If you are Norwegian, speak Norwegian, understand Norwegian or suffer from a serious and uncurable delusion that makes you think you can read Norwegian when in fact you can't, direct your hungry gaze over at my new blog. A passing interest in electronical videogames would also be helpful, though hopefully not required. And if you don't (speak Norwegian, that is), there's always a chance that my newfound interest in actually blogging for a change might benefit this here thing as well, so stop crying.
Oh, and did I mention it's in Norwegian?
September 04, 2010
November 21, 2009
If they move, shoot 'em
So there's been some controversy around the latest installment in the Call of Duty franchise, Modern Warfare 2. Maybe you've heard about it. The developers decided to include a scene in which you have the choice to massacre a shitload of civilians in an airport. Yeah. I don't really have anything to say about that. Well, not yet, anyway. Maybe someday, when I've actually played the thing. Until then, Kieron Gillen over at RockPaperShotgun has weighed the scene and found it lighter than a feather. It's a great, if somewhat rambling, analysis, filled with justified rage (the best kind). Obviously both links are dipped in spoilers, so if you care about that sort of thing, stay your mouse-clicking. I think it's safe to say that the plot of MW2 is grade-A bullshit though, so it probably doesn't matter much.
A violent game I have played, however, got a sequel a few weeks back. Maybe you've heard about this one too? It's called Uncharted: Drake's Fortune, and the only controversy surrounding it was of the console war kind (it's a PS3 exclusive. If you don't know why that makes it controversial, I envy you more than you'll ever know). The main character, the one you're controlling, is one Nathan Drake, dashing adventurer, charming thief, and sociopathic mass-murderer. That last part, however, isn't very clear until you start to think about what you're actually doing when you play him. Sure, this isn't the first game where you mow down seemingly endless amounts of enemies without if affecting as much as your haircut, in fact, if you play videogames once in a while you're probably used to it. After all, aren't games supposed to make stuff like murder and dismemberment fun? Isn't that the point of interactive entertaiment? What on earth would you do in a game, if you couldn't shoot shit to bloody pieces? Then it'd just be an interactive cutscene! A full-on QTE-fest! Oh no, the gayness!
..sorry, I'll stop that now. Anyway, sure, Indy shot some people in his day, no remorse needed, so why can't Drake? Let's look at some obvious differences between the original and the cardboard copy. First of all, Drake is a fucking cardboard copy, in case you just missed that sentence. He's as bland as heroes get, basically. He inhabits a bland (although pretty) world, has bland sidekicks, fights bland villains. Bland bland bland bland. He's a flat and boring character, he has the same dry, ironic, pretend world-weariness that all of these adventurers have had since the Last Crusade. Sure, some of his quips are funny, but they were more funny the first time you heard them, which was somewhere else, long ago. Second, and this is really just a follow-up to the first, Uncharted is badly written, and the violence doesn't fit with the (bland) story. Some silly South American gangleader has a bazillion goons who love nothing more than showering in gunfire? Really? Which, coincidentally, brings us to bullet-point number three: Indy may be a killer, but he's not a one-man slaughterhouse. In Uncharted you snuff out the precious life force of literally thousands of people, and Drakes rection is a weary sigh and dry comments along the lines of "oh dear, all this killing is making me sleepy". The whole thing is just downright silly. It doesn't so much break immersion as blow it to dust, vacuuming it up and emptying the bag into the Atlantic Ocean.
The thing is, this is videogame convention. Gamers are used to killing tons of dudes, it's just something we accept as part of the game. If we're to judge games on content, as opposed to mechanics, most simply fall short. Fallout 3 falls short. FarCry 2 falls short. BioShock, bless it, fucks up the atmosphere completely by having every resident of Rapture psychotically attack you on sight. The most common solution, of course, is simply filling your action game with monsters, demons, or robots, or setting the game in some sort of war. It works, but god damn it all, games are capable of more.
All of that said, Uncharted: Drake's Fortune is one hell of an entertaining game. The combat mechanics are excellent, taking cover and popping some desperate shots at the ethnic diversity is exciting, and doesn't get old. But this doesn't make it a good game. It simply makes it a fun one.
A violent game I have played, however, got a sequel a few weeks back. Maybe you've heard about this one too? It's called Uncharted: Drake's Fortune, and the only controversy surrounding it was of the console war kind (it's a PS3 exclusive. If you don't know why that makes it controversial, I envy you more than you'll ever know). The main character, the one you're controlling, is one Nathan Drake, dashing adventurer, charming thief, and sociopathic mass-murderer. That last part, however, isn't very clear until you start to think about what you're actually doing when you play him. Sure, this isn't the first game where you mow down seemingly endless amounts of enemies without if affecting as much as your haircut, in fact, if you play videogames once in a while you're probably used to it. After all, aren't games supposed to make stuff like murder and dismemberment fun? Isn't that the point of interactive entertaiment? What on earth would you do in a game, if you couldn't shoot shit to bloody pieces? Then it'd just be an interactive cutscene! A full-on QTE-fest! Oh no, the gayness!
..sorry, I'll stop that now. Anyway, sure, Indy shot some people in his day, no remorse needed, so why can't Drake? Let's look at some obvious differences between the original and the cardboard copy. First of all, Drake is a fucking cardboard copy, in case you just missed that sentence. He's as bland as heroes get, basically. He inhabits a bland (although pretty) world, has bland sidekicks, fights bland villains. Bland bland bland bland. He's a flat and boring character, he has the same dry, ironic, pretend world-weariness that all of these adventurers have had since the Last Crusade. Sure, some of his quips are funny, but they were more funny the first time you heard them, which was somewhere else, long ago. Second, and this is really just a follow-up to the first, Uncharted is badly written, and the violence doesn't fit with the (bland) story. Some silly South American gangleader has a bazillion goons who love nothing more than showering in gunfire? Really? Which, coincidentally, brings us to bullet-point number three: Indy may be a killer, but he's not a one-man slaughterhouse. In Uncharted you snuff out the precious life force of literally thousands of people, and Drakes rection is a weary sigh and dry comments along the lines of "oh dear, all this killing is making me sleepy". The whole thing is just downright silly. It doesn't so much break immersion as blow it to dust, vacuuming it up and emptying the bag into the Atlantic Ocean.
The thing is, this is videogame convention. Gamers are used to killing tons of dudes, it's just something we accept as part of the game. If we're to judge games on content, as opposed to mechanics, most simply fall short. Fallout 3 falls short. FarCry 2 falls short. BioShock, bless it, fucks up the atmosphere completely by having every resident of Rapture psychotically attack you on sight. The most common solution, of course, is simply filling your action game with monsters, demons, or robots, or setting the game in some sort of war. It works, but god damn it all, games are capable of more.
All of that said, Uncharted: Drake's Fortune is one hell of an entertaining game. The combat mechanics are excellent, taking cover and popping some desperate shots at the ethnic diversity is exciting, and doesn't get old. But this doesn't make it a good game. It simply makes it a fun one.
November 14, 2009
Post in which I ponder the strange and inescapable mysteries of space/time and arrives at a shocking conclusion
Please forgive me for drawing your attention to an article in the Daily Mirror, about the actor playing Harry Potter possibly smoking a joint. "Harry Pothead", beams the Mirror, impossibly proud of itself. "The philosopher's stoned" it continues, while smirking contently at its own cleverness. Yes, those hilarious boys and girls at Britains most revered newspaper surely knows their way arund the words, don't they? I will use this occasion to direct you to a previous post I made on another Potter subject, using the same highly original pun for no apparent contextual reason. Obviously I was the first person in the world to ever think of this, and should sue the internet. Anyway, that post, rather bizarrely, segues into a short but concise analysis of the use of torture in 24. Why bizarrely? Because I am now (not so) hard at work writing a student paper on that same subject.
What is that sound? Could it be the very fabric of my sanity has started tearing? Or is it simply time and space reconfiguring itself around bad puns and violence?
More on delicious torture soon, I suspect. Must prioritise exams over blog.
What is that sound? Could it be the very fabric of my sanity has started tearing? Or is it simply time and space reconfiguring itself around bad puns and violence?
More on delicious torture soon, I suspect. Must prioritise exams over blog.
July 24, 2009
Pretty Offensive
Pretty Woman offends me on so many levels. It offends me as a misogynist, it offends me as a feminist, I even find it offensive that I thought it was funny and mostly enjoyable. Actually, that last part really pisses me off. I wanted to hate that movie so bad, but how could I? It's Hollywood at it's slickest and most manipulative, and by god, they're good at what they do. So now you're thinking, okay, you enjoyed it (you fucking faggot), then what's there to complain about?
I'll tell you what there's to fucking complain about.
It's a shameless fantasy for women, like a female Star Wars or Die Hard. That's not really a bad thing in itself, but it makes absolutely no effort to appeal to manly men like myself. Women want to be Julia Roberts (or rather, Vivian Whoreface or whatever her name is). She's disgustingly charming, independent and bright, but most importantly: She's seemingly calling all the shots. SHE never goes to HIM, not once (at least, I'm Pretty Sure of this), it's always the other way around. She changes him for the better, and while she also goes through somewhat of a metamorphosis, it's emphasized that she merely realizes her potential. He's transformed on a core level, he goes from a cold, rich bastard to a glowing humanitarian, and it's all because of her. So, while women want to be her, men don't really want to be him. He's worked his ass off, while she's just Pretty Charming. He goes to the opera and does other silly things instead of watching football and drinking beer, like all men dream of. In short, he's a pansy. Just to be clear: Beating up George from Seinfeld doesn't count as macho, okay?
Okay, so you get the picture. I'll put away the big brush for now.
Now, the feminist angle. It glamourizes her profession. Yeah, sure, modern feminists would probably say something like hookerism could be a way of affirming one's sexual power as a woman or somesuch bullshit. Me, I'm old-school, I see it as degrading yourself for money. Theres actually a Pretty Clever little comparison between his job and hers in the movie, but we'll just write that down to Hollywood professionalism, along with the mentions of dead hookers in dumpsters and crazy pimps on crack sporting switchblade skateboards and what have you. The fact remains, and I'm sure noone will disagree with this, Vivian's not a realistic character. She's simply not damaged enough, in fact, she's not damaged at all. If this all sounds a bit too politically correct for you, then kindly go fuck yourself. It's a fairy tale, who cares, right?
But still, there's this nagging feeling that all's not well in Alternative Feminist-ville. He comes to her in a dramatic gesture with a fire-escape and some bullshit, protects her from silly bald rapist lawyers, apologizes to her after pointing out her chosen profession, changes his evil ways for her and so on and so boring, while she smiles and pouts and sucks on his dick and looks pretty. But still, in a more profund sense, he rescues her from reality, removes her from the world. It's never, ever the other way around. Whether the man is rich and the woman poor or vice versa, it's always the man's world thats the ideal one (see Titanic for a contrasting example). I'm probably wrong about the "always" bit, at least I certainly hope so, but it's still the prevailing scenario. And people lap it up! How many women think that men should behave like this, with the big gesturing and the protecting and the crawling and the working? A show of hands, please, be honest now. And how many thought that the comparison to Star Wars was an unfair one?
Fuck it, I'll admit I have a Pretty Weak case here, and also, that joke was Pretty Awful to begin with and I have no fucking idea why I keep repeating it. As a fantasy, as pure escapist entertainment, I have no complaints against Pretty Woman. Just please, for the love of fucking god, don't consider it to be better than (or even different from) high fantasy or science fiction. In fact, in quite a few cases, I'd argue it's the other way around.
Well, I guess that's the root of my annoyance. Maybe I shouldn't use this blog as anger management. I don't really have a joke to finish with, sorry. I will, however, state that Naked Lunch is a fucking amazing movie and everyone should see it, but that's neither here nor there.
Exterminate all rational thought.
I'll tell you what there's to fucking complain about.
It's a shameless fantasy for women, like a female Star Wars or Die Hard. That's not really a bad thing in itself, but it makes absolutely no effort to appeal to manly men like myself. Women want to be Julia Roberts (or rather, Vivian Whoreface or whatever her name is). She's disgustingly charming, independent and bright, but most importantly: She's seemingly calling all the shots. SHE never goes to HIM, not once (at least, I'm Pretty Sure of this), it's always the other way around. She changes him for the better, and while she also goes through somewhat of a metamorphosis, it's emphasized that she merely realizes her potential. He's transformed on a core level, he goes from a cold, rich bastard to a glowing humanitarian, and it's all because of her. So, while women want to be her, men don't really want to be him. He's worked his ass off, while she's just Pretty Charming. He goes to the opera and does other silly things instead of watching football and drinking beer, like all men dream of. In short, he's a pansy. Just to be clear: Beating up George from Seinfeld doesn't count as macho, okay?
Okay, so you get the picture. I'll put away the big brush for now.
Now, the feminist angle. It glamourizes her profession. Yeah, sure, modern feminists would probably say something like hookerism could be a way of affirming one's sexual power as a woman or somesuch bullshit. Me, I'm old-school, I see it as degrading yourself for money. Theres actually a Pretty Clever little comparison between his job and hers in the movie, but we'll just write that down to Hollywood professionalism, along with the mentions of dead hookers in dumpsters and crazy pimps on crack sporting switchblade skateboards and what have you. The fact remains, and I'm sure noone will disagree with this, Vivian's not a realistic character. She's simply not damaged enough, in fact, she's not damaged at all. If this all sounds a bit too politically correct for you, then kindly go fuck yourself. It's a fairy tale, who cares, right?
But still, there's this nagging feeling that all's not well in Alternative Feminist-ville. He comes to her in a dramatic gesture with a fire-escape and some bullshit, protects her from silly bald rapist lawyers, apologizes to her after pointing out her chosen profession, changes his evil ways for her and so on and so boring, while she smiles and pouts and sucks on his dick and looks pretty. But still, in a more profund sense, he rescues her from reality, removes her from the world. It's never, ever the other way around. Whether the man is rich and the woman poor or vice versa, it's always the man's world thats the ideal one (see Titanic for a contrasting example). I'm probably wrong about the "always" bit, at least I certainly hope so, but it's still the prevailing scenario. And people lap it up! How many women think that men should behave like this, with the big gesturing and the protecting and the crawling and the working? A show of hands, please, be honest now. And how many thought that the comparison to Star Wars was an unfair one?
Fuck it, I'll admit I have a Pretty Weak case here, and also, that joke was Pretty Awful to begin with and I have no fucking idea why I keep repeating it. As a fantasy, as pure escapist entertainment, I have no complaints against Pretty Woman. Just please, for the love of fucking god, don't consider it to be better than (or even different from) high fantasy or science fiction. In fact, in quite a few cases, I'd argue it's the other way around.
Well, I guess that's the root of my annoyance. Maybe I shouldn't use this blog as anger management. I don't really have a joke to finish with, sorry. I will, however, state that Naked Lunch is a fucking amazing movie and everyone should see it, but that's neither here nor there.
Exterminate all rational thought.
May 22, 2009
Embed Without a Cause
I must have seen this one a bazillion times in the last few days. The song is "Carol Brown" by Flight of the Conchords, from an episode directed by Michel Gondry..
..who also made this:
..who also made this:
December 31, 2008
Another year, another embedded video
Stick a fork in 2008, it's done. Let's hope 2009 is better, not that it'll have to try much. Still, for all it's worth, I wish you all, nay, command you to enjoy yourself this evening, and let's give the New Year a nice, warm, fuzzy welcome.
Manah manah.
December 23, 2008
Christmas carols
Some years ago, back in my studyin' days, I had a fierce argument with a friend regarding Fairytale of New York. She did not agree with my completely objective opinion that it is the greatest Christmas song ever made. I know! Crazy. Anyway, we were at this Christmas party down the local student pub. At closing time, they played this song, while shepherding everyone out, and suddenly we were this tiny group of strangers (we might have been just two, time's hard on the details), singing (sic) along to the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl. I think that made even my cynical friend succumb to the drunken joy of the Christmas spirit.
Yeah yeah, maybe not the bestest, most hilarious story ever told. Still, as memories go, it's kind of beautiful.
This next one is my dads favourite. You're probably wondering just what the hell goes on around my house during Christmas, but don't worry. My mum's got all that psalm stuff covered, and I just leave the room if anything resembling Wham comes on.
But now, perhaps, you're feeling a bit sad. Maybe some titties will cheer you up? It's time for a completely different kind of Christmas tune.
Well, that sure ended abruptly. Before I leave you all to your fatty foods and expensive presents, we still have time for one more, right? Yeah, we'll always have time for Billie. And if anyone wants to argue about whether it's about Christmas or not, they've missed the point in a spectacular way.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Yeah yeah, maybe not the bestest, most hilarious story ever told. Still, as memories go, it's kind of beautiful.
This next one is my dads favourite. You're probably wondering just what the hell goes on around my house during Christmas, but don't worry. My mum's got all that psalm stuff covered, and I just leave the room if anything resembling Wham comes on.
But now, perhaps, you're feeling a bit sad. Maybe some titties will cheer you up? It's time for a completely different kind of Christmas tune.
Well, that sure ended abruptly. Before I leave you all to your fatty foods and expensive presents, we still have time for one more, right? Yeah, we'll always have time for Billie. And if anyone wants to argue about whether it's about Christmas or not, they've missed the point in a spectacular way.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
November 16, 2008
Way Back Home
Just for the record: My homestead is such a major metropolis that fighter jets perform high-risk excercises just above grond level here. True story! I'm told this is because we're not actually on any of the respectable maps, only the rebellious, dangerously unstable ones. I spoke with a government representative about this, and he replied, with a confused look, "what? You mean there's people up there? Like in that movie, The Hills Have Eyes?". At this point, I did what any reasonable person would do: I sighed, rolled my eyes, and went home to duck and cover whenever those damn planes show up.
Anyway, all this is probably the reason why I feel so at home in the Capital Wasteland. It's just like home, with added dismemberment. And better music. In fact, the music in Fallout 3 is nothing short of spectacular (although I should probably point out that the dude in that video is not, in fact, Bob Crosby). The best music ever included in a computer game? You betcha. Just think about it: How many games make you sing happily along with lines like "pretty flowers need the sun", while splattering giant mutants into bloody little bits with a portable nuclear weapon? It's pure magic. Besides, having been exposed to her heavenly vocals, I now want to dig up the corpse of Billie Holiday and marry it in Vegas.
That can't be normal.
Anyway, all this is probably the reason why I feel so at home in the Capital Wasteland. It's just like home, with added dismemberment. And better music. In fact, the music in Fallout 3 is nothing short of spectacular (although I should probably point out that the dude in that video is not, in fact, Bob Crosby). The best music ever included in a computer game? You betcha. Just think about it: How many games make you sing happily along with lines like "pretty flowers need the sun", while splattering giant mutants into bloody little bits with a portable nuclear weapon? It's pure magic. Besides, having been exposed to her heavenly vocals, I now want to dig up the corpse of Billie Holiday and marry it in Vegas.
That can't be normal.
November 04, 2008
Commercial Break
We interrupt this lack of updates in order to bring you IMPORTANT NEWS.
Audiosurf is now available through Steam for $2.49, this week only. Insanity! That's the price of a cucumber! And perhaps a tomato. Still cheap, I say. If you own a PC at all and don't absolutely loathe music of all kinds, you really shouldn't let this one slip by. Why? I'll tell you why, you slobbering monkeys:
Because Audiosurf is awesome.
In fact, it may well be the most awesomest thing since ever. There's a demo to be tried, but trust me: You will love it, unless you are completely dead inside.
Or, y'know, just plain dead.
In which case, I really hope you're not reading this over my shoulder.
Audiosurf is now available through Steam for $2.49, this week only. Insanity! That's the price of a cucumber! And perhaps a tomato. Still cheap, I say. If you own a PC at all and don't absolutely loathe music of all kinds, you really shouldn't let this one slip by. Why? I'll tell you why, you slobbering monkeys:
Because Audiosurf is awesome.
In fact, it may well be the most awesomest thing since ever. There's a demo to be tried, but trust me: You will love it, unless you are completely dead inside.
Or, y'know, just plain dead.
In which case, I really hope you're not reading this over my shoulder.
August 21, 2008
Meet Sylvia
The first time I attempted suicide was at the age of seven. This teacher, this complete bastard who I only ever knew by his last name (mr. Morris, I think) had told me I was fat and stupid. So I found a knife somewhere and cut myself. It's weird, I don't really think I knew what suicide meant at that time, it was just some stupid shit I'd seen at some TV show or other. Luckily, said stupid show had shown the girl slash across her wrist, rather than along the vein, which I know now is the sensible thing to do if you want to kill yourself (I've since discovered a passion for the subject, obviously).
Anyway, to get back at the teacher I accused him of attempting to rape me, which, under the circumstances, people immediately believed. Why else would a seven-year-old try to off herself, right? Of course, it didn't stick, but at least the prick never got to work as a teacher again. Looking back, I'll admit it was maybe a bit harsh, but then again he was a major asshole, and thus it can be seen as a service to humanity, of sorts. I mean, seriously, you just don't tell an overweight, somewhat slow seven year old girl that she's fat and stupid. The whole thing, the accusation, was my older sisters idea, by the way. She was beautiful, twice my age at the time. I've since outlived her, but I guess I'll be getting to that in a minute.
I don't think that's where my obsession with suicide started, though. At least I didn't try it again until I was about 13. If you thought the Morris incident was the last of my weight and intelligence being the object of mockery, then you would be wrong. I heard it every day for six fucking years. One day I just had enough, friendless as I was at the time. I had the house to myself for a weekend, and (somewhat embarrassingly) I lighted a ton of candles in the bathroom and tried to drown myself. Now, you're probably picturing a bunch of pills lying on the floor, or an empty bottle or bag of weed or something. But no, I tried to hold my head under water and breathe. Didn't work. I told you it was embarrassing, but give me a break, I was just a clueless kid back then.
Instead of trying again, I decided to go anorexic. Worked a charm. Almost killed me though, so I guess that could be labeled as attempt number three? Doesn't really matter, I'm still alive, after all. I tried improving my grades, as well. I did feel better about myself for a while, got some friends. And then - do you fucking believe it? My stupid sister, who I'd adored all my life, who'd always protected me, who was the perfect picture of mental health, goes and offs herself. I mean, I'd tried this shit three times already, without success, and she gets it right the first time? Still pisses me off. I probably don't need to tell you this, but the whole thing left me just a bit unstable.
I took a boy to get me going again, though. He was actually a real bitch, but I puppy loved him like some pathetic cartoon character. I only talked to him the one time, he crushed me completely, and I ended up on this tall fucking bridge. Broke both my legs, but survived, yet again. In the hospital I got a lot of time to think. You're probably rolling your eyes at this, but the whole ordeal actually taught me a lot about love, and how sceptical you have to be when dealing with it. During those few weeks I changed a bit, became less shy (or possibly just a bit more reckless, but I guess that's the same thing, really). I started working out a lot also, even after my legs had recuperated. I've always been a bit vengeful, and if my sister'd been alive she'd probably come up with something cruel and sneaky (she was lovely that way). But me, I just wanted to beat the shit out of the little bitchboy. I did, eventually, and accidentally made him a cripple. Yeah, accidentally, I swear! Made me feel good at the time, though.
This was the first time someone connected my dots, by the way. Made me go to therapy and all that fucking jazz. So, you're not my first, sorry. Anyway, despite all the commotion, I felt better about myself than ever before. I was even beginning to like life a little. So, you're probably wondering, like, why does she do this, why does she still want to end it all, right? After all, I've a dozen or so attempts to my name since then. The truth is, I don't want to, right? I just want to, you know - . You know?
The thing is, every time I've tried to kill myself, it's changed me. I've become a better person. More sure of myself, more self-aware. And that's why I do it. It's a way of self-improvement, kind of. Probably some sort of addiction as well, I don't know. But now, you know, my life is good. I love life right now. I want to stop, but I can't. I want to stop because one day I'll make it, I'll actually succeed at it, yeah? And I don't want to. Not anymore.
Anyway, to get back at the teacher I accused him of attempting to rape me, which, under the circumstances, people immediately believed. Why else would a seven-year-old try to off herself, right? Of course, it didn't stick, but at least the prick never got to work as a teacher again. Looking back, I'll admit it was maybe a bit harsh, but then again he was a major asshole, and thus it can be seen as a service to humanity, of sorts. I mean, seriously, you just don't tell an overweight, somewhat slow seven year old girl that she's fat and stupid. The whole thing, the accusation, was my older sisters idea, by the way. She was beautiful, twice my age at the time. I've since outlived her, but I guess I'll be getting to that in a minute.
I don't think that's where my obsession with suicide started, though. At least I didn't try it again until I was about 13. If you thought the Morris incident was the last of my weight and intelligence being the object of mockery, then you would be wrong. I heard it every day for six fucking years. One day I just had enough, friendless as I was at the time. I had the house to myself for a weekend, and (somewhat embarrassingly) I lighted a ton of candles in the bathroom and tried to drown myself. Now, you're probably picturing a bunch of pills lying on the floor, or an empty bottle or bag of weed or something. But no, I tried to hold my head under water and breathe. Didn't work. I told you it was embarrassing, but give me a break, I was just a clueless kid back then.
Instead of trying again, I decided to go anorexic. Worked a charm. Almost killed me though, so I guess that could be labeled as attempt number three? Doesn't really matter, I'm still alive, after all. I tried improving my grades, as well. I did feel better about myself for a while, got some friends. And then - do you fucking believe it? My stupid sister, who I'd adored all my life, who'd always protected me, who was the perfect picture of mental health, goes and offs herself. I mean, I'd tried this shit three times already, without success, and she gets it right the first time? Still pisses me off. I probably don't need to tell you this, but the whole thing left me just a bit unstable.
I took a boy to get me going again, though. He was actually a real bitch, but I puppy loved him like some pathetic cartoon character. I only talked to him the one time, he crushed me completely, and I ended up on this tall fucking bridge. Broke both my legs, but survived, yet again. In the hospital I got a lot of time to think. You're probably rolling your eyes at this, but the whole ordeal actually taught me a lot about love, and how sceptical you have to be when dealing with it. During those few weeks I changed a bit, became less shy (or possibly just a bit more reckless, but I guess that's the same thing, really). I started working out a lot also, even after my legs had recuperated. I've always been a bit vengeful, and if my sister'd been alive she'd probably come up with something cruel and sneaky (she was lovely that way). But me, I just wanted to beat the shit out of the little bitchboy. I did, eventually, and accidentally made him a cripple. Yeah, accidentally, I swear! Made me feel good at the time, though.
This was the first time someone connected my dots, by the way. Made me go to therapy and all that fucking jazz. So, you're not my first, sorry. Anyway, despite all the commotion, I felt better about myself than ever before. I was even beginning to like life a little. So, you're probably wondering, like, why does she do this, why does she still want to end it all, right? After all, I've a dozen or so attempts to my name since then. The truth is, I don't want to, right? I just want to, you know - . You know?
The thing is, every time I've tried to kill myself, it's changed me. I've become a better person. More sure of myself, more self-aware. And that's why I do it. It's a way of self-improvement, kind of. Probably some sort of addiction as well, I don't know. But now, you know, my life is good. I love life right now. I want to stop, but I can't. I want to stop because one day I'll make it, I'll actually succeed at it, yeah? And I don't want to. Not anymore.
August 07, 2008
A Design for RL
Being a teacher is like being a GM in the MMO of Life. Everyone started out as newbs, barely knowing the EULA, and then one day we hit the endgame and got bored. Of course, a lot of people didn't, they'll probably keep raiding and PVPing until they die. But for some of us, there was rekindled interest when we were given the opportunity to oversee fresh n00bs, struggling to level up. So some made alts, because there's been a lot of content patches, bugfixes and expansions since the last time we played. Others are holding out because we remember what a chore it sometimes could be. Those of us are not all that excited about the prospect of watching our chi.. 'scuse me, our alts, go through that endless, meaningless grind of Life. The idea of following them DING!ing their way through levels, defeating mobs and collecting loot as they go, is alluring enough, surely. But we know that it'll occupy and eradicate our own spare time, leaving no time for all those single-player games collecting dust on our shelves. And so I, at least, am content just to watch, and hopefully sometimes guide, with no strings attached.
I just wish I could turn off general chat. That's one area where art actually pwns life.
I just wish I could turn off general chat. That's one area where art actually pwns life.
August 04, 2008
Meet Marvin
A sunny day in august it suddenly hit Marvin: He wasn’t fighting lazyness or indifference. His real problem was a subconscious desire to self-destruct. He always paid his bills too late, even though he considered himself a punctual guy. He wasn’t a wrist-cutter either, yet every time he chopped his precious tomatoes he stared a good long while at the knife, transfixed. Every single night, as he immersed his face in the basin water, he fantasized of raising his head to see the darkened outline of a serial killer behind him in the mirror.
Despite all of his undirected hatred, though, he didn’t really have any problems getting through most days. He was easily distracted, which meant he counted on TV every weekday afternoon, and obscene amounts of alcohol every weekend. Of course, his newfound realization could possibly upset this fragile balance. Previously, on his life, he had considered his negative impulses perfectly compatible with a relatively normal lifestyle. He’d never been at odds with himself, or so he had always assumed. Self-destruction, self-hatred manifested, was simply unacceptable. Apathy, laziness; these things he could fight, and he tried to, every single day. How could he combat himself? If every action he took was subconsiously meant to hinder his own happiness, how could he reconcile this with taking any action at all? If his actual purpose in life was to undermine his own ambition, how could he justify having ambitions at all? How would he separate the things that would serve his stated goal of survival, and those self-delusions designed to endorse his own misery? He wasn’t simply killing time anymore, his prey, it had finally become clear, was his own self-respect and fragile state of contentment. It was a mess.
After a long, good think, Marvin decided to not do anything that might be a hidden move by his subconscious to subvert his being again. So he quit his job, stopped paying his bills and decided to never leave his apartment again. He would be damned if he would let himself ruin his life.
July 01, 2008
Chicks With Pixels (part two)
(Continued from part one)
In fact, the entire concept of "adult content" must have taken the wrong turn somewhere as it drove into Videogame City, and, as usual, it pisses me the fuck off. Yet another brainless adolescent fantasy paraded as a work of fucking art. I call bullshit. The Longest Journey, in it's day, was one of the few games to sprinkle the word "fuck" among its many lengthy dialogues, and it was heavily berated for it. Although this was done rather clumsily, the effort was still applaudable. Since the people using the word were meant to be crude bastards (not actually villains, though), its use was firmly placed in the corner of characterization, not attention whoring. Later games fared worse (Fiddy, I'm looking at you). When vulgar elements are used without (rhyme or) reason, you stop looking like a pro and start looking like a jackass (pun very much intended). This goes for all art forms. Even good B-films know this, for proof, watch preacher man Harvey Keitels reaction when asked if he's a "mean motherfucking servant of God" in From Dusk Till Dawn; he answers using the same wording, but censoring the "motherfucking" part. I'm not saying all game writers should try to be Tarantino (actually, please God no! Imagine Kratos going on about Medusa pussy for forty fucking hours), but would it kill them to insert some actual wit in their dialogue once in a while?
The routine answer to accusations of immaturity in games is that it's a young medium. Well, guess what? You're not fucking eight years old anymore, in case you forgot. As an example, Loom, made in 1990, is a game that much more mature than most made today, it makes you wonder if "games are art" will ever be anything but a joke to all the random people (it probably won't, by the way). But let's leave the swearing and even the violence for some other time, and focus on the wish fulfillment, or, more specifically: The woman parts. Yeah! I knew that would wake you up.
It's a fact (sorry ladies, but I sincerely hope this does not come as a surprise to anyone) that most games are made by men, for men (or rather, boys, but let's postpone that discussion). This creates some interesting situations. You see, some games, notably role-playing games (which includes both WoW and AoC), allow you to choose the gender and appearance of your avatar (the character representing you on the screen) yourself. Dilemma! Do you create a woman, so you get a nice ass to look at while trudging about these endless MMO worlds (AoC even lets you choose your own breast size! Now I know why I stopped playing WoW), or a man, which, after all (assuming you are one in real life), is a tad bit more representative? Personally, I think it's far too bizarre talking to a man through a female avatar, so I always make men in MMO's (insert wish fulfillment joke here, har har, fuck off). In singleplayer games, it's a whole different set of problems. I'd naturally prefer to run around for hour upon hour with a more-or-less-abstract representation of bootylicious female curves, but the story keeps getting in my way. I must admit I find it somewhat disturbing being forced into romantic relationships with a large, dreadlocked negro man, even if it's just for a small part of the plot, but the more pressing problem is the nagging feeling of missing out. The female romances are often simply better written, or more fulfilling, and oh look, we're back at wish fulfillment.
A short recap, then. When choosing your avatars gender, what are the pros and cons? The female avatar you can mold into your idea of the perfect woman. Er, with certain limitations, of course. However, you'll miss out on parts of the storyline and will be harassed in MMOs. Male avatars, on the other hand, have asses that retreat into the body, making them no more attractive to women or gay people that to heterosexual men. On the other hand, the game has most probably been tailor-made (like a glove to a cock) to a male protagonist, so you'll get the best sub-plots and all the pixelated chicks in the game will probably want to ride your digital monkey. Now that's art for ya.
In fact, the entire concept of "adult content" must have taken the wrong turn somewhere as it drove into Videogame City, and, as usual, it pisses me the fuck off. Yet another brainless adolescent fantasy paraded as a work of fucking art. I call bullshit. The Longest Journey, in it's day, was one of the few games to sprinkle the word "fuck" among its many lengthy dialogues, and it was heavily berated for it. Although this was done rather clumsily, the effort was still applaudable. Since the people using the word were meant to be crude bastards (not actually villains, though), its use was firmly placed in the corner of characterization, not attention whoring. Later games fared worse (Fiddy, I'm looking at you). When vulgar elements are used without (rhyme or) reason, you stop looking like a pro and start looking like a jackass (pun very much intended). This goes for all art forms. Even good B-films know this, for proof, watch preacher man Harvey Keitels reaction when asked if he's a "mean motherfucking servant of God" in From Dusk Till Dawn; he answers using the same wording, but censoring the "motherfucking" part. I'm not saying all game writers should try to be Tarantino (actually, please God no! Imagine Kratos going on about Medusa pussy for forty fucking hours), but would it kill them to insert some actual wit in their dialogue once in a while?
The routine answer to accusations of immaturity in games is that it's a young medium. Well, guess what? You're not fucking eight years old anymore, in case you forgot. As an example, Loom, made in 1990, is a game that much more mature than most made today, it makes you wonder if "games are art" will ever be anything but a joke to all the random people (it probably won't, by the way). But let's leave the swearing and even the violence for some other time, and focus on the wish fulfillment, or, more specifically: The woman parts. Yeah! I knew that would wake you up.
It's a fact (sorry ladies, but I sincerely hope this does not come as a surprise to anyone) that most games are made by men, for men (or rather, boys, but let's postpone that discussion). This creates some interesting situations. You see, some games, notably role-playing games (which includes both WoW and AoC), allow you to choose the gender and appearance of your avatar (the character representing you on the screen) yourself. Dilemma! Do you create a woman, so you get a nice ass to look at while trudging about these endless MMO worlds (AoC even lets you choose your own breast size! Now I know why I stopped playing WoW), or a man, which, after all (assuming you are one in real life), is a tad bit more representative? Personally, I think it's far too bizarre talking to a man through a female avatar, so I always make men in MMO's (insert wish fulfillment joke here, har har, fuck off). In singleplayer games, it's a whole different set of problems. I'd naturally prefer to run around for hour upon hour with a more-or-less-abstract representation of bootylicious female curves, but the story keeps getting in my way. I must admit I find it somewhat disturbing being forced into romantic relationships with a large, dreadlocked negro man, even if it's just for a small part of the plot, but the more pressing problem is the nagging feeling of missing out. The female romances are often simply better written, or more fulfilling, and oh look, we're back at wish fulfillment.
A short recap, then. When choosing your avatars gender, what are the pros and cons? The female avatar you can mold into your idea of the perfect woman. Er, with certain limitations, of course. However, you'll miss out on parts of the storyline and will be harassed in MMOs. Male avatars, on the other hand, have asses that retreat into the body, making them no more attractive to women or gay people that to heterosexual men. On the other hand, the game has most probably been tailor-made (like a glove to a cock) to a male protagonist, so you'll get the best sub-plots and all the pixelated chicks in the game will probably want to ride your digital monkey. Now that's art for ya.
June 24, 2008
Age of Boobies (part one)
Age of Conan is an MMORPG (massively multiplayer online rampaging puerile game) developed by Norwegian gamemakers FunCom, the same ones who made the quite good pointy-clicky The Longest Journey and the endless (not as in "never-ending", but more as in "doesn't have an ending") sequel Dreamfall. Age of Conan, however, is not a point and click in the traditional sense, but in the modern sense: Point at monster, click monster, monster dead. The MMO part comes from the fact that there's thousands of other human players clicking the same monsters as you, and sometimes clicking you as well. Eerily similar to real life, then.
But enough technical mumbo-jumbo, the reason for this post lies in a different, more seedy part of town. You see, AoC (that is, Age of Conan - try and keep up, please) is an "adult", "mature" game. Translated: It's got boobies and violence. Although boobs and violence are hardly anything new in videogames (we even got'em in the real world, you know), it's somewhat of a change from the reigning champ of the MMO universe, World of Warcraft (WoW), with it's cartoonish style and rather humorous sensibilities. Which is okay. An MMO with a big, fat number "18" on the box, not a problem. The problem arises when it is continously, and retardedly, passed off as "a game for adults".
I got news for you, boyo: Big boobs, heads rolling and blood splattering across your screen as you kill things is not "adult content". In fact, it's a very good definition of "adolescent content". Or, as Cartman would put it, dude, that's totally immature. I'm not saying you have to be a 14-year old boy in order to enjoy AoC (although it undoubtedly helps), I'm just saying that you've got one inside you, and that's the one howling with satisfaction as you're chopping off heads while ogling impossible cleavage, not the reasonable, election voting grown-up that you've later become. Well, at least I hope so. Wouldn't want Conans big-breasted hussy as president, really.
So, here we've got a game aimed squarely at young boys, which they can't buy 'cause they're not old enough to do so. Good stuff. Anyhow, I wish FunCom all the economical prosperity they'll need to continue the TLJ franchise. After all, Dreamfall still needs an ending.
But enough technical mumbo-jumbo, the reason for this post lies in a different, more seedy part of town. You see, AoC (that is, Age of Conan - try and keep up, please) is an "adult", "mature" game. Translated: It's got boobies and violence. Although boobs and violence are hardly anything new in videogames (we even got'em in the real world, you know), it's somewhat of a change from the reigning champ of the MMO universe, World of Warcraft (WoW), with it's cartoonish style and rather humorous sensibilities. Which is okay. An MMO with a big, fat number "18" on the box, not a problem. The problem arises when it is continously, and retardedly, passed off as "a game for adults".
I got news for you, boyo: Big boobs, heads rolling and blood splattering across your screen as you kill things is not "adult content". In fact, it's a very good definition of "adolescent content". Or, as Cartman would put it, dude, that's totally immature. I'm not saying you have to be a 14-year old boy in order to enjoy AoC (although it undoubtedly helps), I'm just saying that you've got one inside you, and that's the one howling with satisfaction as you're chopping off heads while ogling impossible cleavage, not the reasonable, election voting grown-up that you've later become. Well, at least I hope so. Wouldn't want Conans big-breasted hussy as president, really.
So, here we've got a game aimed squarely at young boys, which they can't buy 'cause they're not old enough to do so. Good stuff. Anyhow, I wish FunCom all the economical prosperity they'll need to continue the TLJ franchise. After all, Dreamfall still needs an ending.
June 22, 2008
What is the Haterix?
Noone can be told what the Haterix is, you have to experience it for yourself. The Haterix is when you want a new skill, you want to learn something, and you have to work for it. No bloody "I know Kung-Fu", there's blood, sweat, and sweet, sweet disgrace to be had before you'll be able to lift your foot above your knee or break a cracker with anything but a hammer.
Is it worth it? Depends on the skill, probably. Knowing how to do stuff is awesome, but learning to do it can be downright painful. Of course, the physical pain is unimportant, it's the gracelessness of the novice that kills you: The knowledge that you look only slightly less competent than a midget playing basketball. I think the trick might be learning to relish public humiliation, or at least coming to grips with the fact that they're probably not laughing at you. People do laugh, after all, and it's kinda doubtful they find you important enough to laugh at, anyway. What are you now, the centre of everyones world all of a sudden? Stop worrying so much.
No, my advice: Just keep trying. Eventually you'll get it. And even if you don't, at least the rest of us get some entertainment to shorten our miserable lives. Because I lied, before. About the laughing.
Welcome to the Haterix, schmuck.
Is it worth it? Depends on the skill, probably. Knowing how to do stuff is awesome, but learning to do it can be downright painful. Of course, the physical pain is unimportant, it's the gracelessness of the novice that kills you: The knowledge that you look only slightly less competent than a midget playing basketball. I think the trick might be learning to relish public humiliation, or at least coming to grips with the fact that they're probably not laughing at you. People do laugh, after all, and it's kinda doubtful they find you important enough to laugh at, anyway. What are you now, the centre of everyones world all of a sudden? Stop worrying so much.
No, my advice: Just keep trying. Eventually you'll get it. And even if you don't, at least the rest of us get some entertainment to shorten our miserable lives. Because I lied, before. About the laughing.
Welcome to the Haterix, schmuck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)