'm going to console myself by at least remembering that they didn't think it totally sucked. As I see it, I only got one definite "No," two no's with the caveat that it needs work, then they'd like it, and two maybes. So while I admit that shorts are still definitely a weak area for me, at least the writing is still sound to a certain degree. Oh well... Back to the word processor, right after I finish "Batman" it's hunkering down with Serial Jen.
Man, I really suck at titles.
You Suck! No, You Suck! No You ALL Suck!
This is so cool!
Relive the horror of elementary school with a truly evil shockwave game called SissyFight2000! It's a variation on paper/rock/scissors, but multiplayer online, with chat function, and the premise is you're a snooty girl trying to humiliate the other snooty girls and become the meanest, most popular kid in the school yard! Every player starts out with 10 "self-esteem" points and you brutally, systematically eliminate other players through a selection of moves available during the 90 second countdown before the resulting mayhem is shown. Aggressive moves include "Tease", which only works in tandem with another player, the more players teasing, the more self-esteem is lost, "Scratch", which only takes off one point, and the passive aggressive move, "Grab" which prevents players from taking ANY action and leaves them wide open to teasing and scratching. Then there's the super move, "Tattle," where you snitch on EVERYONE and they all lose 3 points.
Defensive moves include "Cower", which renders you invulnerable to attack, but if you do it too many times in a row, you humiliate yourself and lose points, and "Lick My Lollipop" which not only heals 2 points, but renders you invulnerable to "Tattle" because you're too innocent looking at the moment. The downside is if someone decides to scratch you while licking your lolly, you choke on it and lose 2 points from burning humiliation.
The key to victory, strangely enough seems to be teamwork. If you can make friends and allies, you can double team for grab/scratch, multi-tease combos. The game makes it possible for two people to win, so partners are invaluable to success. And I love the chat function, just 'cause it makes it possible to schmooze other potential enemies if you say something mean to someone else about their mother, and the other players think it's hilarious and decide to hook up with you just for sheer entertainment value alone.
There are many valuable real world lessons to be learned from this game...
It's been a while, (Then again, I haven't submitted anything short in years) but Flashquake rejected Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner. Fortunately, they're good enough to tell you why they rejected you and thus, gave me the voting system they used:
Here are our editors' comments:
Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner
Ed. 1 Vote No
Ed. 1 Comments I thought the situation was a little too obvious in this piece.
The characters were cartoons and didn't feel real to me.
Ed. 2 Vote No
Ed. 2 Comments A unique story and very engaging but this needs editing for awkward phrasing. The characters seemed too caricatured.
Ed. 3 Vote Maybe
Ed. 3 Comments The writing is appealingly quirky, although the ending could use more zing. There appears to be a typo in one of the paragraphs in the middle.
Ed. 4 Vote Maybe
Ed. 4 Comments This is very original.
Ed. 5 Vote No
Ed. 5 Comments This is original but some of the prose is very awkward (e.g., “…her eyes shutting in an ecstacy of flavor”) I would like to see this again if the author revises and prunes it.
So no matter how far you think you've gotten, you always gotta' remember two things.
1) There's always room for improvement.
2) Not everyone is going to like your stuff.
Fortunately having been rejected by numerous women over the years, this is somewhat easier to take. "I don't like your story" is always easier to swallow than, "I don't like you."
I'm going to console myself by at least remembering that they didn't think it totally sucked. As I see it, I only got one definite "No," two no's with the caveat that it needs work, then they'd like it, and two maybes. So while I admit that shorts are still definitely a weak area for me, at least the writing is still sound to a certain degree. Oh well... Back to the word processor, right after I finish "Batman" it's hunkering down with Serial Jen.
Man, I really suck at titles.
You Suck! No, You Suck! No You ALL Suck!
This is so cool!
Relive the horror of elementary school with a truly evil shockwave game called SissyFight2000! It's a variation on paper/rock/scissors, but multiplayer online, with chat function, and the premise is you're a snooty girl trying to humiliate the other snooty girls and become the meanest, most popular kid in the school yard! Every player starts out with 10 "self-esteem" points and you brutally, systematically eliminate other players through a selection of moves available during the 90 second countdown before the resulting mayhem is shown. Aggressive moves include "Tease", which only works in tandem with another player, the more players teasing, the more self-esteem is lost, "Scratch", which only takes off one point, and the passive aggressive move, "Grab" which prevents players from taking ANY action and leaves them wide open to teasing and scratching. Then there's the super move, "Tattle," where you snitch on EVERYONE and they all lose 3 points.
Defensive moves include "Cower", which renders you invulnerable to attack, but if you do it too many times in a row, you humiliate yourself and lose points, and "Lick My Lollipop" which not only heals 2 points, but renders you invulnerable to "Tattle" because you're too innocent looking at the moment. The downside is if someone decides to scratch you while licking your lolly, you choke on it and lose 2 points from burning humiliation.
The key to victory, strangely enough seems to be teamwork. If you can make friends and allies, you can double team for grab/scratch, multi-tease combos. The game makes it possible for two people to win, so partners are invaluable to success. And I love the chat function, just 'cause it makes it possible to schmooze other potential enemies if you say something mean to someone else about their mother, and the other players think it's hilarious and decide to hook up with you just for sheer entertainment value alone.
There are many valuable real world lessons to be learned from this game...
Monday, February 17, 2003
Now Is The Time For Quick And Immediate Response
To possible latent homophobic tendencies. Or something.
A day or so ago, I read a blog by the boyfriend of a friend of mine, who, not just a few hours earlier, we had seen at his place of work while having coffee. Said boyfriend of friend is a student of human observation and thus, observed, from his own blog, this:
anyway ching yee went to spin @ hrn wif her frens wayne and charlene today. and its ironic dat someone quite the looker like wayne actually detests workin wif ppl in the media...the beautiful mtv types as he calls it. well when he came by wif his kitaro hairdo and all and i noticed a bunch of gay guys turning their heads to look at him. hey maybe he should model for gay quaterly or something. heard dey pay really well.
This caused me no end of mild (Or even wild, swinging from one end of the emotional spectrum to other) apoplectic hysteria as, contrary to numerous speculations (grudgingly, I admit, deserved by my total lack of girlfriend for decades on end...) as to my sexual preferences, I am not gay.
For the record, I am primarily straight, with possible repressed bisexual tendencies. While I do like girls, (It's that soft n' purty hair that I wanna' touch that does it every time, damn them...) I would be mad to refuse A) Daniel Day Louis, B) Jude Law or C) Peter Jackson if they propositioned me. Although I have had an alarmingly high rate of unasked for success when it comes attracting the Y.M.C.A contingent.
I remember once at some gay club that no longer exists in Edmonton when I got dragged down to support a couple of friends, Valentino Wong and Michael Pylko (Hey, whatever happened to those guys anyway?) that I found myself getting hit on, in rapid succession over a matter of just a few minutes, a flurry of flabby, deep voiced and decidedly oogy guys. My only explanation for this is the whole "Delicate Flower of the Orient Thing," since I'm slim and "oriental looking" and all that, and maybe the fact that I was the only guy not wearing shoes. Perhaps that's cute, or some secret gay-lingo sign (Sort of like the signals hobos leave for each other to describe possible places of generosity) that indicates "I will do it without lube."
For someone who desperately wished that the opposite sex would pay some attention to him and wondered why it wasn't happening, this was a horrifying possible explanation. My friends, in true comradely fashion, left me high and dry to stutter my way through various conversations with men that 1) Immediately sat down and started stroking my forearm, B) Grabbed the fashion program out of my hand and asked me to explain it to them while their nose was 2 millimeters from my own, C) Grabbed said program out of my hands, put it on their crotch and asked me, "What does this say?"
After watching me flounder for a bit, my friends realized that there was a very real possibility that my hysterical muteness might just be taken as a sign of silent consent, and so in order to keep my virgin body cavity just that way, they finally grabbed me by the arm and literally dragged me away shouting, "THERE YOU ARE! WE'VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU, THE CAR'S PARKED OUTSIDE!" And then berating me afterwards for somehow throwing out a magnetic force that only people of a specific sexual wavelength responded to. I don't remember her name, but some girl asked me, "It's not FAIR! What do you have that I don't?" And by God, I wanted to smack her somethin' awful...
Even if I were gay, I think I would have been horrified by these come ons. Flattered, but horrified. I'm a wine and roses kind'a guy. Tell me about my eyes, say I have really deep thoughts, don't stick your tongue down my throat on the first date, and no matter what anyone tells you, they can say "No!" even after penetration and it's still considered rape.
In Other News
The concept proposal was favorably received with the SMS message from Nadya, and I quote:
"I love the attack of the giant squid!"
No, I am not making this up.
Yes, I managed to squeeze a giant squid attack into a concept proposal. Do not ask how, do not ask why, that is the secret of my genius.
Man. I was so sure she was going to make me take that squid part out...
I'm A Nice Guy. I Own Slaves And Abandon Wives, But Really, I'm Nice!
This is what I keep telling myself as I tackle my latest assignment. I'm supposed to do a write up for a museum here, a 1st person narrative, about 1,000 words, telling the story of a famous historical figure, in this case Ibn Battuta, who the girlfriend has christened "Batman" and which I am sticking with, 'cause it's just easier to pronounce and doesn't make me feel like I'm ordering the dish of the day at some Turkish restaurant.
"Hm... I'll have the Ibn Battuta, please. And don't cheap out on the saurkraut like you did the last time."
Anyway, Batman was an Islamic explorer in the 14th century who ranged across Africa, central Asia, Asia and South East Asia, and is, by all accounts, a sort of Islamic Marco Polo, eventually having a record of his 24 year journey recorded for posterity.
Frankly, I just don't like this guy.
For one thing, he easily qualifies as The Most Easily Impressed Human Being On Earth. When he visits a town, it is, "The finest town in the world, a shimmering jewel of Africa, and equalled by none other on Earth." When he visits another town, it is, "Simply, undeniably, the greatest town of this age, and shall never be surpassed." When he visits cities, he practically has an orgasm, and let us not even get into his opinion of the Mosques he sees. I'm sure some tenet must be deeply violated by the spasmodic rapture he expresses on them. If he were a modern guy, he'd definitely be a DOA Extreme Beach Volleyball player.
He is also, I think, what my university friends might have referred to as a Trysexual: Try dogs, cats, boys, girls, holes in trees...
Upon meeting with certain King, who was versed in poetry and composition, Batman said "This is the most beautiful human being on Earth!" and spent much time with him, doing things he refuses to get into. Hm... not too difficult to read between the lines there. However, over the course of his 24 year vacation, he laid a swathe of alimony across the world, marrying women willy nilly, leaving children behind, some of whom died before he ever met them, and purchasing numerous slave girls who were "Of undeniable beauty, undoubtededly the most charming creature the world has ever seen."
He also got frequently beaten and robbed and left for penniless, but I figure that's just karmic payback for all the times he was a jerk.
Of course, the part that really pissed me off was when he wrote of his yearning for home and how strongly it called to him, for nothing affects the heart as truly and deeply as one's homeland, finally returned after 24 years, spent a week there and then went on another trip across the Sahara desert.
Jerk.
So now I find myself in the unenviable position of having to write a "Hi kids! I'm Ibn Buttata!" sort of 1,000 word essay which is supposed to leave the less savoury parts of his nature (Homosexuality, debauchery, slaving and multiple abandoned wives and children) out, while still sticking to the facts. They want historical accuracy that's not going to disturb the innocent world view of the kiddies.
And yet, I can't help writing this thing out, imagining that it's all being retold by Micky Mouse with a fez on his head:
Batman: And then I went on my Haj to Mecca, and oh BOY! Was that ever fun, wasn't it Pluto?!?
Pluto: PRAISE ALLAH!
Batman: Hawhawhaw! Right you are, Pluto! There was the Kabaa, and fasting, and reading the Koran, and I married two women, bought a really cute slave girl, then left them all at the harbor when someone offered me a free ride to Calcutta! What an adventure! Hawhawhaw!
As God is my witness, I'll never, ever understand how I get roped into these things...
To possible latent homophobic tendencies. Or something.
A day or so ago, I read a blog by the boyfriend of a friend of mine, who, not just a few hours earlier, we had seen at his place of work while having coffee. Said boyfriend of friend is a student of human observation and thus, observed, from his own blog, this:
anyway ching yee went to spin @ hrn wif her frens wayne and charlene today. and its ironic dat someone quite the looker like wayne actually detests workin wif ppl in the media...the beautiful mtv types as he calls it. well when he came by wif his kitaro hairdo and all and i noticed a bunch of gay guys turning their heads to look at him. hey maybe he should model for gay quaterly or something. heard dey pay really well.
This caused me no end of mild (Or even wild, swinging from one end of the emotional spectrum to other) apoplectic hysteria as, contrary to numerous speculations (grudgingly, I admit, deserved by my total lack of girlfriend for decades on end...) as to my sexual preferences, I am not gay.
For the record, I am primarily straight, with possible repressed bisexual tendencies. While I do like girls, (It's that soft n' purty hair that I wanna' touch that does it every time, damn them...) I would be mad to refuse A) Daniel Day Louis, B) Jude Law or C) Peter Jackson if they propositioned me. Although I have had an alarmingly high rate of unasked for success when it comes attracting the Y.M.C.A contingent.
I remember once at some gay club that no longer exists in Edmonton when I got dragged down to support a couple of friends, Valentino Wong and Michael Pylko (Hey, whatever happened to those guys anyway?) that I found myself getting hit on, in rapid succession over a matter of just a few minutes, a flurry of flabby, deep voiced and decidedly oogy guys. My only explanation for this is the whole "Delicate Flower of the Orient Thing," since I'm slim and "oriental looking" and all that, and maybe the fact that I was the only guy not wearing shoes. Perhaps that's cute, or some secret gay-lingo sign (Sort of like the signals hobos leave for each other to describe possible places of generosity) that indicates "I will do it without lube."
For someone who desperately wished that the opposite sex would pay some attention to him and wondered why it wasn't happening, this was a horrifying possible explanation. My friends, in true comradely fashion, left me high and dry to stutter my way through various conversations with men that 1) Immediately sat down and started stroking my forearm, B) Grabbed the fashion program out of my hand and asked me to explain it to them while their nose was 2 millimeters from my own, C) Grabbed said program out of my hands, put it on their crotch and asked me, "What does this say?"
After watching me flounder for a bit, my friends realized that there was a very real possibility that my hysterical muteness might just be taken as a sign of silent consent, and so in order to keep my virgin body cavity just that way, they finally grabbed me by the arm and literally dragged me away shouting, "THERE YOU ARE! WE'VE BEEN LOOKING ALL OVER FOR YOU, THE CAR'S PARKED OUTSIDE!" And then berating me afterwards for somehow throwing out a magnetic force that only people of a specific sexual wavelength responded to. I don't remember her name, but some girl asked me, "It's not FAIR! What do you have that I don't?" And by God, I wanted to smack her somethin' awful...
Even if I were gay, I think I would have been horrified by these come ons. Flattered, but horrified. I'm a wine and roses kind'a guy. Tell me about my eyes, say I have really deep thoughts, don't stick your tongue down my throat on the first date, and no matter what anyone tells you, they can say "No!" even after penetration and it's still considered rape.
In Other News
The concept proposal was favorably received with the SMS message from Nadya, and I quote:
"I love the attack of the giant squid!"
No, I am not making this up.
Yes, I managed to squeeze a giant squid attack into a concept proposal. Do not ask how, do not ask why, that is the secret of my genius.
Man. I was so sure she was going to make me take that squid part out...
I'm A Nice Guy. I Own Slaves And Abandon Wives, But Really, I'm Nice!
This is what I keep telling myself as I tackle my latest assignment. I'm supposed to do a write up for a museum here, a 1st person narrative, about 1,000 words, telling the story of a famous historical figure, in this case Ibn Battuta, who the girlfriend has christened "Batman" and which I am sticking with, 'cause it's just easier to pronounce and doesn't make me feel like I'm ordering the dish of the day at some Turkish restaurant.
"Hm... I'll have the Ibn Battuta, please. And don't cheap out on the saurkraut like you did the last time."
Anyway, Batman was an Islamic explorer in the 14th century who ranged across Africa, central Asia, Asia and South East Asia, and is, by all accounts, a sort of Islamic Marco Polo, eventually having a record of his 24 year journey recorded for posterity.
Frankly, I just don't like this guy.
For one thing, he easily qualifies as The Most Easily Impressed Human Being On Earth. When he visits a town, it is, "The finest town in the world, a shimmering jewel of Africa, and equalled by none other on Earth." When he visits another town, it is, "Simply, undeniably, the greatest town of this age, and shall never be surpassed." When he visits cities, he practically has an orgasm, and let us not even get into his opinion of the Mosques he sees. I'm sure some tenet must be deeply violated by the spasmodic rapture he expresses on them. If he were a modern guy, he'd definitely be a DOA Extreme Beach Volleyball player.
He is also, I think, what my university friends might have referred to as a Trysexual: Try dogs, cats, boys, girls, holes in trees...
Upon meeting with certain King, who was versed in poetry and composition, Batman said "This is the most beautiful human being on Earth!" and spent much time with him, doing things he refuses to get into. Hm... not too difficult to read between the lines there. However, over the course of his 24 year vacation, he laid a swathe of alimony across the world, marrying women willy nilly, leaving children behind, some of whom died before he ever met them, and purchasing numerous slave girls who were "Of undeniable beauty, undoubtededly the most charming creature the world has ever seen."
He also got frequently beaten and robbed and left for penniless, but I figure that's just karmic payback for all the times he was a jerk.
Of course, the part that really pissed me off was when he wrote of his yearning for home and how strongly it called to him, for nothing affects the heart as truly and deeply as one's homeland, finally returned after 24 years, spent a week there and then went on another trip across the Sahara desert.
Jerk.
So now I find myself in the unenviable position of having to write a "Hi kids! I'm Ibn Buttata!" sort of 1,000 word essay which is supposed to leave the less savoury parts of his nature (Homosexuality, debauchery, slaving and multiple abandoned wives and children) out, while still sticking to the facts. They want historical accuracy that's not going to disturb the innocent world view of the kiddies.
And yet, I can't help writing this thing out, imagining that it's all being retold by Micky Mouse with a fez on his head:
Batman: And then I went on my Haj to Mecca, and oh BOY! Was that ever fun, wasn't it Pluto?!?
Pluto: PRAISE ALLAH!
Batman: Hawhawhaw! Right you are, Pluto! There was the Kabaa, and fasting, and reading the Koran, and I married two women, bought a really cute slave girl, then left them all at the harbor when someone offered me a free ride to Calcutta! What an adventure! Hawhawhaw!
As God is my witness, I'll never, ever understand how I get roped into these things...
Labels: Friends, Television Production, Writing
Saturday, February 15, 2003
DOA Extreme Slut Wrestling
Having been suddenly denied my chance to play the Beach Volleyball game, my mind, after a few curious questions from the girlfriend, turned towards other topics that might also be suitable for one-handed videogame playing goodness. The most obvious one was wrestling; combining the ludicrously revealing aesthetic of bikinis and upping it a notch with a healthy dose of raunchiness and sexual/lesbian subtext, with the incredibly tactile combat of wrapping one's body around another's body in compromising positions, I'm convinced that if Team Ninja were to seriously pursue this goal, they would rake in the dollars faster than a pole dancer at a stag party.
All the cute/adorable, Amazonian and Cruel Mistress favorites from DOA Extreme Beach Volleyball would find a new audience of pathetic souls like me as they go through the sweaty gyrations of trying to get each other on the floor and submit to defeat. I figure the game could have various modes:
1. Story Championship Title Mode:
Each hottie, with their backstory that no one cares about, is fuelled by various reasonable motivations to vie for title of champeen, such as one of the other wrestlers burned down their house with their entire family in it (Thus, they have no recourse but to go for champ title, it just makes sense, doesn't it?), they are training to become chief of their ninja clan, or they are dancers who feel they would learn some great moves by winning the tournament. Over a series of gruelling matches with a variety of opponents, the blonde hot chick, the Japanese hot chick, the Scottish hot chick, the Black hot chick, the 80's Flashdance hot chick with off-shoulder shirt and of course, the leather hot chick, the participants literally wrestle with their own pointless back story motivation and the opponent before them. Because this is Story Mode, cinemas briefly introduce and conclude each match with such stirring exchanges as:
Ninja Chick: You are in my way. I have no quarrel with you, but the hot chick that burned down the house with my entire clan it is somewhere in the final matches and I must get through you to get her. Gomensai.
Scottish Chick: Och, you got such a wee skirt, what kind'a nancy girl arr yuu?
Ninja Chick: SUPER HOT CHICK ULTIMATE SLUT MOVE SCISSOR KICK! HAAAAIII!!!
(Round ends with Ninja Chick enacting finishing move of an Atomic Piledriver using only her thighs)
Scottish Chick: Ach! I canna' believe it! Ye've bested me with yuir slooty ninja she-devil majik!
Ninja Chick: You fought with honor. Here is your breast back.
Scottish Chick: ACH!
2. Mud Wrestling Mode:
Since videogame consoles seem to have mastered particle physics in real time, mud wrestling seems a natural. Two hot chicks literally get down and dirty in the mud pit, slinging wet dirt and sliding all over each other like epileptic snakes at a disco boogaloo. Accompanied by hard driving techno and Gary Numan tracks.
3. Jell-O Mode:
Particle physics with transparent cubes of rainbow goodness! Referee-ed by none other than Bill Cosby himself!
Bill: Ninja slut wins! Hey, hey, hey!
Ninja Chick: I fought with honor, give me a pudding pop.
Bill: Got'cher pudding pop right here... [ZIIIIP]
Ninja Chick: EH?!? NANDAIO?!?
Bill: It's chocolate, baby. Your favorite.
4. Wet T-Shirt Mode:
Not exactly a wet t-shirt match the whole way through, instead our hot slut wrestlers duke it out in t-shirts that cover their bodies for the most part, with the loser being subjected to the most heinous punishment of getting dunked. The conundrum for game designers will be trying to circumvent the intentional lameness of players who are determined that their girl shall lose the fight and get dunked. Instead of the usual victory pose, they cut to the "defeat cinema" where the POV shot of the water racing towards the girl clearly conveys her Hentai-esque fear of her fate, cutting to a Matrix style slo-mo rotation as the water hits her body and humiliates her by plastering the soaked cotten across her nubile form. 235 possible camera angles are already in position for players to conveniently jump to, with a replay and record mode for those exceptionally "bad" defeats. Perverted Gamers Monthly gives this feature 5 tissue wads out of 5!
5. Cat Fight Mode:
Two opponents square off in cute little full body, nylon/lycra cat suits, complete with tails and ears. Then proceed to beat the living hell out of each other. As the match ensues, the various grabs and holds take large, large chunks of material off the combatants' bodies, as they meow and claw their way to victory. Special moves gained from the suit include the Super Fuzzy Vibrating Tail attack, and the dreaded Lycra Strangle Hold. If both opponents are rendered completely naked, it's considered a Double Victory, and the audience wins!
6. The Pole Match Mode:
The combatants face each other down in a ring with no ropes or buckles, only two poles suspended between a disco ball. Utilizing balloons, stiletto heels and fluffy bunny tails and ears, the vicious opponents swing, slide, and thrust themselves from the poles, losing many articles of clothing in the process and occasionally receiving help from the crowd in the form of $20 bills folded like shuriken that they toss at their opponent. When a combatant's power meter reaches "Full," a super bonus attack is made available, randomly selected and tossed out by the crowd as either a banana or a ping pong ball that is hurled, cannon-like, at lethal velocities from the genitalia. Should an opponent be finished by this move, a slow motion defeat cinema is shown, followed by the coveted "Me Love You Long Time" victory cinema.
Man, I'm a genius...
Having been suddenly denied my chance to play the Beach Volleyball game, my mind, after a few curious questions from the girlfriend, turned towards other topics that might also be suitable for one-handed videogame playing goodness. The most obvious one was wrestling; combining the ludicrously revealing aesthetic of bikinis and upping it a notch with a healthy dose of raunchiness and sexual/lesbian subtext, with the incredibly tactile combat of wrapping one's body around another's body in compromising positions, I'm convinced that if Team Ninja were to seriously pursue this goal, they would rake in the dollars faster than a pole dancer at a stag party.
All the cute/adorable, Amazonian and Cruel Mistress favorites from DOA Extreme Beach Volleyball would find a new audience of pathetic souls like me as they go through the sweaty gyrations of trying to get each other on the floor and submit to defeat. I figure the game could have various modes:
1. Story Championship Title Mode:
Each hottie, with their backstory that no one cares about, is fuelled by various reasonable motivations to vie for title of champeen, such as one of the other wrestlers burned down their house with their entire family in it (Thus, they have no recourse but to go for champ title, it just makes sense, doesn't it?), they are training to become chief of their ninja clan, or they are dancers who feel they would learn some great moves by winning the tournament. Over a series of gruelling matches with a variety of opponents, the blonde hot chick, the Japanese hot chick, the Scottish hot chick, the Black hot chick, the 80's Flashdance hot chick with off-shoulder shirt and of course, the leather hot chick, the participants literally wrestle with their own pointless back story motivation and the opponent before them. Because this is Story Mode, cinemas briefly introduce and conclude each match with such stirring exchanges as:
Ninja Chick: You are in my way. I have no quarrel with you, but the hot chick that burned down the house with my entire clan it is somewhere in the final matches and I must get through you to get her. Gomensai.
Scottish Chick: Och, you got such a wee skirt, what kind'a nancy girl arr yuu?
Ninja Chick: SUPER HOT CHICK ULTIMATE SLUT MOVE SCISSOR KICK! HAAAAIII!!!
(Round ends with Ninja Chick enacting finishing move of an Atomic Piledriver using only her thighs)
Scottish Chick: Ach! I canna' believe it! Ye've bested me with yuir slooty ninja she-devil majik!
Ninja Chick: You fought with honor. Here is your breast back.
Scottish Chick: ACH!
2. Mud Wrestling Mode:
Since videogame consoles seem to have mastered particle physics in real time, mud wrestling seems a natural. Two hot chicks literally get down and dirty in the mud pit, slinging wet dirt and sliding all over each other like epileptic snakes at a disco boogaloo. Accompanied by hard driving techno and Gary Numan tracks.
3. Jell-O Mode:
Particle physics with transparent cubes of rainbow goodness! Referee-ed by none other than Bill Cosby himself!
Bill: Ninja slut wins! Hey, hey, hey!
Ninja Chick: I fought with honor, give me a pudding pop.
Bill: Got'cher pudding pop right here... [ZIIIIP]
Ninja Chick: EH?!? NANDAIO?!?
Bill: It's chocolate, baby. Your favorite.
4. Wet T-Shirt Mode:
Not exactly a wet t-shirt match the whole way through, instead our hot slut wrestlers duke it out in t-shirts that cover their bodies for the most part, with the loser being subjected to the most heinous punishment of getting dunked. The conundrum for game designers will be trying to circumvent the intentional lameness of players who are determined that their girl shall lose the fight and get dunked. Instead of the usual victory pose, they cut to the "defeat cinema" where the POV shot of the water racing towards the girl clearly conveys her Hentai-esque fear of her fate, cutting to a Matrix style slo-mo rotation as the water hits her body and humiliates her by plastering the soaked cotten across her nubile form. 235 possible camera angles are already in position for players to conveniently jump to, with a replay and record mode for those exceptionally "bad" defeats. Perverted Gamers Monthly gives this feature 5 tissue wads out of 5!
5. Cat Fight Mode:
Two opponents square off in cute little full body, nylon/lycra cat suits, complete with tails and ears. Then proceed to beat the living hell out of each other. As the match ensues, the various grabs and holds take large, large chunks of material off the combatants' bodies, as they meow and claw their way to victory. Special moves gained from the suit include the Super Fuzzy Vibrating Tail attack, and the dreaded Lycra Strangle Hold. If both opponents are rendered completely naked, it's considered a Double Victory, and the audience wins!
6. The Pole Match Mode:
The combatants face each other down in a ring with no ropes or buckles, only two poles suspended between a disco ball. Utilizing balloons, stiletto heels and fluffy bunny tails and ears, the vicious opponents swing, slide, and thrust themselves from the poles, losing many articles of clothing in the process and occasionally receiving help from the crowd in the form of $20 bills folded like shuriken that they toss at their opponent. When a combatant's power meter reaches "Full," a super bonus attack is made available, randomly selected and tossed out by the crowd as either a banana or a ping pong ball that is hurled, cannon-like, at lethal velocities from the genitalia. Should an opponent be finished by this move, a slow motion defeat cinema is shown, followed by the coveted "Me Love You Long Time" victory cinema.
Man, I'm a genius...
Labels: Games, Stupid Scripts
Oogh
Last night I made the girlfriend cry. It was not for a good reason, and it wasn't even for a bad reason, it's just one of those things that seems to evolve naturally from a seemingly innocent point of conversation and suddenly starts opening up doors in the heart that should stay closed until a more approriate time.
Of late I have been waxing rebellious over at the William Gibson blog forum, because some local there, calling himself Big.Brother, started up a thread claiming to be an inhabitant of what Gibson, in an essay for Wired magazine called, Disneyland With A Death Penalty. Basically Wired gave him a free trip here about ten years ago, just to get his written impressions of the place. Since this Big.Brother seemed to have no compunction about blasting the place, I gleefully joined in. In a--in retrospect anyway, at the time I was totally caught off guard--not so surprising twist of fate, it turns out that the guy I attended film studies with at the U of A, who got me here and who I consequently stopped speaking to a couple of years later, was also tooling around on the forum (He's a big Gibson fan himself and, like me, is very influenced by his writing, though I was influenced by it at 14, he was influenced by it at 28 or something), and started to take issue with all the slamming, though he responded to Big.Brother's posts, not mine. I didn't want to get into a flame war, and so never directly responded to his posts either, but the gist of it is, since he came here with useless history degree, white skin and the usual attitude that locals come to expect from caucasians, he found paradise. He called himself a writer, and thus instantly became one here, found a nice Chinese girl that gave him none of the attitude of the girls back home, and found a job and a people more willing to accept his genius than he ever could back home. So he was mighty offended with people who actually picked holes at what he referred to as his "private utopia".
This, to say the least, invoked the wrath of Big.Brother who called his posts deluded and myopic, but then he doesn't know the guy is white. Since then, a flame-war has been simmering between the two as Big.Brother and "Ebo" (The name of the main character from his first abandoned novel, actually it's Eboman) started trading posts and snippets from other websites either praising or damning Singapore, proving that other countries have the same problems that Singapore does, so leave this island paradise alone.
What does all this have to do with the girlfriend?
What started it all was when Ebo made an effort to play peacemaker and said something to the effect of, "The only problem that Singapore has is rude cellular phone users."
In retaliation, Big.Brother posted a hot spanking new story (Still, unsurprisingly, not covered by the press) about 6 protesters being arrested by the police for attempting an anti-war demonstration. In addition, they were interrogated and it was found that the source of their motivation was an SMS message urging people to demonstrate. Doubtless whoever made that initial SMS is already detained. Here's the story.
I mentioned this to the girlfriend and she was quite incensed. So incensed in fact, that she needed to rant about it on her own blog. Then she read Gibson's article, and she got very upset indeed.
I have always hated this place from the perspective of someone who is used to a certain vibrancy, texture and freedom, who is pissed that I am denied that here. I'd never really come face to face with someone who's emotions equalled my own, but came from being intelligent enough to realize that she'd never even had a taste of what I had enjoyed and was incensed about no longer having.
I really got a sense of just how much she hates this place tonight. She said a lot of striking things, the most memorable images for me all centering around her feelings of betrayal about this place. She grew up here, constantly being fed by the propaganda machine of how important, worldly and sophisticated Singapore is. And she was really disheartened when reality set in. She likened it a couple of ways. Like when you're one of the rich kids at schools, and all the other kids say stuff like, "My dad comes from a family of 6 generations of weatlh." "My dad made his money as high powered lawyer, putting criminals away in celebrated cases." "My dad is the CEO of a company that produces polymers found in every electrical appliance." And when it's your turn, you say, "My dad won the lottery."
But what really drove the point home for her was when she had a chance to travel and found herself away from the machine for a while. All that talk of Singapore's significance in the region and in the world evaporated in the face of real places that were more concerned with things other than having a World Class Airport. No one cared whether an airport was world class or not, and if it was, they didn't see why it should be important. All the reassurances of the importance of Singapore were suddenly, acutely absent and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. She said it was like having a braggart father, that was always coming home talking about how important his job was, what a contribution he made to the company that day, how it was so tough being the head of his division, and when she finally got out of the house and visited the office, he was just a pencil-pushing, mid-level bureaucrat with a cubicle by the watercooler, occasionally mentioned whenever more toner was needed for the photocpy machine.
It bothers her that Singapore needs to praise itself so ardently because it really just emphasizes to her how insecure it is. And it really bugs her that she's from this country and that stigma will always follow her to some degree, that she's from a country that is in love with its own airport.
So she was talking about all this, pausing, starting, and having to stop again when the tears came. I think I watched decades of frustration just come pouring out tonight, and for her, this attempt to snuff out freedom of expression is just one more nail in the coffin, since it runs counter to Singapore's sudden need to have radical, innovative thinkers... provided they don't shake things up and just make lots of money. The fact that Ebo actually defends this point of view and deems it necessary for order (He ascribes to the As Long As The Electricity Works and The Streets Are Clean, I'll Tolerate Anything ethos) is just another signal to her that people are essentially materialist animals that will do anything as long you keep their bellies full and give them a compliant, adoring, warm body to fuck. Well, that and she's even less impressed with white people than she was before. A guy that couldn't hack it in the Real World and retreated here to let his skin do all the talking rates very low in her estimation. The fact that her own country eagerly embraces such individuals and rewards them for their "cheat," just downright depresses her.
But it was still an enlightening and even kind of touching experience to see just how deeply she feels about all this. If I respected her before, it's just gone up a couple of orders of magnitude after last night's conversation.
Last night I made the girlfriend cry. It was not for a good reason, and it wasn't even for a bad reason, it's just one of those things that seems to evolve naturally from a seemingly innocent point of conversation and suddenly starts opening up doors in the heart that should stay closed until a more approriate time.
Of late I have been waxing rebellious over at the William Gibson blog forum, because some local there, calling himself Big.Brother, started up a thread claiming to be an inhabitant of what Gibson, in an essay for Wired magazine called, Disneyland With A Death Penalty. Basically Wired gave him a free trip here about ten years ago, just to get his written impressions of the place. Since this Big.Brother seemed to have no compunction about blasting the place, I gleefully joined in. In a--in retrospect anyway, at the time I was totally caught off guard--not so surprising twist of fate, it turns out that the guy I attended film studies with at the U of A, who got me here and who I consequently stopped speaking to a couple of years later, was also tooling around on the forum (He's a big Gibson fan himself and, like me, is very influenced by his writing, though I was influenced by it at 14, he was influenced by it at 28 or something), and started to take issue with all the slamming, though he responded to Big.Brother's posts, not mine. I didn't want to get into a flame war, and so never directly responded to his posts either, but the gist of it is, since he came here with useless history degree, white skin and the usual attitude that locals come to expect from caucasians, he found paradise. He called himself a writer, and thus instantly became one here, found a nice Chinese girl that gave him none of the attitude of the girls back home, and found a job and a people more willing to accept his genius than he ever could back home. So he was mighty offended with people who actually picked holes at what he referred to as his "private utopia".
This, to say the least, invoked the wrath of Big.Brother who called his posts deluded and myopic, but then he doesn't know the guy is white. Since then, a flame-war has been simmering between the two as Big.Brother and "Ebo" (The name of the main character from his first abandoned novel, actually it's Eboman) started trading posts and snippets from other websites either praising or damning Singapore, proving that other countries have the same problems that Singapore does, so leave this island paradise alone.
What does all this have to do with the girlfriend?
What started it all was when Ebo made an effort to play peacemaker and said something to the effect of, "The only problem that Singapore has is rude cellular phone users."
In retaliation, Big.Brother posted a hot spanking new story (Still, unsurprisingly, not covered by the press) about 6 protesters being arrested by the police for attempting an anti-war demonstration. In addition, they were interrogated and it was found that the source of their motivation was an SMS message urging people to demonstrate. Doubtless whoever made that initial SMS is already detained. Here's the story.
I mentioned this to the girlfriend and she was quite incensed. So incensed in fact, that she needed to rant about it on her own blog. Then she read Gibson's article, and she got very upset indeed.
I have always hated this place from the perspective of someone who is used to a certain vibrancy, texture and freedom, who is pissed that I am denied that here. I'd never really come face to face with someone who's emotions equalled my own, but came from being intelligent enough to realize that she'd never even had a taste of what I had enjoyed and was incensed about no longer having.
I really got a sense of just how much she hates this place tonight. She said a lot of striking things, the most memorable images for me all centering around her feelings of betrayal about this place. She grew up here, constantly being fed by the propaganda machine of how important, worldly and sophisticated Singapore is. And she was really disheartened when reality set in. She likened it a couple of ways. Like when you're one of the rich kids at schools, and all the other kids say stuff like, "My dad comes from a family of 6 generations of weatlh." "My dad made his money as high powered lawyer, putting criminals away in celebrated cases." "My dad is the CEO of a company that produces polymers found in every electrical appliance." And when it's your turn, you say, "My dad won the lottery."
But what really drove the point home for her was when she had a chance to travel and found herself away from the machine for a while. All that talk of Singapore's significance in the region and in the world evaporated in the face of real places that were more concerned with things other than having a World Class Airport. No one cared whether an airport was world class or not, and if it was, they didn't see why it should be important. All the reassurances of the importance of Singapore were suddenly, acutely absent and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. She said it was like having a braggart father, that was always coming home talking about how important his job was, what a contribution he made to the company that day, how it was so tough being the head of his division, and when she finally got out of the house and visited the office, he was just a pencil-pushing, mid-level bureaucrat with a cubicle by the watercooler, occasionally mentioned whenever more toner was needed for the photocpy machine.
It bothers her that Singapore needs to praise itself so ardently because it really just emphasizes to her how insecure it is. And it really bugs her that she's from this country and that stigma will always follow her to some degree, that she's from a country that is in love with its own airport.
So she was talking about all this, pausing, starting, and having to stop again when the tears came. I think I watched decades of frustration just come pouring out tonight, and for her, this attempt to snuff out freedom of expression is just one more nail in the coffin, since it runs counter to Singapore's sudden need to have radical, innovative thinkers... provided they don't shake things up and just make lots of money. The fact that Ebo actually defends this point of view and deems it necessary for order (He ascribes to the As Long As The Electricity Works and The Streets Are Clean, I'll Tolerate Anything ethos) is just another signal to her that people are essentially materialist animals that will do anything as long you keep their bellies full and give them a compliant, adoring, warm body to fuck. Well, that and she's even less impressed with white people than she was before. A guy that couldn't hack it in the Real World and retreated here to let his skin do all the talking rates very low in her estimation. The fact that her own country eagerly embraces such individuals and rewards them for their "cheat," just downright depresses her.
But it was still an enlightening and even kind of touching experience to see just how deeply she feels about all this. If I respected her before, it's just gone up a couple of orders of magnitude after last night's conversation.
Labels: Icky Couple Stuff, My Life, Singapore Stupidity
Alas
Bouncing virtual breasts did not, repeat not happen. Due to circumstances beyond anyone's control, (I'm assuming a very important dinner for the family, one that it would have been in extremely poor taste to bail out from) the deliverer of the X-Box and its breasty polygonal miracle wasn't able to get away until roughly 2 a.m., and thus the breast parade was called off on account of dark. This is really too bad, as I had been counting on playing the game for three reasons:
1) The left breast
2) The right breast
3) Both breasts bouncing in tandem
Oh well... perhaps another day...
Bouncing virtual breasts did not, repeat not happen. Due to circumstances beyond anyone's control, (I'm assuming a very important dinner for the family, one that it would have been in extremely poor taste to bail out from) the deliverer of the X-Box and its breasty polygonal miracle wasn't able to get away until roughly 2 a.m., and thus the breast parade was called off on account of dark. This is really too bad, as I had been counting on playing the game for three reasons:
1) The left breast
2) The right breast
3) Both breasts bouncing in tandem
Oh well... perhaps another day...
Labels: Games
Friday, February 14, 2003
Stop The Madness
Of my sucky titles.
I've already gone and plunked in a few pages of the new short story, brilliantly titled, for the moment, Serial Jen, because it's about a serial killer and it has Jen in it. In the future, one thing all literary critics will agree on is that Wayne Santos couldn't come up with a decent title if you put a pen in his hand, directed him to a large, 100 foot glowing sign that says, "Your title is War And Peace, copy that down exactly" and told him to follow the directions. He'd still end up calling it Fight Book.
I think I'll just pay someone to come up with titles for my stories. I'm totally hopeless.
In other news, nearly 12 hours after the pathetic love offering was put on the altar, it was finally noticed. The couch has been officially barred as sleeping destination today.
I did however manage to take a good, tedious chunk outta' the concept proposal/treatment that is supposed to be written for Nadya. The only bit left is the outright lying where I describe what the show is supposed to look/feel like (IE, "treatment") and gloss over the fact that there will be power black outs, leftist chefs that push their theories of Marxist cooking, and small dogs that like to go wee-wee on the chicken breast. It's all about the glamour, folks...
Also of note is wondering why Nadya is so excited about this project that she would SMS me to discuss it a little roughly around the hour of midnight on Valentine's day. There could be much speculation about this, but I prefer to think she was just bored, since I'm no egomaniac, and she doesn't seem like the sort that would find me terribly amusing anyhow. Her idea of a good time is a wild adventure with the beautiful people in some urban fantasy of glitter and luxury. My idea of a good time is sneaking up behind people in Mark Of Kri so I can grab them by the neck and repeatedly bash their heads against a stone column until said head falls off in a satisfying, wet "plop." This is not the ideal match for even a casual friendship.
Have now been officially awake for over 31 hours. At some point, sleep will throttle me like a studious serial killer, and I will have the privilige of playing Dead Or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball, the X-Box polygonal extravaganza that is all about realistic physics on bouncing breasts. I have already been informed that the game designers thought of everything; it is possible to play the game with only one hand. It was inevitable, ergonomic masturbation had to be on someone's agenda...
I have also been told that the Deep and Involving Gameplay is so engaging that players will jerk and spasm when a ball is spiked towards them. My only reply to this upon hearing it was, "I hope that's the only reason you're jerking and spasming when you play that game."
Someone will now probably want to kill me when he reads this and brings the game over later, but then if I can't drop little gems like that upon the public, why bother calling myself a writer? It's all about the versimilitude, man. The realness. The raw, genuine exchanges that happen between guys that talk about CG babes, in real time, with zoom and camera rotation functions.
I think the biggest irony of all is that when I first heard of this game, I wanted it immediately. Most serious gamers I know laughed at me. In a twist of fate, said serious gamers were the first ones out the gate to get their mitts on it when it was available in Singapore, so I feel gooshily vindicated, though I won't be playing it one-handed.
Of my sucky titles.
I've already gone and plunked in a few pages of the new short story, brilliantly titled, for the moment, Serial Jen, because it's about a serial killer and it has Jen in it. In the future, one thing all literary critics will agree on is that Wayne Santos couldn't come up with a decent title if you put a pen in his hand, directed him to a large, 100 foot glowing sign that says, "Your title is War And Peace, copy that down exactly" and told him to follow the directions. He'd still end up calling it Fight Book.
I think I'll just pay someone to come up with titles for my stories. I'm totally hopeless.
In other news, nearly 12 hours after the pathetic love offering was put on the altar, it was finally noticed. The couch has been officially barred as sleeping destination today.
I did however manage to take a good, tedious chunk outta' the concept proposal/treatment that is supposed to be written for Nadya. The only bit left is the outright lying where I describe what the show is supposed to look/feel like (IE, "treatment") and gloss over the fact that there will be power black outs, leftist chefs that push their theories of Marxist cooking, and small dogs that like to go wee-wee on the chicken breast. It's all about the glamour, folks...
Also of note is wondering why Nadya is so excited about this project that she would SMS me to discuss it a little roughly around the hour of midnight on Valentine's day. There could be much speculation about this, but I prefer to think she was just bored, since I'm no egomaniac, and she doesn't seem like the sort that would find me terribly amusing anyhow. Her idea of a good time is a wild adventure with the beautiful people in some urban fantasy of glitter and luxury. My idea of a good time is sneaking up behind people in Mark Of Kri so I can grab them by the neck and repeatedly bash their heads against a stone column until said head falls off in a satisfying, wet "plop." This is not the ideal match for even a casual friendship.
Have now been officially awake for over 31 hours. At some point, sleep will throttle me like a studious serial killer, and I will have the privilige of playing Dead Or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball, the X-Box polygonal extravaganza that is all about realistic physics on bouncing breasts. I have already been informed that the game designers thought of everything; it is possible to play the game with only one hand. It was inevitable, ergonomic masturbation had to be on someone's agenda...
I have also been told that the Deep and Involving Gameplay is so engaging that players will jerk and spasm when a ball is spiked towards them. My only reply to this upon hearing it was, "I hope that's the only reason you're jerking and spasming when you play that game."
Someone will now probably want to kill me when he reads this and brings the game over later, but then if I can't drop little gems like that upon the public, why bother calling myself a writer? It's all about the versimilitude, man. The realness. The raw, genuine exchanges that happen between guys that talk about CG babes, in real time, with zoom and camera rotation functions.
I think the biggest irony of all is that when I first heard of this game, I wanted it immediately. Most serious gamers I know laughed at me. In a twist of fate, said serious gamers were the first ones out the gate to get their mitts on it when it was available in Singapore, so I feel gooshily vindicated, though I won't be playing it one-handed.
Labels: Games, Television Production, Writing
Thursday, February 13, 2003
Oh And On Another Note:
Congratulations go out to Danger Gene Whitlock who's wife brought in a bouncing baby Ninja into the world at 9:09 pm last night. The baby, Alexander Valentine Whitlock, (Referred to by his alter ego super-hero name "Lex") will be petitioning for membership into Justice League Infants as soon as he can go potty by himself. If I knew how to stick pictures in this damn thing, I would, but unfortunately I'm just not that technically savvy...
Congratulations go out to Danger Gene Whitlock who's wife brought in a bouncing baby Ninja into the world at 9:09 pm last night. The baby, Alexander Valentine Whitlock, (Referred to by his alter ego super-hero name "Lex") will be petitioning for membership into Justice League Infants as soon as he can go potty by himself. If I knew how to stick pictures in this damn thing, I would, but unfortunately I'm just not that technically savvy...
Labels: Friends
Stupid, STUPID Day...
Unlike the nudists who insist that winter was invented by the clothing companies, I think there is something to the conspiracy of Valentine's Day being invented by the candy & greeting card market. For just a few dollars on this one special day, you can go out and make a declaration of your love that they guarantee can't be expressed in months or years of loyalty, devotion, laughter, tears or emotional bonding.
Of course, despite all this, that didn't stop me from scurrying off and buying the meager rose I could afford, or writing the love letter, or placing these pathetic love offerings on the girlfriend's drawing table while she sleeps (and is still sleeping as of the moment of this writing) hoping that this will be enough to placate her and say, "I really care, but I'm also really broke right now, so please don't make me sleep on the couch tonight..."
Of course, in a sick, sad, emotionally retarded sort of way, it's also a kick and a half, since this is the first time I've ever actually been in a position where I COULD get someone Valentine's Day stuff, so there's that victim of consumerist-societal-conditioning that whispers, "Yes! There is someone I have to spend money on! I AM AT LONG LAST A REAL BOY! HOLD ME, GEPETTO! NO, NOT THERE, YOU OLD LECH..."
So yeah, for those of you who were regular victims of my old mass mails before I started blogging, there will be, much to your relief, no Valentine's Day rant about how much you all suck, how much I hate you all, and how much I'm going to punish myself because someone loves you and no one loves me, so there... Yeah, and I'm reeeeeal sure you're all going to miss its absence this year...
Unlike the nudists who insist that winter was invented by the clothing companies, I think there is something to the conspiracy of Valentine's Day being invented by the candy & greeting card market. For just a few dollars on this one special day, you can go out and make a declaration of your love that they guarantee can't be expressed in months or years of loyalty, devotion, laughter, tears or emotional bonding.
Of course, despite all this, that didn't stop me from scurrying off and buying the meager rose I could afford, or writing the love letter, or placing these pathetic love offerings on the girlfriend's drawing table while she sleeps (and is still sleeping as of the moment of this writing) hoping that this will be enough to placate her and say, "I really care, but I'm also really broke right now, so please don't make me sleep on the couch tonight..."
Of course, in a sick, sad, emotionally retarded sort of way, it's also a kick and a half, since this is the first time I've ever actually been in a position where I COULD get someone Valentine's Day stuff, so there's that victim of consumerist-societal-conditioning that whispers, "Yes! There is someone I have to spend money on! I AM AT LONG LAST A REAL BOY! HOLD ME, GEPETTO! NO, NOT THERE, YOU OLD LECH..."
So yeah, for those of you who were regular victims of my old mass mails before I started blogging, there will be, much to your relief, no Valentine's Day rant about how much you all suck, how much I hate you all, and how much I'm going to punish myself because someone loves you and no one loves me, so there... Yeah, and I'm reeeeeal sure you're all going to miss its absence this year...
Labels: Friends, My Life, Rants
Fortune Smiles On Children And Fools
My luck has always been much, MUCH better than I actually deserve.
When it comes to job hunting, it's never really been much of hunt, so much as a call from the blue, with a nice job all prepared and tied up in a shiny red ribbon, left at my door with an R.S.V.P. Usually this happens when I'm on the brink of starvation (Again...) and wondering what the hell I'm going to do next.
Well, guess what happened today?
Yep. Another call. Though this wasn't quite a total surprise, as previous experience had taught me that this was a possible outcome. And in this instance, it was.
A few days ago, I got an SMS message from, of all people, Nadya Hutagalung.
It would seem she's about to become my new boss.
For non-locals who don't know who Nadya is, you can check her out here.
I don't know what the hell it is with me and these Beautiful People--particularly from the MTV crowd--but there you go.
The way that this particular job seems to be going is that Nadya has put together a production company, and she's going to be throwing out a bunch'a shows on the airwaves. She was talking to her friend Audrey (Who is married to my friend James, and who I met, along with James during my stint with other MTV-ers at the ill-fated Interruption Television) and was asking about people who knew anything about writing. I seem to have accrued some kind of reputation around here as the MacGuyver of the English language, whether it's ad-copy, corporate videos, television scripts, magazine articles, or business reports, and so Audrey threw my name at her, and the next thing I know, the wet dream of millions of males across the region is asking me to help her out.
So I thought it might just be a little one-shot thing (She needs help with some kind of concept proposal/treatment for a show she's putting together) and she sent me a document someone else had wrote which or more less needs to be trashed and rewritten from the ground up. I told her so, and she agreed with me on the phone earlier today, then switched gears and asked me if I'd like to write for a show that's already going into production. When I said that we could either work out a per episode payment plan, or she could just put me on monthly salary/retainer, I could pretty much hear the grin in her voice when she asked, "Hey, if we put you on retainer, does that mean you could do more projects with us?"
I said something like non-commital, and I think we'll probably have to discuss this later.
Will someone please explain to me how I end up hanging out with these people? It's not like I go looking for them, it's not like I want to hang out at the clubs and be part of the in-crowd, so what's with this vortex that keeps drawing me in with the inevitability of gravity?
To be fair, I'm probably just prejudiced. There's still the alienated geek within that reflexively regards anyone popular as The Enemy, but of late, I find myself working for/with them more often over the last few years. Admittedly, it's kind of satisfying that the same fixations and skills that made me such a pariah in my youth with these people is now eagerly sought, but it's still a bit disquieting, and gives me rather unpleasant, vaguely whore-ish feelings when the cycle starts up again.
Then again there's the mercenary part of my brain that reminds me, "Your girlfriend paid the rent this month."
So I find myself in the curious position of about to embark on a job that most people would pay to get, and my sole motivation is that I want to be able to pull my own weight at home and not have to feel bad about knowing that I'm living off the understanding and compassion of the girlfriend. The beautiful model and all the time I'll be spending with her is just an occupational hazard. Been there. Done that. Got a free t-shirt out of it.
My luck has always been much, MUCH better than I actually deserve.
When it comes to job hunting, it's never really been much of hunt, so much as a call from the blue, with a nice job all prepared and tied up in a shiny red ribbon, left at my door with an R.S.V.P. Usually this happens when I'm on the brink of starvation (Again...) and wondering what the hell I'm going to do next.
Well, guess what happened today?
Yep. Another call. Though this wasn't quite a total surprise, as previous experience had taught me that this was a possible outcome. And in this instance, it was.
A few days ago, I got an SMS message from, of all people, Nadya Hutagalung.
It would seem she's about to become my new boss.
For non-locals who don't know who Nadya is, you can check her out here.
I don't know what the hell it is with me and these Beautiful People--particularly from the MTV crowd--but there you go.
The way that this particular job seems to be going is that Nadya has put together a production company, and she's going to be throwing out a bunch'a shows on the airwaves. She was talking to her friend Audrey (Who is married to my friend James, and who I met, along with James during my stint with other MTV-ers at the ill-fated Interruption Television) and was asking about people who knew anything about writing. I seem to have accrued some kind of reputation around here as the MacGuyver of the English language, whether it's ad-copy, corporate videos, television scripts, magazine articles, or business reports, and so Audrey threw my name at her, and the next thing I know, the wet dream of millions of males across the region is asking me to help her out.
So I thought it might just be a little one-shot thing (She needs help with some kind of concept proposal/treatment for a show she's putting together) and she sent me a document someone else had wrote which or more less needs to be trashed and rewritten from the ground up. I told her so, and she agreed with me on the phone earlier today, then switched gears and asked me if I'd like to write for a show that's already going into production. When I said that we could either work out a per episode payment plan, or she could just put me on monthly salary/retainer, I could pretty much hear the grin in her voice when she asked, "Hey, if we put you on retainer, does that mean you could do more projects with us?"
I said something like non-commital, and I think we'll probably have to discuss this later.
Will someone please explain to me how I end up hanging out with these people? It's not like I go looking for them, it's not like I want to hang out at the clubs and be part of the in-crowd, so what's with this vortex that keeps drawing me in with the inevitability of gravity?
To be fair, I'm probably just prejudiced. There's still the alienated geek within that reflexively regards anyone popular as The Enemy, but of late, I find myself working for/with them more often over the last few years. Admittedly, it's kind of satisfying that the same fixations and skills that made me such a pariah in my youth with these people is now eagerly sought, but it's still a bit disquieting, and gives me rather unpleasant, vaguely whore-ish feelings when the cycle starts up again.
Then again there's the mercenary part of my brain that reminds me, "Your girlfriend paid the rent this month."
So I find myself in the curious position of about to embark on a job that most people would pay to get, and my sole motivation is that I want to be able to pull my own weight at home and not have to feel bad about knowing that I'm living off the understanding and compassion of the girlfriend. The beautiful model and all the time I'll be spending with her is just an occupational hazard. Been there. Done that. Got a free t-shirt out of it.
Labels: My Life, Television Production
Wednesday, February 12, 2003
Gooooooooooooooal! Gooooooooooooooooal!!
It's DONE! FINALLY.
Weighing in at 92 pages (10 point, when it's brought up to submission format size of 12, it'll probably break 100) and just a little over 30,000 words, my unicorn story, suckily titled "Alicorn" was finished as of 11:30 am today.
I REFUSE to let the next Jen story get this out of control. The last thing I need is for a supposed anthology to be bigger than my actual novels.
There were a few unexpected, little twists towards the end, but nothing that made the main thrust of the story do a 180, so it's all still good. And I just got in a very belated review from a Japanese permanent resident who told me that my WWII Nagasaki era story was more or less dead on (A few linguistic discrepancies notwithstanding) and he complimented me on my studied rendering of Japanese language structure to English. He thinks I must have studied the Japanese language to have gotten the nuance so eloquently. I still have to tell him that I ripped it all off from Akira and Miyazaki sub-titling jobs...
And why, WHY do I suck at titles?!?
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Too late. Must sleep. 'Night...
It's DONE! FINALLY.
Weighing in at 92 pages (10 point, when it's brought up to submission format size of 12, it'll probably break 100) and just a little over 30,000 words, my unicorn story, suckily titled "Alicorn" was finished as of 11:30 am today.
I REFUSE to let the next Jen story get this out of control. The last thing I need is for a supposed anthology to be bigger than my actual novels.
There were a few unexpected, little twists towards the end, but nothing that made the main thrust of the story do a 180, so it's all still good. And I just got in a very belated review from a Japanese permanent resident who told me that my WWII Nagasaki era story was more or less dead on (A few linguistic discrepancies notwithstanding) and he complimented me on my studied rendering of Japanese language structure to English. He thinks I must have studied the Japanese language to have gotten the nuance so eloquently. I still have to tell him that I ripped it all off from Akira and Miyazaki sub-titling jobs...
And why, WHY do I suck at titles?!?
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Too late. Must sleep. 'Night...
Labels: Writing
My Agent ROCKS!
Nope, no news about a possible publication yet, but it seems like Jack is about as fed up of the waiting as I am. I wrote him an e-mail yesterday detailing a tactic of a friend of mine. Her name is Nicole Luiken and for years I had the biggest inferiority complex around her, 'cause she was one of those "wunderkind" prodigies who got her first novel published at the age of 12 and has been churning them out ever since. We met in the Cult Of Pain writer's group (I'm still holding out for being next in line to get a major publication, then that would make three of us. That's pretty good odds for one group, but then they were all pretty good writers) and she's already gotten her books published under the publisher that is currently holding my books hostage. Her agent is Lucille Diver, a woman who turned me down flat when I wrote to her, without even asking to see the manuscript, but by then, it didn't matter, 'cause I already had Jack.
Anyway, apparently what Nicole's agent did to get some attention was to break the rules, somewhat. Normally in publishing, the understood convention is that a publisher usually has exclusive rights to peruse a manuscript, meaning that as long as they're looking at it, no one else does until they've made up their minds. Nicole's agent waited a certain period, then crisply informed the publishers that they were taking too long, they could still peruse the book if they wanted to, but their exclusivity period was over and she was sending the books off to other publishers. When Nicole told me about this, I thought, "Golly and Tarnation, that's a right fine idea! Thanks, little lady!" Okay, I didn't actually think it that way, but if I were on a horse when I said that, it would sound fine, trust me on this.
So I wrote to my agent to present him with this option and ask him if there were any ethical dilemmas arising from it that he might not want to deal with, and he responded with, "Actually, I just told the publishers the same thing last week."
This is why having an agent is so cool. They don't have to deal with all that politicking and negotiating shit that involves sitting in restaurants and trying to understand the intricacies and legal enigmas of the publishing world. Or, in the immortal words of some other writer who's name I forget, "My agent lives in New York so that I don't have to."
Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
Nope, no news about a possible publication yet, but it seems like Jack is about as fed up of the waiting as I am. I wrote him an e-mail yesterday detailing a tactic of a friend of mine. Her name is Nicole Luiken and for years I had the biggest inferiority complex around her, 'cause she was one of those "wunderkind" prodigies who got her first novel published at the age of 12 and has been churning them out ever since. We met in the Cult Of Pain writer's group (I'm still holding out for being next in line to get a major publication, then that would make three of us. That's pretty good odds for one group, but then they were all pretty good writers) and she's already gotten her books published under the publisher that is currently holding my books hostage. Her agent is Lucille Diver, a woman who turned me down flat when I wrote to her, without even asking to see the manuscript, but by then, it didn't matter, 'cause I already had Jack.
Anyway, apparently what Nicole's agent did to get some attention was to break the rules, somewhat. Normally in publishing, the understood convention is that a publisher usually has exclusive rights to peruse a manuscript, meaning that as long as they're looking at it, no one else does until they've made up their minds. Nicole's agent waited a certain period, then crisply informed the publishers that they were taking too long, they could still peruse the book if they wanted to, but their exclusivity period was over and she was sending the books off to other publishers. When Nicole told me about this, I thought, "Golly and Tarnation, that's a right fine idea! Thanks, little lady!" Okay, I didn't actually think it that way, but if I were on a horse when I said that, it would sound fine, trust me on this.
So I wrote to my agent to present him with this option and ask him if there were any ethical dilemmas arising from it that he might not want to deal with, and he responded with, "Actually, I just told the publishers the same thing last week."
This is why having an agent is so cool. They don't have to deal with all that politicking and negotiating shit that involves sitting in restaurants and trying to understand the intricacies and legal enigmas of the publishing world. Or, in the immortal words of some other writer who's name I forget, "My agent lives in New York so that I don't have to."
Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
Labels: Writing
It's My Fault Inc.
Lately it has come to my attention that there is an extremely lucrative and profitable area of the market that has, until now, gone largely ignored and unexploited. That area is Scapegoats.
I don't know why I never saw this before. But it seems to me that there is a market out there that can be mercilessly exploited because human nature, in all its adorability, never wants to own up to its own fuck ups, and has a desperate need to push the bad karma on someone else to keep the Victim Fiction going. I foresee an agency that operates off the pimp/hooker/escort service business model:
IMF: Good afternoon, It's My Fault.
Client: Yes, I need a scapegoat this evening.
IMF: Excellent choice sir, have you used our service before?
C: No, this is my first time.
IMF: Then perhaps you should answer some questions ahead of time so that we can better cater our service to you. Would you prefer a male or a female scapegoat?
C: Male.
IMF: Would that be an articulate male, or a strong silent type?
C: Talkative. Very. Oh and contrite and guilty, I want VERY guilt-stricken.
IMF: I see. Any preferences for appearances? Stylish or fashion crime victim?
C: More of an... an artsey type, I guess. Someone that pretends to be substantial.
IMF: Yes, I think I can see where this is headed. Will this be for a single or multiple blame scenario?
C: Um... multiple. I've been saving up my issues.
IMF: Thank you sir. I think we have just the man for you. Will this be cash or credit card?
C: Is C.O.D acceptable?
IMF: Yes, it is, but should you decide to cancel your appointment less than a half-hour before commencement, there will be a penalty fee.
C: I understand, that's fine. Would 9:00 pm tonight be all right?
IMF: You're in luck sir, we had a cancellation at the White House, so I think our man will be available for you. Thank you for using It's My Fault. Have a cathartic evening.
[Later, at roughly 9:00 pm...]
C: [Answering the door] Er... come in.
Me: Hey. [Looks around, lets out low whistle of appreciation] Niiiiiice place.
C: Thanks. I have to give it up in three months. Want a drink?
Me: Yeah, thanks, gin and tonic will be fine. Why do you have to give it up?
C: [Pauses as ice tinkles into glass, the only sound in the deadly silence. He comes over and hands the glass] It's part of the divorce settlement.
Me: Oh. I'm... I'm sorry.
C: WELL YOU SHOULD BE, SHOULDN'T YOU?!? AFTER ALL, YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME, YOU TRAITOROUS FUCK...
Me: [Getting into IMF Mode] God, you're right... I'm sorry, I... I just couldn't help it. I was just so jealous of you. I... I wanted to hurt you somehow.
C: I KNEW IT! FUCK I KNEW IT! ALL THOSE PRETTY WORDS, ALL THAT SO CALLED "SUBSTANCE", ALL THAT TALK ABOUT HOW YOU UNDERSTOOD HER BETTER THAN I DID... WHO CAN LIKE "BEACHES" ANYWAY?!? IT'S A DUMB MOVIE! THIS WASN'T ABOUT HER AT ALL, WAS IT?!? THIS WAS ALL ABOUT GETTING TO ME!!
Me: Yes! Yes, I admit it! I didn't even love her! I could never love her the way you could love someone, but I felt so small and weak compared to you that I had to do something... I was so jealous of you... It was all I could do... And even though she didn't deserve your love, you gave it, and I knew I couldn't exploit your weaknesses, you don't have any, so... so...
C: You little manipulative prick... You exploited her.
Me: YEEEEEEEEES!! Yes, it's true! All of it!
C: AND THE JOB TOO?!? YOU GOT ME FIRED?!? I'VE NEVER BEEN AN INCOMPETENT OR NEGLIGENT EXECUTIVE, THAT WAS YOU TOO, WASN'T IT?!?
Me: Yes! It was! I... I forged the documents, I started the rumor mill, I worked up the others against you!
C: YOU SET THAT SECRETARY UP TO SEDUCE ME IN THE COPY ROOM, DIDN'T YOU?!?
Me: Oh God, you know about that too... I told her-
C: Him.
Me: [Blinking rapidly] It was a HE?
C: [Nods]
Me: [Shrugging]... YEEEEEEES!! I TOLD HIM TO MAKE YOU LOOK AS BAD AS POSSIBLE! I WANTED TO HURT YOU FOR BEING SO MUCH MORE SUCCESSFUL THAN ME! [Gets on knees and heaves shoulders up and down] I TOLD HIM ABOUT YOUR FONDNESS FOR SLIM-
C: Fat.
Me: -WHATEVER! BODIES, AND HOW IT WOULD DESTROY YOUR REPUTATION IN THE OFFICE AND FINALLY BRING YOU THE RUIN THAT YOU NEVER DESERVED BUT THAT I WANTED BECAUSE I WAS PETTY AND JEALOUS! IT'S TRUE, ALL OF IT! IT WAS ME, ME, MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! OH GOD I'M SORRY!
C: [Rolling up sleeves] And now I'm going to kick your sorry ass... for ruining everythi-
Me: [Standing up and getting brusque and buisness-like] Hold it.
C: [Blinking] Huh?
Me: While physical violence is included in our list of services, there's an extra charge, depending on the severity. What would you be looking at in court for something like this?
C: Um... Assault and Battery?
Me: Hm... That'll be an extra $2,000.
C: I don't have the cash on me.
Me: [Whipping out electronic wireless credit card reader] Do you have Visa or Mastercard?
C: [Pulls out Visa]
Me: [Scans and confirms] Right. Where were we? Oh yeah, NOOOOOO!!! PLEAAAAAAAAAASE!!!
C: This is sweet SWEET justice you little shit...
Me: Aigh! Argh! Oh! The pain! The pain I deserve for doing this! The- HEY! WHAT THE FUCK??!!
C: What?
Me: This is "It's My Fault", not "It's My Ass". You want that, call a gay escort service.
C: Sorry. Got a little carried away.
Me: Try not to do it in my pants, okay? I'm professional for God's sake. CHRIST...
C: Sorry. Anyway.
Me: Right. ARGH! OH HOW I DESERVE THIS! IT'S MY FAULT! IT'S ALL MY FAUUUUUUULT...
Lately it has come to my attention that there is an extremely lucrative and profitable area of the market that has, until now, gone largely ignored and unexploited. That area is Scapegoats.
I don't know why I never saw this before. But it seems to me that there is a market out there that can be mercilessly exploited because human nature, in all its adorability, never wants to own up to its own fuck ups, and has a desperate need to push the bad karma on someone else to keep the Victim Fiction going. I foresee an agency that operates off the pimp/hooker/escort service business model:
IMF: Good afternoon, It's My Fault.
Client: Yes, I need a scapegoat this evening.
IMF: Excellent choice sir, have you used our service before?
C: No, this is my first time.
IMF: Then perhaps you should answer some questions ahead of time so that we can better cater our service to you. Would you prefer a male or a female scapegoat?
C: Male.
IMF: Would that be an articulate male, or a strong silent type?
C: Talkative. Very. Oh and contrite and guilty, I want VERY guilt-stricken.
IMF: I see. Any preferences for appearances? Stylish or fashion crime victim?
C: More of an... an artsey type, I guess. Someone that pretends to be substantial.
IMF: Yes, I think I can see where this is headed. Will this be for a single or multiple blame scenario?
C: Um... multiple. I've been saving up my issues.
IMF: Thank you sir. I think we have just the man for you. Will this be cash or credit card?
C: Is C.O.D acceptable?
IMF: Yes, it is, but should you decide to cancel your appointment less than a half-hour before commencement, there will be a penalty fee.
C: I understand, that's fine. Would 9:00 pm tonight be all right?
IMF: You're in luck sir, we had a cancellation at the White House, so I think our man will be available for you. Thank you for using It's My Fault. Have a cathartic evening.
[Later, at roughly 9:00 pm...]
C: [Answering the door] Er... come in.
Me: Hey. [Looks around, lets out low whistle of appreciation] Niiiiiice place.
C: Thanks. I have to give it up in three months. Want a drink?
Me: Yeah, thanks, gin and tonic will be fine. Why do you have to give it up?
C: [Pauses as ice tinkles into glass, the only sound in the deadly silence. He comes over and hands the glass] It's part of the divorce settlement.
Me: Oh. I'm... I'm sorry.
C: WELL YOU SHOULD BE, SHOULDN'T YOU?!? AFTER ALL, YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME, YOU TRAITOROUS FUCK...
Me: [Getting into IMF Mode] God, you're right... I'm sorry, I... I just couldn't help it. I was just so jealous of you. I... I wanted to hurt you somehow.
C: I KNEW IT! FUCK I KNEW IT! ALL THOSE PRETTY WORDS, ALL THAT SO CALLED "SUBSTANCE", ALL THAT TALK ABOUT HOW YOU UNDERSTOOD HER BETTER THAN I DID... WHO CAN LIKE "BEACHES" ANYWAY?!? IT'S A DUMB MOVIE! THIS WASN'T ABOUT HER AT ALL, WAS IT?!? THIS WAS ALL ABOUT GETTING TO ME!!
Me: Yes! Yes, I admit it! I didn't even love her! I could never love her the way you could love someone, but I felt so small and weak compared to you that I had to do something... I was so jealous of you... It was all I could do... And even though she didn't deserve your love, you gave it, and I knew I couldn't exploit your weaknesses, you don't have any, so... so...
C: You little manipulative prick... You exploited her.
Me: YEEEEEEEEES!! Yes, it's true! All of it!
C: AND THE JOB TOO?!? YOU GOT ME FIRED?!? I'VE NEVER BEEN AN INCOMPETENT OR NEGLIGENT EXECUTIVE, THAT WAS YOU TOO, WASN'T IT?!?
Me: Yes! It was! I... I forged the documents, I started the rumor mill, I worked up the others against you!
C: YOU SET THAT SECRETARY UP TO SEDUCE ME IN THE COPY ROOM, DIDN'T YOU?!?
Me: Oh God, you know about that too... I told her-
C: Him.
Me: [Blinking rapidly] It was a HE?
C: [Nods]
Me: [Shrugging]... YEEEEEEES!! I TOLD HIM TO MAKE YOU LOOK AS BAD AS POSSIBLE! I WANTED TO HURT YOU FOR BEING SO MUCH MORE SUCCESSFUL THAN ME! [Gets on knees and heaves shoulders up and down] I TOLD HIM ABOUT YOUR FONDNESS FOR SLIM-
C: Fat.
Me: -WHATEVER! BODIES, AND HOW IT WOULD DESTROY YOUR REPUTATION IN THE OFFICE AND FINALLY BRING YOU THE RUIN THAT YOU NEVER DESERVED BUT THAT I WANTED BECAUSE I WAS PETTY AND JEALOUS! IT'S TRUE, ALL OF IT! IT WAS ME, ME, MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! OH GOD I'M SORRY!
C: [Rolling up sleeves] And now I'm going to kick your sorry ass... for ruining everythi-
Me: [Standing up and getting brusque and buisness-like] Hold it.
C: [Blinking] Huh?
Me: While physical violence is included in our list of services, there's an extra charge, depending on the severity. What would you be looking at in court for something like this?
C: Um... Assault and Battery?
Me: Hm... That'll be an extra $2,000.
C: I don't have the cash on me.
Me: [Whipping out electronic wireless credit card reader] Do you have Visa or Mastercard?
C: [Pulls out Visa]
Me: [Scans and confirms] Right. Where were we? Oh yeah, NOOOOOO!!! PLEAAAAAAAAAASE!!!
C: This is sweet SWEET justice you little shit...
Me: Aigh! Argh! Oh! The pain! The pain I deserve for doing this! The- HEY! WHAT THE FUCK??!!
C: What?
Me: This is "It's My Fault", not "It's My Ass". You want that, call a gay escort service.
C: Sorry. Got a little carried away.
Me: Try not to do it in my pants, okay? I'm professional for God's sake. CHRIST...
C: Sorry. Anyway.
Me: Right. ARGH! OH HOW I DESERVE THIS! IT'S MY FAULT! IT'S ALL MY FAUUUUUUULT...
Labels: Random Blargh, Stupid Scripts
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
Random Interesting Fact Of The Day
Plutonium 242 has a half life of approximately 37, 600 years. This means that if we were to build the great wall of China out of the stuff, the Earth would have a big green, night glo snake crawling across it visible to the aliens that come to the moon after George W. Bush has bombed everything into annihilation.
Plutonium 242 has a half life of approximately 37, 600 years. This means that if we were to build the great wall of China out of the stuff, the Earth would have a big green, night glo snake crawling across it visible to the aliens that come to the moon after George W. Bush has bombed everything into annihilation.
Labels: Random Blargh
A Procrastinatin' We Will Go...
Does anyone else who writes have this problem?
You know how the story is going to end. You even know how you're going to write it. And yet when it comes down to sitting down and writing, you're lucky to get a sentence out every half hour despite the fact that it's sitting in your brain, all ready to spooge on the page.
The unicorn story is giving me that problem. Despite the fact that it's more or less "written" in my head, it's refusing to come out, like a baby that had a preview of how bad life could get and has decided to stay in the womb and is digging in with both hands, refusing to come out and get spanked, screaming "No! I don't wanna'!"
I hate these difficult children.
Whatever Happened To That Guy?
While walking around on the street today, somehow the topic of Lazarus came up. It got me to thinking, "Hey, when Jesus ressurrected that guy, did he remember to put a timer on him, or is the poor bastard condemned to eternal life?"
I pretty much see the conversation going something like this
Lazarus: You fucker. You rat fuck, son of a bitch.
Jesus: What?!?
L: You know what, don't you? Don't pretend to get all confused with me, you know exactly what I'm talking about!
J: What? No, really, what are you talking about?
L: Look, J.C., you're a nice guy. At least I thought you were, but you've really gone the absolute limit with this. What's wrong with this picture?
J: I don't know.
L: Let's start slowly. It's the end of the world, right?
J: Right.
L: And here's this big rapture thing, taking all the souls up to heaven, right?
J: Right.
L: And as promised, this is taking place thousands of years after you've been nailed, right?
J: Right.
L: So don't you think that it's just a little bit funny that I'm sitting here? Talking to you? STILL ALIVE?!?
J: [Thinks about it for a second] Oh. Ooooooh...
L: EXACTLY, YOU SANCTIMONIUS DORK! When they said you were supposed to be the son of God they failed to mention you were the slow one! YOU FORGOT TO MAKE IT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO DIE WHEN YOU BROUGHT ME BACK, YOU IDIOT!
J: But, but... I was just trying to help...
L: Help? HELP?!? Like you were trying to help the apostles?!? Do you know what happened after you kicked off? They took that whole "You will be a fisher of men" thing to the next level and opened up a gay bar! When they were martyred, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John's crucifixes spelled YMCA! Mary Magdalene started up a hair fetish brothel! AND I'VE PAID ALIMONY TO 638 WIVES! Do you have any idea what it's like to be told "You've got cancer," and realize you'll have to live with that lump under your armpit FOREVER?!? And how, HOW, I ask you, was it "helping" me when my own relatives put out a bounty on my head to get at my will, a bounty that has persisted for TWELVE GENERATIONS. Every time I visit my relatives I have to bring a mine detector and kevlar vest! YOUUUUUUU SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!
Does anyone else who writes have this problem?
You know how the story is going to end. You even know how you're going to write it. And yet when it comes down to sitting down and writing, you're lucky to get a sentence out every half hour despite the fact that it's sitting in your brain, all ready to spooge on the page.
The unicorn story is giving me that problem. Despite the fact that it's more or less "written" in my head, it's refusing to come out, like a baby that had a preview of how bad life could get and has decided to stay in the womb and is digging in with both hands, refusing to come out and get spanked, screaming "No! I don't wanna'!"
I hate these difficult children.
Whatever Happened To That Guy?
While walking around on the street today, somehow the topic of Lazarus came up. It got me to thinking, "Hey, when Jesus ressurrected that guy, did he remember to put a timer on him, or is the poor bastard condemned to eternal life?"
I pretty much see the conversation going something like this
Lazarus: You fucker. You rat fuck, son of a bitch.
Jesus: What?!?
L: You know what, don't you? Don't pretend to get all confused with me, you know exactly what I'm talking about!
J: What? No, really, what are you talking about?
L: Look, J.C., you're a nice guy. At least I thought you were, but you've really gone the absolute limit with this. What's wrong with this picture?
J: I don't know.
L: Let's start slowly. It's the end of the world, right?
J: Right.
L: And here's this big rapture thing, taking all the souls up to heaven, right?
J: Right.
L: And as promised, this is taking place thousands of years after you've been nailed, right?
J: Right.
L: So don't you think that it's just a little bit funny that I'm sitting here? Talking to you? STILL ALIVE?!?
J: [Thinks about it for a second] Oh. Ooooooh...
L: EXACTLY, YOU SANCTIMONIUS DORK! When they said you were supposed to be the son of God they failed to mention you were the slow one! YOU FORGOT TO MAKE IT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO DIE WHEN YOU BROUGHT ME BACK, YOU IDIOT!
J: But, but... I was just trying to help...
L: Help? HELP?!? Like you were trying to help the apostles?!? Do you know what happened after you kicked off? They took that whole "You will be a fisher of men" thing to the next level and opened up a gay bar! When they were martyred, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John's crucifixes spelled YMCA! Mary Magdalene started up a hair fetish brothel! AND I'VE PAID ALIMONY TO 638 WIVES! Do you have any idea what it's like to be told "You've got cancer," and realize you'll have to live with that lump under your armpit FOREVER?!? And how, HOW, I ask you, was it "helping" me when my own relatives put out a bounty on my head to get at my will, a bounty that has persisted for TWELVE GENERATIONS. Every time I visit my relatives I have to bring a mine detector and kevlar vest! YOUUUUUUU SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!
Labels: Stupid Scripts, Writing
My Life Is More Boring Than Your Grandma's Power Knitting Sessions
This is inevitable. Once you actually settle down and start doing actual work, interesting, witty, insightful things/events/people rarely enter into your sphere of influence. And this is one of those points. Mostly I'm just writing. A couple of freelance jobs have cropped up which will help with some bills, but still probably won't adequately pay the rent, which means that karmically, the rock on the ring for the girlfriend just keeps getting bigger and bigger. I am painfully aware of this, but it's a small price to pay in the long run, I think.
End, Damn You!
The unicorn story (Which, as usual, has a sucky title, God, I'm hopeless...) is at long last nearing completion, and is about 30 pages bigger than I had initially estimated, which always seems to be the way it goes with me. It's being one of those difficult children. You know the kind; on the one hand, it constantly misbehaves, doesn't necessarily do what you ask it to, and you suspect that it might have a case of attention deficit, or slight mental retardation. But in the end, it just might surprise you as it proves to be autistic and excelling at music or math or something.
This story is one of those ones which is taking much longer to write than what I'm used to, and when I go back and read previous passages, depending on my mood on any given day, sometimes I don't like them, and sometimes I think they're pretty cool, which is why I'm scared to touch them as usually I only operate on my editorial instincts when they're sound. On these rare occasions where even my own brain can't make up its mind about whether it likes the writing or not, I just wait and see. The usual response is that people like or dislike things that I didn't even see, so this is probably shaping up to be another one those stories that might not be a particular favorite for me, but that seems to strike a chord with other people. I don't get it, but then why should I? I just wrote the damn thing, I don't have to read it...
She Ain't Lesbian But She Likes Little Girls
Since the Open Space anthology people are asking me to submit another story, I'm giving myself a deadline of about a month to see if I can crank out my next short story, one based around Jen and her attempt to track down a serial killer who goes after children. I won't go into too much detail, because I'm sure at some point I'm going to be ramming this down people's throats, but I'm torn right now between having this story take place when Jen was still hanging around with Frank & Michael in university, or during her "lone ranger" years when Frank & Michael had already gone to Singapore. Part of my head keeps telling me I might be trying to cram in too much "cool continuity" with the other stories by linking it in with Frank & Michael. The other part of my head, irrational writer part that does things 'cause The Muse Says So, keeps insisting that whether I intend it or not, Michael is going to be going along for a ride, because every Buffy needs a Xander, and Michael is it for Jen. And besides, Michael just wants to go along anyway, so if I throw the party without him, he'll just gate crash.
Anyone who says the neat thing about writing is the total control you have over your characters' lives has never tried writing with pig headed characters who do what they please.
There Is No Spoon. There Is No Plot Either...
I was initially really, REALLY looking forward to the Animatrix series as an ubercool presentation of the ubercool backstory behind the Matrix, but after watching the first episode, Second Renaissance, Part 1, I'm beginning to scale back my hopes and settling for ubercool anime.
The biggest problem I have with this story is the presentation of the story itself. I'm not sure how much of that is the fault of the Brothers Wachowski (Who wrote it) or the director (The guy that did Blue Submarine 6) but I'm taking serious issue with the way this story is being told.
On the surface the premise of this first animatrix episode is pretty cool; a historical document, ostensibly pulled from the Zion archives detailing the genesis of the Machine War that brought humanity to the battery-supply state it is in The Matrix. But the anime itself is trying too hard to push a message or be "political" with its liberal use of iconic images from religion and historical moments of oppression. The plot is that humans have no respect for the machine workers, and that gradually, as AI grows more sophisticated, the machines begin to resent the lack of respect and one day, a machine, BR-166-ER rose up against its human owners and killed them when they wanted to shut it down, citing its actions as self-defense and having the same basic survival prerogative that any sentient creature has. From there, riots begin, humans join the cause for protection of sentients, and the machines are forced to retreat to Africa, where they form a nation known as "01", and begin to slowly take over the market with their incredible advances, eventually ruling the stock market and devaluing the currencies of the human nations. The story ends with the application of 01's entry in the United Nations being rejected, and I think we can all guess where it goes from there in Ep.2.
But it's those entirely too self-consciousness images that bug me. For instance, all the machine laborers are built as humanoid. You have these Fritz Lang Metropolis-esque moments with legions of robots marching off to work. You have INCREDIBLY archaic looking images of scores of robots using cables to pull up bricks to construct a pyramid, and don't tell me that there's no similarity there to the Egyptians and Hebrews. Then when the robot rebellion begins, there is a Tianemen Square style shot of a robot protesting in front of a huge tank that gets run over. There's even the aping of the famous Vietnam photo where a robot with its hands tied up has a gun put to its head and gets shot. Shots of piles of robot bodies being dumped into a ditch, a la the Nazi holocaust. Even a "gang rape" sequence where a robot in human skin, like a terminator, has her skin ripped off by a bunch of guys and is tossed to the ground before she's decimated. And towards the end, when the pair of 01 ambassadors is pleading their case with the U.N., they are a male and female robot, holding hands, with the female robot holding an apple in her hand, some kind of pseudo-Adam & Eve reference.
First, it bugs me that if we were to make machines, we'd make them human shaped and have them build pyramids the way we had to 6,000 years ago, instead of building them like sentient power lifters and cranes, which would make more sense, one incredibly powerful machine that could independently life huge blocks of steel and masonry, as opposed to thousands of small ones that have to tow a block up a slope with glorified ropes just seems more logical to me.
Second, I guess I think that the Brothers Wachowski may be taking themselves too seriously. What I liked about The Matrix was that it was essentially a comic book ride, fun and adrenaline pumping that had some "serious" elements in it, usually just quick references to actual philosophical texts (Like Neo storing his pirate software in a copy of Baudrillard's Simulacra & Simulation) or just broaching on the topics of what is real and all that stuff. I liked that approach in that they seemed to realize they were doing glossy SF/Chop-socky/wire-fu that was supposed to be fun, BUT, they laced it in with some actual thinking here and there that would compel the curious to go off and do more homework. It was kind of like lacing popcorn with a little bit of smart drug.
With this first episode though, they seem to be really pushing the whole "Folly Of Man" thing by making humans out to be these totally paranoid, fearful types with no tolerance whatsoever. It's very skewed so that the machines are always reasonable people that try to present rational, peaceful solutions that man irrationally rejects and responds to with violence, so that we'll feel the machines are completely justified in retaliating, just that they took it too far. Suddenly the fun stuff is taking a back seat and some kind of pseudo-political agenda is being pushed, and that bugs me, because it's overt and not subtle at all. The Matrix asked questions, and then left it up to you to find answers if you wanted. Here, we've got a definite message being shoved down our throats, and it's done pretty bluntly, with little room for debate.
*Sigh*...
I guess they can't all be winners... Still I was hoping that since this was coming from the brothers themselves, they'd stick to the winning formula as opposed to getting all preachy and ethical...
This is inevitable. Once you actually settle down and start doing actual work, interesting, witty, insightful things/events/people rarely enter into your sphere of influence. And this is one of those points. Mostly I'm just writing. A couple of freelance jobs have cropped up which will help with some bills, but still probably won't adequately pay the rent, which means that karmically, the rock on the ring for the girlfriend just keeps getting bigger and bigger. I am painfully aware of this, but it's a small price to pay in the long run, I think.
End, Damn You!
The unicorn story (Which, as usual, has a sucky title, God, I'm hopeless...) is at long last nearing completion, and is about 30 pages bigger than I had initially estimated, which always seems to be the way it goes with me. It's being one of those difficult children. You know the kind; on the one hand, it constantly misbehaves, doesn't necessarily do what you ask it to, and you suspect that it might have a case of attention deficit, or slight mental retardation. But in the end, it just might surprise you as it proves to be autistic and excelling at music or math or something.
This story is one of those ones which is taking much longer to write than what I'm used to, and when I go back and read previous passages, depending on my mood on any given day, sometimes I don't like them, and sometimes I think they're pretty cool, which is why I'm scared to touch them as usually I only operate on my editorial instincts when they're sound. On these rare occasions where even my own brain can't make up its mind about whether it likes the writing or not, I just wait and see. The usual response is that people like or dislike things that I didn't even see, so this is probably shaping up to be another one those stories that might not be a particular favorite for me, but that seems to strike a chord with other people. I don't get it, but then why should I? I just wrote the damn thing, I don't have to read it...
She Ain't Lesbian But She Likes Little Girls
Since the Open Space anthology people are asking me to submit another story, I'm giving myself a deadline of about a month to see if I can crank out my next short story, one based around Jen and her attempt to track down a serial killer who goes after children. I won't go into too much detail, because I'm sure at some point I'm going to be ramming this down people's throats, but I'm torn right now between having this story take place when Jen was still hanging around with Frank & Michael in university, or during her "lone ranger" years when Frank & Michael had already gone to Singapore. Part of my head keeps telling me I might be trying to cram in too much "cool continuity" with the other stories by linking it in with Frank & Michael. The other part of my head, irrational writer part that does things 'cause The Muse Says So, keeps insisting that whether I intend it or not, Michael is going to be going along for a ride, because every Buffy needs a Xander, and Michael is it for Jen. And besides, Michael just wants to go along anyway, so if I throw the party without him, he'll just gate crash.
Anyone who says the neat thing about writing is the total control you have over your characters' lives has never tried writing with pig headed characters who do what they please.
There Is No Spoon. There Is No Plot Either...
I was initially really, REALLY looking forward to the Animatrix series as an ubercool presentation of the ubercool backstory behind the Matrix, but after watching the first episode, Second Renaissance, Part 1, I'm beginning to scale back my hopes and settling for ubercool anime.
The biggest problem I have with this story is the presentation of the story itself. I'm not sure how much of that is the fault of the Brothers Wachowski (Who wrote it) or the director (The guy that did Blue Submarine 6) but I'm taking serious issue with the way this story is being told.
On the surface the premise of this first animatrix episode is pretty cool; a historical document, ostensibly pulled from the Zion archives detailing the genesis of the Machine War that brought humanity to the battery-supply state it is in The Matrix. But the anime itself is trying too hard to push a message or be "political" with its liberal use of iconic images from religion and historical moments of oppression. The plot is that humans have no respect for the machine workers, and that gradually, as AI grows more sophisticated, the machines begin to resent the lack of respect and one day, a machine, BR-166-ER rose up against its human owners and killed them when they wanted to shut it down, citing its actions as self-defense and having the same basic survival prerogative that any sentient creature has. From there, riots begin, humans join the cause for protection of sentients, and the machines are forced to retreat to Africa, where they form a nation known as "01", and begin to slowly take over the market with their incredible advances, eventually ruling the stock market and devaluing the currencies of the human nations. The story ends with the application of 01's entry in the United Nations being rejected, and I think we can all guess where it goes from there in Ep.2.
But it's those entirely too self-consciousness images that bug me. For instance, all the machine laborers are built as humanoid. You have these Fritz Lang Metropolis-esque moments with legions of robots marching off to work. You have INCREDIBLY archaic looking images of scores of robots using cables to pull up bricks to construct a pyramid, and don't tell me that there's no similarity there to the Egyptians and Hebrews. Then when the robot rebellion begins, there is a Tianemen Square style shot of a robot protesting in front of a huge tank that gets run over. There's even the aping of the famous Vietnam photo where a robot with its hands tied up has a gun put to its head and gets shot. Shots of piles of robot bodies being dumped into a ditch, a la the Nazi holocaust. Even a "gang rape" sequence where a robot in human skin, like a terminator, has her skin ripped off by a bunch of guys and is tossed to the ground before she's decimated. And towards the end, when the pair of 01 ambassadors is pleading their case with the U.N., they are a male and female robot, holding hands, with the female robot holding an apple in her hand, some kind of pseudo-Adam & Eve reference.
First, it bugs me that if we were to make machines, we'd make them human shaped and have them build pyramids the way we had to 6,000 years ago, instead of building them like sentient power lifters and cranes, which would make more sense, one incredibly powerful machine that could independently life huge blocks of steel and masonry, as opposed to thousands of small ones that have to tow a block up a slope with glorified ropes just seems more logical to me.
Second, I guess I think that the Brothers Wachowski may be taking themselves too seriously. What I liked about The Matrix was that it was essentially a comic book ride, fun and adrenaline pumping that had some "serious" elements in it, usually just quick references to actual philosophical texts (Like Neo storing his pirate software in a copy of Baudrillard's Simulacra & Simulation) or just broaching on the topics of what is real and all that stuff. I liked that approach in that they seemed to realize they were doing glossy SF/Chop-socky/wire-fu that was supposed to be fun, BUT, they laced it in with some actual thinking here and there that would compel the curious to go off and do more homework. It was kind of like lacing popcorn with a little bit of smart drug.
With this first episode though, they seem to be really pushing the whole "Folly Of Man" thing by making humans out to be these totally paranoid, fearful types with no tolerance whatsoever. It's very skewed so that the machines are always reasonable people that try to present rational, peaceful solutions that man irrationally rejects and responds to with violence, so that we'll feel the machines are completely justified in retaliating, just that they took it too far. Suddenly the fun stuff is taking a back seat and some kind of pseudo-political agenda is being pushed, and that bugs me, because it's overt and not subtle at all. The Matrix asked questions, and then left it up to you to find answers if you wanted. Here, we've got a definite message being shoved down our throats, and it's done pretty bluntly, with little room for debate.
*Sigh*...
I guess they can't all be winners... Still I was hoping that since this was coming from the brothers themselves, they'd stick to the winning formula as opposed to getting all preachy and ethical...
Saturday, February 08, 2003
Vice City Is My Bitch
Yep, after neglecting the girlfriend for days on end running guns, running drugs, running people over, Vice City is at long last my town. Once again, my obsessive compulsive gaming disorder just wouldn't let me walk away from the game without getting 100% completion, an act of supreme tediousness, but with large, LARGE payoffs, like the AH-64 attack helicopter, or the Rhino tank. It was a good game. One of the best I've played in years. I get on my knees and worship at Rockstar's feet, for a game like this shall not soon grace a console again.
Which means that it's time to start working on other things.
No, not games.
There's the question of employment. I suppose I'll have to schmooze off friends (Are you reading this, people?) or troll through the magazines once more and churn out turgid reviews for Cleo and Her World. Sigh... it's a living, I suppose.
Me: So, tell me why you prefer to have your armpits unshaven.
Militant Lesbian: IT'S A STATEMENT AGAINST THE FASCIST, PATRIARCHAL REPRESSION FOISTED UPON US BY THE GENETIC DEFECT KNOWN AS MAN!!
Me: Couldn't get a date for the highschool prom, huh?
ML: FUCK OFF!
This sort of thing will never appear in my author's bio.
And of course, there's the ACTUAL writing.
The third novel Suzy & The Shifters (Originally the first novel was going to be titled that, but then my agent and the publisher both had misgivings, as they felt it sounded like a cheesy 50's band and I said, "YEAH! COOL ISN'T IT?!?" And they began to seriously question my credibility, thus we have Shift for novel one. Suzy & The Shifters works better as an anthology title anyway, since it is about Suzy and her various shifter friends) is still waiting for completion. I'm in no big hurry, because novels one and two have yet to see the light of day, but I'm pretty sure it'll come to pass eventually, and I can stop being an obnoxious, pretentious wannabe novelist and be a pretentious, obnoxious novelist. The Suzy unicorn short story is nearly done. The Jen serial killer story has more or less written itself in my head. The Canadian Anthology open spaces has rejected my Suzy story, but they said they liked the way I write, so they're breaking their own rules and asking for a third submission, since the submission date has been extended to April. Since they liked Jen so much, I guess I'll just crank out the Jen serial killer story (SOMEONE! HELP ME! I SUCK AT TITLES!) and give them that. In other writerly news, Flashquake.com, the website that publishes stories of 1,000 words or less, has told me that they're considering Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner and to sit tight for the final result. Anyone who hasn't read it, just e-mail me and I'll send you a file, since I think I'd get in trouble with them AND my agent if I start posting stories here.
Ah, and then there's Nowhere...
This is going to be fun. The first issue is nearly done. I have to wait for the girlfriend to finish up her four issue mini-series with an American Indy comics company, but once that's done, she'll pencil issue one, possibly do the cover, and then we'll shop it around to the various publishers and see if there's any interest. I sure hope this doesn't turn into one of those things where the comic comes out before the novels do. Then EVERYONE would accuse me of pulling a Gaiman to a ridiculous degree. I think it'll be a fun title. We've got two Elf brothers, one a super-cool assassin type by the name of Fenoril, and his younger sibling Judas, who is sarcastic, video-game and geek-movie obsessed spellcaster (Remind you of anyone you know? Of cooooooourse nooooot...) who's ultimate battle cry when conjuring up fireballs is either "SO THERE!" or "Shooooryuken!"
Then there's the popculture junkie/amazon Cheryl, who learned everything about the world of man through cable television (When she gets angry, she screams "Kaneeeeedaaaaaaaa!!") and C, the vampire chick who prefers taking her blood in ice, 7-11 style with the paper cup and protective plastic lid on top, straw included. I think it's going to be utterly deranged since we already deranged Scottish bands with songs like The Bitch From Ipanema (Opening lines, "Tall and tanned and young and lovely, that BITCH from Ipanema she dumped me, and when she told me we're done, I went and screamed Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!") the infamous One Dollar Man, a deranged Chinese merchant ("I sell you good gun! One dollar only! No find gun like this for one dollar, but you, I sell you, one dollar! Buy gun, stupid white man, I sell cheap!") and Spanky the Ouija Monkey ("Spank me or I'll kill you."). Oh and a clone of Jesus running around, hooking up with frat parties and break dancing on the pool or cheating at chugging contests by changing the beer to water as he drinks it.
"Chug, chug, chug! Jeeesus! Jeeesus! Jeeesus! GO!"
The arc of the story has more or less been figured out. In a perfect world, we'd tell the entire story in about 100 issues or so, with three major arcs. We'll see whether we can make this happen or not.
Oh well... anybody looking for freelance work?
Yep, after neglecting the girlfriend for days on end running guns, running drugs, running people over, Vice City is at long last my town. Once again, my obsessive compulsive gaming disorder just wouldn't let me walk away from the game without getting 100% completion, an act of supreme tediousness, but with large, LARGE payoffs, like the AH-64 attack helicopter, or the Rhino tank. It was a good game. One of the best I've played in years. I get on my knees and worship at Rockstar's feet, for a game like this shall not soon grace a console again.
Which means that it's time to start working on other things.
No, not games.
There's the question of employment. I suppose I'll have to schmooze off friends (Are you reading this, people?) or troll through the magazines once more and churn out turgid reviews for Cleo and Her World. Sigh... it's a living, I suppose.
Me: So, tell me why you prefer to have your armpits unshaven.
Militant Lesbian: IT'S A STATEMENT AGAINST THE FASCIST, PATRIARCHAL REPRESSION FOISTED UPON US BY THE GENETIC DEFECT KNOWN AS MAN!!
Me: Couldn't get a date for the highschool prom, huh?
ML: FUCK OFF!
This sort of thing will never appear in my author's bio.
And of course, there's the ACTUAL writing.
The third novel Suzy & The Shifters (Originally the first novel was going to be titled that, but then my agent and the publisher both had misgivings, as they felt it sounded like a cheesy 50's band and I said, "YEAH! COOL ISN'T IT?!?" And they began to seriously question my credibility, thus we have Shift for novel one. Suzy & The Shifters works better as an anthology title anyway, since it is about Suzy and her various shifter friends) is still waiting for completion. I'm in no big hurry, because novels one and two have yet to see the light of day, but I'm pretty sure it'll come to pass eventually, and I can stop being an obnoxious, pretentious wannabe novelist and be a pretentious, obnoxious novelist. The Suzy unicorn short story is nearly done. The Jen serial killer story has more or less written itself in my head. The Canadian Anthology open spaces has rejected my Suzy story, but they said they liked the way I write, so they're breaking their own rules and asking for a third submission, since the submission date has been extended to April. Since they liked Jen so much, I guess I'll just crank out the Jen serial killer story (SOMEONE! HELP ME! I SUCK AT TITLES!) and give them that. In other writerly news, Flashquake.com, the website that publishes stories of 1,000 words or less, has told me that they're considering Famine & Pestilence Go To Dinner and to sit tight for the final result. Anyone who hasn't read it, just e-mail me and I'll send you a file, since I think I'd get in trouble with them AND my agent if I start posting stories here.
Ah, and then there's Nowhere...
This is going to be fun. The first issue is nearly done. I have to wait for the girlfriend to finish up her four issue mini-series with an American Indy comics company, but once that's done, she'll pencil issue one, possibly do the cover, and then we'll shop it around to the various publishers and see if there's any interest. I sure hope this doesn't turn into one of those things where the comic comes out before the novels do. Then EVERYONE would accuse me of pulling a Gaiman to a ridiculous degree. I think it'll be a fun title. We've got two Elf brothers, one a super-cool assassin type by the name of Fenoril, and his younger sibling Judas, who is sarcastic, video-game and geek-movie obsessed spellcaster (Remind you of anyone you know? Of cooooooourse nooooot...) who's ultimate battle cry when conjuring up fireballs is either "SO THERE!" or "Shooooryuken!"
Then there's the popculture junkie/amazon Cheryl, who learned everything about the world of man through cable television (When she gets angry, she screams "Kaneeeeedaaaaaaaa!!") and C, the vampire chick who prefers taking her blood in ice, 7-11 style with the paper cup and protective plastic lid on top, straw included. I think it's going to be utterly deranged since we already deranged Scottish bands with songs like The Bitch From Ipanema (Opening lines, "Tall and tanned and young and lovely, that BITCH from Ipanema she dumped me, and when she told me we're done, I went and screamed Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!") the infamous One Dollar Man, a deranged Chinese merchant ("I sell you good gun! One dollar only! No find gun like this for one dollar, but you, I sell you, one dollar! Buy gun, stupid white man, I sell cheap!") and Spanky the Ouija Monkey ("Spank me or I'll kill you."). Oh and a clone of Jesus running around, hooking up with frat parties and break dancing on the pool or cheating at chugging contests by changing the beer to water as he drinks it.
"Chug, chug, chug! Jeeesus! Jeeesus! Jeeesus! GO!"
The arc of the story has more or less been figured out. In a perfect world, we'd tell the entire story in about 100 issues or so, with three major arcs. We'll see whether we can make this happen or not.
Oh well... anybody looking for freelance work?
Labels: Comics, Creating Comics, Games, My Life, Nowhere, Stupid Scripts, Writing
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
I Know What I Wanna' Do When I Grow Up:
Work for Rockstar Games. They have the FUNNIEST radio commercials I have ever heard in my life. They're comedy geniuses...
I love GTA: Vice City. I really, REALLY do. Particularly now that I don't experience system crashes and game freezes anymore. The scope of this game amazes me. And the fact that I can gun people from a helicopter then jump out of it, run into the offending house with colt python and start shooting survivors just adds to the coolness. Hey, they're drug dealers, so it's all good...
Still stuck in gaming mode, though I see the end sometime within the next 50 or so hours. Currently trying to put out fires. Yes, you jack a firetruck then run around dousing out flaming cars. Unfortunately, just when you do that, flaming people come out, and then you have to douse them too.
This wouldn't be such a problem if they did the Buddhist monk thing and quietly burned in front of you so you could line up the firehose and nail them with it. Noooo... they have to run away from you screaming "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!" and you have to chase them down the street and try not to run them over. This is harder than it seems.
Oh yeah, yesterday morning while munching on a McRatlands breakfast, a rat fell from the sky. It was the most amazing thing; I think a bird just decided it didn't taste so good or something but the damn thing just hit the pavement not more than a few feet away, and I think it had already been partially eaten. Mother nature is cruel indeed, but not quite as cruel as a rocket launcher aimed at the middle of a night club dance floor with your motorcycle already warmed up for the big getaway afterwards...
Work for Rockstar Games. They have the FUNNIEST radio commercials I have ever heard in my life. They're comedy geniuses...
I love GTA: Vice City. I really, REALLY do. Particularly now that I don't experience system crashes and game freezes anymore. The scope of this game amazes me. And the fact that I can gun people from a helicopter then jump out of it, run into the offending house with colt python and start shooting survivors just adds to the coolness. Hey, they're drug dealers, so it's all good...
Still stuck in gaming mode, though I see the end sometime within the next 50 or so hours. Currently trying to put out fires. Yes, you jack a firetruck then run around dousing out flaming cars. Unfortunately, just when you do that, flaming people come out, and then you have to douse them too.
This wouldn't be such a problem if they did the Buddhist monk thing and quietly burned in front of you so you could line up the firehose and nail them with it. Noooo... they have to run away from you screaming "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!" and you have to chase them down the street and try not to run them over. This is harder than it seems.
Oh yeah, yesterday morning while munching on a McRatlands breakfast, a rat fell from the sky. It was the most amazing thing; I think a bird just decided it didn't taste so good or something but the damn thing just hit the pavement not more than a few feet away, and I think it had already been partially eaten. Mother nature is cruel indeed, but not quite as cruel as a rocket launcher aimed at the middle of a night club dance floor with your motorcycle already warmed up for the big getaway afterwards...
Saturday, February 01, 2003
Dear God, Stop Me From Killing Again! Naah, It's Too Much Fun...
Grand Theft Auto III finally bit the dust earlier today.
Grand Theft Auto: Vice City begins, and it is already exponentially cooler in one major way:
THE EIGHTIES!
It's like being trapped in a psychotic version of Miami Vice, oh my GOD, I love this game so much... The nostalgia trip alone of hearing "Billie Jean" and "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night" on a virtual radio with a DJ intro and everything was enough to make me drive the car to side of the road and listen in a fit of nostalgic apoplexy...
It's all there, man! The neon, the pastel colors, the tasteless clothes, I feel like I'm 12 again except now I can shoot and run over the people who were so much cooler than me. AND I can now say they look like dorks and people actually agree with me! WOW! VIDEO-GAMES ARE A MIRACLE! A MIRACLE!!
This is so rad. This is totally awesome! Only a nimrod would, like, say this is grody, and if a nimrod says something is totally grody, it's like, gag me with a spoon fer sure, what do they know? They're nimrods to the max...
Must return... Hookers in dire need of fatal beatings...
Grand Theft Auto III finally bit the dust earlier today.
Grand Theft Auto: Vice City begins, and it is already exponentially cooler in one major way:
THE EIGHTIES!
It's like being trapped in a psychotic version of Miami Vice, oh my GOD, I love this game so much... The nostalgia trip alone of hearing "Billie Jean" and "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night" on a virtual radio with a DJ intro and everything was enough to make me drive the car to side of the road and listen in a fit of nostalgic apoplexy...
It's all there, man! The neon, the pastel colors, the tasteless clothes, I feel like I'm 12 again except now I can shoot and run over the people who were so much cooler than me. AND I can now say they look like dorks and people actually agree with me! WOW! VIDEO-GAMES ARE A MIRACLE! A MIRACLE!!
This is so rad. This is totally awesome! Only a nimrod would, like, say this is grody, and if a nimrod says something is totally grody, it's like, gag me with a spoon fer sure, what do they know? They're nimrods to the max...
Must return... Hookers in dire need of fatal beatings...
Labels: Games
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